To Canterbury we wende II
It was somewhere in the badlands of Tonbridge and Tunbridge Wells that the we met the convoy of classic mopeds heading in the other direction, only to be overtaken by a collection of 1960’s Fords. I peered at the mods and they looked blankly back: road-based sub-cultures passed silently by.
At last, a duel carriageway and space, even better a hill to get into top gear on. I shot past the half-way sign after getting up to 30 mph. Woo hoo.
Back on country lanes, we weren’t hemmed in by cars, but I felt trapped in a Sisyphean cycling dream – up hill, through village, cross junction, and still these miles weren’t moving. Around every corner was another hill, village, or cyclist mending his puncture. Tomorrow I would either go to work in a wheelchair, or more likely, a bicycle. Surely my legs would never stop spinning round.
Flying like the wind
Goudhurst Hill stands out as a particularly cruel feature. Up we went, before levelling off, before being confronted by another hill and yet another. We passed the second tandem so far and finally made it past the village pond, through the red-tile covered buildings to the top. Now at last the ride was more level, even gently downhill.
I mentioned to Tom that I seemed to be overtaking people on expensive racers on the way up hills, and this must be an advantage of having a hybrid with semi-mountain bike gears. �It could be your legs of course� said Tom.