Date: Tuesday 11th September 2012
Route: WP, Hobbits Halt, Grenofen Tunnel, Whitchurch, Pew Tor circuit, B3357, Badger's Alley, Walkhampton Inn (Jail - £2.80).
Riders: Martyn, Gidon, Dan, James, Paul, Sam, Greg, Paddy, Steve B, Keith & Colin.
Depart WP: 19:40
Arrive Walkhampton: 22:05
Distance: 16 miles
Weather: Good

It's dark here. Or How to find out who your true friends are

We went out last Tuesday. There were eleven of us. It's not really relevant who they were as it turns out they're all gits. Apart from Gidon. I like Gidon. I used to like Colin and Keith. Greg was nice, as was Sam. James was a reliable type, always there when you needed him. I've known Paul for a while and always thought he was quite affable. Dan's easy to talk to, smiles a lot. Steve B is a policeman and was a man to look up to. Paddy's always been a bit dodgy but I liked him. Now I think you're all gits. But I do like Gidon. If you think this report sounds similar to Paul's about his 'friend' Alun, you'd be right. You'd think then that Paul would be a bit more caring. No. He's a git.

So let's get down to details. My teaching assistant had told me that the cycle route to Tavi was now open. Being the nice bloke I am, I suggested that we head down this wonderful new facility towards Tavi and then strike off up the moor. 'Great idea Martyn', 'Count me in', 'Sounds good' were the replies. You'd think then that a good idea would be repaid. Wrong. Not if you cycle with gits. Not Gidon; I like Gidon. I digress. We met up at WP and outside Paul's house. Paul cycled up to WP to avoid getting involved at bath time. There's dedication for you. Dan, meanwhile, cycled up the path we were about to cycle down from Whitchurch. By the time we were a full set of hendecatuplets (nice word) Colin had already had an off and no one seemed too interested in his well-being. He was still cycling though so we charged off down the old railway. The now familiar track eventually gave way to the tunnel under The Halfway House, now surfaced and lit. The tunnel then became a series of swooping gravelly turns down to Tiddybrook Meadows. WARNING: if you intend to take your children down here soon, take plasters; its still a bit loose. A quick regroup and then it was time for a few road miles as we trundled up through the golf course, taking a right to Caseytown and up onto Plasterdown. So far, so good.

Then a quick discussion came up with an idea to head around Pewtor to the leat and then ...something else. It was dark by this time and lights were full on. No moon tonight. We plugged across Plasterdown, feeling for the track around Pewtor. I'm not convinced we found the track but we did make one through the gorse bushes. Eventually we found the leat and followed it up to the stone cross near Feather Tor where we had a rest. Being a bit economical with my light, I turned it off while I had a comfort break. Just as I was having a shake, the group reformed heading towards Feather Tor. I jumped on, turned on my light and slipped across the leat with everyone else. Then... my light went out.

Now, you'd have thought someone would have thought, "Where's dear old Martyn?". WRONG! So in no time at all, I was in the middle of the moor with no light, not enough light to mend my light and just a crappy old rear light to light the way. I hollered, I yelled, I might even have screamed in light panic. But no one noticed I wasn't there. Boy did I feel valued.

Well, I knew where I was. I knew which way I needed to go to get home. I even knew more or less where there was a nice track to walk on. But it was darker than a black man's armpit out there and I didn't know what was six inches in front of me. "Just wait here, Mart," I told myself. "They'll notice in a minute." Five minutes later. "No they won't. They're gits." I had to get myself out of this one. I headed, slowly, in the direction I thought I needed to go. It was going to be a long walk to where I would be able to ride again. I'd like to tell you about the beauty of the moors on a late summer's evening but to honest, I couldn't se a thing. My rear light was as useful to vision as David Blunkett was to train spotting.

I was heading over towards Heckworthy Tor hoping to pick up the trail down to Pewtor Cottage. Then, suddenly, I saw lights coming over the hill. They'd realised I was missing and had come back. I frantically waved my light and called out to my friends. Oh bugger! They weren't coming my way. I began to lope through across the moor hoping to intercept them. I wasn't going to let them get away from me now. I managed to get myself to a point where they couldn't miss me and mercifully they stopped.

I was expecting at this point some cries of relief as they had found their lost member. No. The bastards hadn't even realised I'd gone. At least when you cycle with the Routemeister, you know he'll ring for Mountain Rescue when he gets home. He can't be arsed to wait but at least he notices you're not there. After explaining my dilemma and resisting the urge to beat the crap out of the gits who don't give a damn, Gidon redeemed himself by caring enough to help me mend my light.

I should now have left them to it but I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. I wiped my eyes and remounted my faithful (note - my bike IS faithful, unlike you lot) steed and finished off the ride with a blast to Merrivale, down Badger Alley and on to Walkhampton for an away night at the pub there.

I am withdrawing myself from the next ride as a protest. Upon my return, I will be expecting the Gits of Willoughby Cycle Club to be a little more caring or at least learn to count to 11. Gits. Apart from Gidon. I like Gidon.

Reporter: Martryn