The Road to Yeovil

That. That was a journey and a half.

For the thirty eight miles from Salisbury to Sherborne, everything went fine. Sure, my phone was less well charged than I'd like - having to share sockets in the hostel meant I'd had to prioritise my bike battery, so I'd started out on only 48% phone power - but I had my paper route instructions with me, the sun was shining, the lambs were frolicking in the fields, and all was well.

I was getting tired by that 38 mile mark, though. I'd wanted to stop halfway for lunch, but I forgot to fill my thermos flask this morning, and without a hot drink my hardtack was inedible. Around one o' clock I passed a pub that was serving Sunday lunch in a little village just outside Shaftesbury, but it was £11, and I figured I'd wait till I was in Shaftesbury proper and just grab a Subway or something. Alas, my route did not take me into Shaftesbury proper. I ended up buying a ham sandwich at a petrol station in Milborne Port at half past two, and wolfing it down on the side of the road.

I found somewhere to sit for ten minutes after that, and burned some of my remaining phone battery on looking at Facebook. It was okay; I was nearly at Sherborne now and there were only another eight miles to go. When the battery dipped below 20%, I lost mobile data, and I started feeling cold to boot, so I got back on the road. It wasn't worth taking a proper break, I was nearly there.

As I came out the other side of Sherborne, Florence's battery warning light began to flash. I noted it, but I wasn't too concerned. I was pretty sure she could still get me there. But I wasn't sure if I was leaving Sherborne on the right road, and I couldn't check googlemaps without my mobile data. The signposts for Yeovil all pointed to the A30, and I knew I wasn't supposed to take the A30, so I ignored them and kept going.

Pretty soon I found myself facing a long uphill stretch. I looked at Florence's blinking light. If this was the wrong way, it was going to cost me more in battery power than I could afford. I fished out my phone and started rifling through the settings, looking for a way to turn off the Low Battery Mode that was keeping me from using my mobile data.

By the time I found it and gained access to googlemaps, my phone was on 13% battery.

But it was okay. I was on the wrong road, but I hadn't strayed far, and if I just kept going ahead to the north, took the next left, and then turned left again before I reached the A30, then I'd be back on the route of my paper instructions and everything would be fine. I hurriedly switched off my phone, stood up on my pedals and had at the hill. Florence did not pass out on me, and I enjoyed the compensation of an equally long downhill on the other side.

Just as I was starting to be concerned that I'd somehow missed my turning, a left turn finally presented itself and led me up and down another hill. I glanced anxiously at the battery light, but Florence was still holding out. A while after that hill I reached a crossroads, and stopped. I felt uneasy. I could still see no sign of the A30, and I didn't remember seeing a crossroads on googlemaps. But here one was, complete with quaint wooden signpost painted white. The sign for Yeovil was pointing back the way I'd come.

Out came the phone again. I loaded googlemaps and stared at it in confusion. (Twelve percent.) I turned it this way and that. I scrolled southwards to find Sherborne behind me, but it wasn't there. I scrolled northwards to try and find the A30 ahead of me (eleven percent), and just as I gave up, Sherborne slid down into the top of my screen.

I regarded it in utter bafflement. I traced the route I'd taken out of Sherborne and located the spot where I'd last checked googlemaps, when I was looking up at that long hill. (Ten percent.) And then all at once I saw what I'd done. I'd seen that I just needed to "continue along" the road running north, but I hadn't checked my own position. I'd been on the wrong side of the road, facing south. And I'd just kept going.

I looked back over my shoulder with a sense of impending horror. My rear horizon was the hill I'd just come down. The other, longer hill lay behind it. My final eight miles had just become twelve. I looked down at Florence, and she blinked her little red light at me lazily, as much as if to say that her impending power failure was going to be my problem, not hers.

I switched my phone off quickly before it could drop to nine percent. I looked at the hill again, and swore aloud. But there was nothing for it but to turn Florence about and start back towards that hill, and up it, and over it.

I took to turning off her battery at every opportunity. Any time the road was downhill or level, I let Florence rest and I used my leg power. My legs had already done forty miles, and they were tired. We moved slower and slower with every mile, Florence still graciously assisting with the uphill stretches.

I passed a sign to Yeovil that read 3 miles, and kept going. A mile later - Yeovil, 3 miles. Had I entered the Twilight Zone? Was this the Zeno's Paradox of cycle routes? We went down, down, down into a gully, then up, up, up the other side. It was ridiculously steep. Round a corner, and up. Round another corner, and up. I stood up on the pedals with my legs burning, trying to provide the majority of the power myself, extolling Florence's virtues between my teeth all the while. And still her little motor whirred on and her little red light went blink-blink-blink. Surely she could not last much longer.

I turned onto Yeovil Road, which became Sandhurst road and ran gently uphill for a stretch. And right at the crest of that hill, the little blinking light went out, and the whirring died away into silence. I patted her handlebars - It's okay. You did good, kid. I knew I must be quite close now, and I just hoped there wasn't much more uphill for me to deal with. Florence was now incredibly heavy and sluggish, and my legs were exhausted. I didn't want to taste the bitter defeat of having to get off and push.

There was a T-junction just ahead. I pulled over at the kerb, meaning to check my written directions, but then a street sign almost opposite caught my eye: Forest Hill. My heart leapt. I knew Forest Hill. The house I was heading to was on a road adjoining it. My destination was less than two minutes away, and it was all downhill from here.

My eyes may have misted over slightly as I patted Florence's handlebars again. She'd done it. She'd kept it together in the face of my human ineptitude. She'd bravely carried us all the way to the top of the final rise, and then fainted dead away from exhaustion. I'm going to have to buy her something nice to express my gratitude when we get back to Bristol. Some handlebar streamers perhaps, or a nice tall flag.

I'm too tired to write anything else now. Tomorrow's journey will be almost as far as today's and I fear I'll be starting out at the kind of disadvantage where everything hurts before I'm even on the bike. I'm to bed; goodnargle.