Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 23

We had other things to do, of course, such as keep Geoff’s legs turning. He had been pushing me for some time to try a 300 or 400 together, blithely ignoring the fact that 300 was the most I had ever done.

The idea of Audax riding is not of speed, but of consistency and self-reliance. Route directions are given as a description (L sp Bosherston 200m, R at RAB sp St Petrox, and so on) but most importantly the ride is timed. Controls, which may be manned or done through such things as getting a dated and timed till receipt, are often timed. If you get there late, you fail. If early, you have to wait. The aim is to keep up an average speed throughout the ride including eating, sleeping, map reading and stopping for wild moments of unbridled passion at the roadside. The UK equivalent of the PBP is the LEL, London-Edinburgh-London, 1,426 km, in the 93 hours allowed for the elite riders.

For elite rider, read “raving lunatic”

Geoff had around nine months from then to prepare for the French original, and naturally wanted my company for as much of the time as he could. Having sorted out two things, I was able to do the pick ups and drop offs for him in his van when he was riding some of the sillier distances. The second thing was to place me on the insurance for the vehicle as a named driver. But the first thing….

Oh, the first thing was a visit to a local solicitor, then a photo booth, then the Post Office…and a little while later, it arrived. Puzzled? No big thing (I lie); just a deed poll to change my name and then a new driving licence.

I became, for all legal purposes, Stephanie Bronwen Jones.

We had lots of other legwork to do, of course, such as making the rounds of the banks, utility companies, local council and so on, but it was another boost to my sense of identity. I took Geoff around to see Mam and Dad, and we left a few flowers there.

He is good to have around when I get weepy, and not only then. There are many other times I appreciate him. But not after curry.

So….about three months together now, if I count the start as being the festival. We’d found out a few things we didn’t exactly like about each other, which, to be honest were hangovers of our previous bachelor lifestyles. I worked hard, for example, to wean him from his disgusting habit of drinking fruit juice straight from the carton and then putting the rest back into the fridge, I succeeded in getting him to put the toilet seat back down, but that was helped by his incredibly tactless remark “But surely you don’t need…”

For a ten mile radius around Churchwood global warming reconsidered its plans after my silent glare. Yup, still got the old mojo! He slept in the spare room that night. Well, until I gave up and slipped in at about two in the morning.

For his part, he objected to my clogging his razor with hair from my pts and my insistence on eating at the table rather than slumped on the sofa. On the other hand, watching DVDs without a TV meant snuggling together, usually in bed, with a laptop.

I was used to sleeping with him by now; we were back in my room after that dreadful night, and the bed is bigger; I found that when we separated in our sleep, I would wake to discover myself with a leg stretched out to touch him, just to know he was there. Oddly, he often slept on his side with one hand covering his privates. I knew that because I still woke up every so often with bad dreams. They were nowhere near as bad as the ward, but they would catch me every so often, and I would lie for a while watching him sleep, drooling into his pillow.

He’d also stopped wearing anything at all to bed, which was more than fine by me, though I, of course, stuck to my granny knickers. You see, I would sneak peeks at those times just to remind myself that this beautiful man was mine.

Back to the Audax. There was a 300 coming up, the Preseli Pootle, and we had our route sheets in good time. I had chosen the ride as it would be around my home area, and if things went wrong I would be able to organise an escape route. The average speed was quite low, due to the large amount of Scenery (AUKish for “hills”) on the route, and we were looking at just under a 24 hour time limit. I also wanted to take some time to show him some of the prettier bits of Pembrokeshire, one in particular, and revisit some old haunts. Scraping some extra time off, we set out for the M4 one Thursday evening, tent, mats and bags mixed in with our two audax bikes. I watched Geoff’s face surreptitiously as he spotted the first of the motorway and A-road signs with the small extra square riveted over them. I may explain if I am in the mood….he thought it hilarious.

I had arranged a spot at the campsite at St Petrox, which lies in the South of the County, on a low ridge that separates the Cleddau (Milford Haven) from the Bristol Channel. The campsite is set around an old church, and the tower can be climbed to give magical views out to sea and over the Castle Martin tank gunnery ranges to the isle of Lundy. We had the whole of Friday, therefore, to explore, and I took him down to Bosherston for his Surprise.

Imagine the greenest, freshest wood there could ever be. A trident of thin finger lakes covered in water lilies, surrounded by wild flower-clad banks and visited by swans and kingfishers. We took our time ambling hand in hand amid the birdsong and the gentle hiss of the wind in the trees, until I brought Geoff to the little dam that stopped the stream and formed the “lily ponds” as they are known.

And we stepped onto a beach of golden sand, vertical cliffs to either side and a huge sea stack before us;: Broad Haven. The contrast is amazing, emerging suddenly into a world of surf and seabirds, fresh to salt. Auks (the other sort) and chough wheel around you, and a different flavour of freshness feeds your lungs.

We had a meal in “Ç·e Olde Worlde Cafe”. I know they spell it “Ye” but as a linguist (dropped out…) I insist on the use of the original letter. A night of snuggling in the tent, a yawning arrival at the control, and a silent queue for the brevet cards. AUKs are traditionally a silent breed. The route ran out across the Cleddau and up towards Treffgarne, before heading over to Ty Ddewi Sant, back over the Preseli hills towards Aberteifi, and then round for another crossing of the Scenery in the direction of Caerfyrddin before our 300 kilometres were up back at the start. I could go into details of the ride, though the day and into the evening, of sleep snatched cuddled together at the roadside in a bus shelter, and food from an all-night petrol station shop, but it would mean little to most of you and I have some more to write later…maybe.

Suffice it to say we made it in plenty of time. Geoff’s experience, and my natural fitness, kept us on track, especially when the controls were devious ones. We ate the breakfast that was provided by the organisers…and headed straight off to the tent for a mammoth second one, a gentle cuddle and some sleep. I really, really couldn’t see myself doing a 600.

That evening, having slept for most of the morning and eased our aches with an amble out to Barafundle, we rode down to the Govan pub and did that thing with wood and wire we enjoy, as well as that other thing with glasses and ale. It had been our first proper ride out together, and I realised that it was actually our first ever trip away as a couple without the support, or interference, of the family. And we were still talking.

The next day was time for a longer walk, and it was out by Huntsman’s Leap to the Green Bridge of Wales. I had chosen the Green Bridge deliberately, because of the revelation from Bill, and I was hoping it might allow Geoff to open up about Tony. I could see the slow roil of his grief as we stood by the great natural arch, and he made comments about how eye-watering the wind was, but I knew his were watering for a different reason. Stupidly, I lost patience and tried deceit.

“Geoff…. I saw some of your old family photos when we were last up at Oxford.”

He looked up sharply, as a chough yowled overhead. There was a strange flatness to his voice I had never heard before.

“Who told you about Tony? That’s what this walk is all about, isn’t it? Get Geoff to open up, do some therapy. Take him to some cliffs and see if he talks, or would you prefer me to jump?”

I opened my mouth to reply, the wind lashing my hair across my face and when I reached up to push it away he was back in full swing.

“You think we are all weak, don’t you? That we’re all ready to top ourselves when it gets tough, like you and Tony. Well you’re wrong, so wrong, some of us won’t do that, we have to carry on. Who would be left to pick up the mess otherwise?”

He was shouting now, and I was crying, and he was right, everything was so wrong. He started to head off towards some old wreck of a tank just off the path, and I stood, and I wept as my new world foundered and sank before my eyes. I watched him walk out of my life.

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http://www.naturalarches.org/gallery-Wales-GreenBridge.htm
http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/113060