Day 39: Hills, Hiccups & Haribo – A Love Letter to the Road

Day 39: Hills, Hiccups & Haribo – A Love Letter to the Road

39 days in. Not entirely sure how I’ve made it this far—some blend of blind determination, sheer stubbornness, and the inability to consider quitting as even an option. People keep asking if I’ve ever thought about giving up. Honestly? The thought doesn't even enter the building. I just focus on finishing each day, crawling across whatever finish line that day's thrown at me.

Today featured Dartmoor. Also known as the land of "Oh, you thought that was a hill?" Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. The real climbs today looked like they’d been designed by someone with a personal vendetta against arms. At one point, we hit a five-mile uphill grind that basically laughed in the face of physics.

I clocked 44 kilometers in 4 hours and 44 minutes—yes, all the fours, which felt a bit like the universe was trying to wink at me while also slapping my arms & shoulders.

But! We had new co-pilots. Vicky took her first wheel-turn today (Karen drove last week like an absolute legend), and Vicky was just as brilliant. Libby, one of our student sidekicks, sat in the back valiantly not being bored out of her mind. Hopefully.

We were sent off in style this morning by Amber and little Oscar, who handed over a stash of Haribo, Guinness, and biscuits tailored for the entire crew. Legendary. Phil swung by (with sweets!) because he’s basically sunshine with legs. And Rocket Ron made a surprise appearance—a man in his 90s who’s more mobile than most 40-year-olds. They call him “Rocket” because he never stops moving. We hugged. I melted a bit.

The hills today were mostly of the “laugh while you cry” variety, but the team kept the worst parts hidden from me. Thank goodness. Apparently, knowing there’s a five-mile near-vertical ahead doesn’t help you sleep well the night before. So ignorance is bliss—and better for my mental health.

Also, I’ve now climbed a total of 28,195 feet—basically Ben Nevis… 10 times. Which makes me wonder if I’ve taken a wrong turn and accidentally signed up for a mountaineering expedition.

Back at base, Karen (goddess of the roast dinner) cooked up a feast complete with gluten-free everything. I could live here, I really could. And Max the cockapoo, aka Wigglebum, tried to run off with my sock. I think he's fallen in love with stumpey… or at least my stump warmer. I’m donating it to him post-challenge. It feels right.

Massages courtesy of Vicky and Libby were life-saving. My back is currently tighter than my budget after this adventure, but it's loosening up. Slowly. My leg did its dramatic “flaring-up-the-hill” thing again, which involved me yelling at it like a deranged drill sergeant. It hurts like being stabbed with every push of the wheels, but hey—what’s new?

People cheered from cars, honked horns, waved money, and one poor woman apparently ran after me trying to donate. I didn’t hear her—I had my music up and was busy swearing at the incline. Oops.

But the fitness gains are real. Hills I’d have cursed in week one are now minor speedbumps. It’s surreal. I’m stronger, tireder, hungrier—and somehow happier (when wheeling!) Not so happy when recieving the daily dose of 'oh, I see, the star of the show gets the biggest room' or huggs followd by 'im good at faking this s**t!', and many more uneccesary and derogitory comments!

So five days to go. Onward to Launceston tomorrow—no clue where that is, but I'm sure it has hills. Everything does.

Night night. Feet up. Wigglebum by my side.

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