Roderick the Red
Photography & Words By Patrick Kerry (@PatrickOfSussex)
We went on journeys to the end of the land.
From friend to friend and then on to sea.
A wild hive, a Dartmoor home. A tent on hills and forest.
Hills up and long. Down and fast. Two wheels. Two legs.
Across heathland and chain ferry, forest road and angry road.
The first puncture, we rolled through busy town and sleepy village.
Sampling every bench and every co-op.
Chocolate hobnobs as reward to that stranger I left you with,
couldn’t do that with a child.
I remember that time you fell on my head,
as I slept under cricket club shelter.
We all came together under the warm glow of defibrillator light,
us and the beetles.
A contrast of light in dark. A party in attempted sleep.
You fell on my head.
Over hill. Along road. A pub for water refill and unwelcome comment.
On we go. Up and up into Dartmoor.
A broken pedal for you. Welcomed chats of connection for me.
We waited for you to be fixed, she read me like a book.
Digging through past, and future. Discipline.
Unsure how she knew that’s what we were riding for,
For discipline. It saw us to the end.
A long hug, one I still think about. Big chats. Small meals.
Your night in a shed, my night in a bed.
A beer and a bun on the hill above Chagford,
that day we spent apart.
Small gifts hidden, we sheltered beside that wall atop Fernworthy.
Out of the winds path, within the rain cloud.
Three ticks on my balls.
We backtracked in the morning, too wild up there.
Powering along roads that dissect moor, your wheels faster than mine.
Shouting, singing, shouting.
“You’ve got to search for the hero inside yourself”, you were my hero.
Hills up and long. Down and fast. Two wheels. Two tired legs.
Park shelters offering up remains of a parent-child dinner,
Half a chow mein and a side of litter.
We remained hungry, wet through.
St Mawes ferry won’t take us. Waves crashed over.
After debating home, the long land ferry took us where we needed to go.
You carried us the rest.
Cornish people saying Cornish things, full of worry.
The London and the phones, I agree.
Luckily for me, Sussex is wet-land-locked, the roads don’t reach.
Luckily for me.
We opted here for a direct route, passed sea mount.
Along the flats of Penzance. Nice pints, a pocket samosa.
Shop chats of anger when unfed, you were left unlocked outside.
Long uphills from there. One angry dude in his car.
“fuck me”… He shouted. He stalled, He stalled. He stalled.
I still wonder, did he have more to say?
“fuck me you’re ginger”? “fuck me you’ve got a sexy bike”?
“fuck me, I’ve stalled my car”? His girlfriend sat quietly,
true colours were seen.
Our fellow uphill rider commented on the embarrassment. I did nothing.
A bizarre encounter. I think he wanted to ride you.
Up and up. Small road. Stone road. Stone wall to avoid that puddle.
The landscape and air change from here, really peaceful.
Across field, passed spring-fed-piskie-portal. Onto the hill above Sennen.
A campsite night to save that point on the map for morning. Lands end.
St Just, Boat Cove, rest. All still on our list. The moon wants water.
High winds. Train strikes. Tired legs, your third puncture,
keeping us for days longer. The sun, our reward.
12 days there. 7 hours back.
