Crediton

There is a sweet spot which occurs somewhere between the commencement of retirement and the onset of old age during which robust health, adequate resources and surplus energy render anything feasible. It’s not possible to identify the apogee of that period but it becomes apparent when it has passed. In my case, it appeared in the rear-view mirror during a holiday in Wales last summer when a steep and rocky descent signalled that the balance of risk and reward from hill walking had tilted inexorably in the wrong direction. Similarly, the weekly parkrun, although still pleasurable, brings in its wake stiffness of muscle and soreness of knee, a joint, I am told, which is in any case poorly designed for upright movement.

Cyclists visiting Devon are envious of our profusion of cycle paths and minor roads compared to many other counties and Exeter quayside lies at the nexus of this cornucopia. Southwest to Dawlish; southeast to Exmouth, northwest to Crediton, northeast to Sidmouth. For more ambitious jaunts, the newly restored train to Okehampton makes the Granite Way, and beyond to Tavistock and Plymouth, a day trip, albeit at the mercy of Dartmoor’s unpredictable weather. The train to Barnstable brings the Tarka Way in range and there are many more I’ve yet to discover.

Over the three years I have been exploring the environs of Exeter by bike, I have accumulated a rudimentary knowledge of the features and landmarks. No longer do I lean on a farm gate wondering whether that lump on the horizon is the Sidmouth Gap, only to be told gently that we are looking towards Dartmoor. I can compare the merits of the coffee at our various morning stops and allude with due disparagement to some of the unrepaired potholes boasting geological longevity. Arcane titbits gleaned from the YouTube channel Global Cycle Network fall casually from my lips, disguising that I have only recently learned what a ‘bottom bracket’ is or how to change the pads on my disc brakes.

In the company of new joiners to the group, I am a venerable old hand, in the same way that, as a teacher, it is only necessary to be one step ahead of the class to be revered as an authority. A phenomenon of which I took shameless advantage during my days in front of the blackboard. 

The Sunday ‘B’ ride to Crediton started at the Countess Wear ‘swing bridge’ amid confusion over which side of the road we were supposed to meet. A dozen or so of us, including three e-bikes one of which was a do-it-yourself conversion, set off to Haldon via Exminster. Morning coffee was at a Costa in a service area adjacent to the A38, a site benefitting neither from picturesque scenery nor palatable coffee and conducted in the pall of effluvia from the sewage vent. 

It was the first really warm day and by lunchtime in a buttercup strewn field, I was down to a single layer, plus my sunhat. The Queen’s platinum jubilee is imminent, and I shared my disgust at the whole business of royalty and the fawning induced in a population victim to false consciousness with Gareth, one of few (another being Hermione) who appears to share my views. 

The afternoon route to Crediton was unexpectedly hilly. I can survive most hills on my carbon-fibre framed bike, even if it means stopping once or twice for a rest to catch my breath. The downhills were steep but being dry the anguished squeal my brakes emit in the wet, despite numerous attempts to quell the noise, was muted. Bizarrely, all the cafes in Crediton surrounding the pleasant market square are resolutely closed on Sundays so to avoid a second Costa, we opted for the motorbike café. These motorised brutes have become bigger and louder since the days my class-mate Alan Northcott would go ‘up Chelsea Bridge’ on his 250cc machine to meet co-religionists. But the coffee was surprisingly good: presumably even bikers’ expectations have risen.

It turned chilly on the way home and I relaxed under a hot shower immune to the rising cost of gas.