Day 37: Hills, Hecklers & Flapjacks – A Devonish Kind of Day

Day 37: Hills, Hecklers & Flapjacks – A Devonish Kind of Day

Well, the plan was a cheeky little 42km today. You know, just a marathon. Casual. But in a delightful plot twist, my day turned into a 48km endurance saga, complete with emotional highs, literal lows, and a man who must’ve escaped from a Dickens novel.

We started the day in Westhay, bright-eyed and marginally bushy-tailed after a rare 7-hour sleep (an actual miracle on this trip). Credit to Neil and his culinary wizardry—his Spanish chicken was top-tier and may have been the key to my brief flirtation with feeling energised. Thanks, Neil. You are now Head Chef of Morale (just the cooking!) .

The terrain? Let’s just say Devon has clearly never heard of the concept of flat. It lured me in gently—rolling me along with smug confidence—then suddenly went full mountain goat. Somewhere between the uphill battle and the mental math of how many kms were left, I was treated to my Radio Somerset interview going out live. Cue a symphony of car horns and shouts of encouragement. Genuinely heartwarming stuff. Felt like a local celeb. Beyoncé but in a wheelchair!

Then… enter stage left: Angry Taunton Man. Picture this: I’m wheeling along, minding my business, and there he is—standing in the middle of the road like Fagin without the fashion sense, bellowing profanities at me through the music. Absolutely uncalled for. I considered explaining the challenge to him but quickly realised you can’t reason with a human traffic cone. Karen, MVP, told him exactly where to go. What a hero. We’ve made it over 1300km without a single encounter like that, so of course the universe delivers one now. Thanks, Devon!

Mentally, it was a rollercoaster (with more uphill than down). Add in a few unnecessary “helpful updates” from one member of the team about hills and disappointing fundraising numbers (which I’d specifically asked not to hear about), and my zen was left somewhere around the 30km mark. Please refer to my Do Not Disturb Unless It’s Cake policy from now on.

Highlight of the day? Spotting three blurry figures at the side of a horrendous climb, only to realise—through fogged-up glasses—it was Theresa, Paul, and Amber! The joy! I did an awkward “oh thank you” shout that made me sound like I was auditioning for a rom-com. But they were there again later, cheering after another evil hill. Honestly, seeing them made all the difference. Angels with car keys.

Lowlight? The roads. Devon, sweetie… who hurt you? Potholes, patchwork, and surfaces that felt like wheeling over stale flapjacks. Throw in a few close calls with cars and the looming threat of being flattened just shy of the finish line and you've got yourself a spicy day out.

To cap it all off, after thinking I was done at the blessed 42km mark, I got told to keep going. “Just a bit further,” they said. Lies. That “bit” turned into another 5km… and then another 5km after that. That’s ten bonus kilometres on top of a marathon. My arms filed a formal complaint.

But the finish? Worth it. A mini crowd had gathered. Familiar, smiling faces, hugs, cheers, even Nico made a cameo (10/10 morale boost). It was the best kind of chaotic, emotional, end-of-day hug-fest.

Then... plot twist. Pam was grumpy again. No idea why. I mean, she’s been dreaming about going home since day one, and she finally got her wish. But hey—she did send me a photo of flapjacks later. Redemption pending.

So now, at 11pm (because of course it is), I’m utterly shattered, mildly achy, but smiling. Please, dear universe, no bonus kilometres tomorrow. And maybe more flapjacks.

Over and out.

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• Endurance
• End2end
• Wheelchair
• Amputee
• Enduranceathlete