The London to Paris cycle ride, part two

DAY TWO: Calais to Arras
I was woken by a courtesy wake-up call at just before 6.30. I picked up the phone to hear a pre-recorded message in French bellowing over some jaunty, jingly wakey-uppey type of music. Then I stretched my legs.
Ow!
Yes, definitely a tad on the stiff side: my knees and the sides of my thighs ached, but actually not quite as bad as I'd feared. I tried doing some of the in-bed stretching exercises Karen had recommended to me. Several of the moves looked like some kind of solo sexual position, so I opted for the one that was basically 'lolling one leg out of bed while suffering a screaming bastard of a hangover and trying to find a cool bit of pillow'. Karen had said that it was a good way to stretch out thigh muscles. It seemed to do the trick a bit. I reached over to the bedside cabinet and grabbed a couple of ibuprofen to help matters along. Ross woke up and looked over from his bed.
'You alright? You got a hangover or something?'
Breakfast was ok - a choice of croisants, pain au chocolat, and various bits of charcuterie and those slices of rubbery cheese you only see on breakfast buffet platters in hotels on the continent, or bacon, eggs, and a type of muesli that had the consistency (and quite possibly the taste) of cat litter. We all had our fill quite quickly, then got our bags and bikes, and set off at 8.00. Once again, I rode along with Sabrina, keeping a steady pace. About two kilometres in, we went past a field full of cows, plus a fat beaming guy with a moustache and, indisputably, a beret at a jaunty angle on his head! This kind of bucolic French stereotype, so early on in the day, prompted us to compile a French Stereotype Bingo scorecard.

Sabrina and Paul's French Stereotype bingo card
score a point for each one spotted. If you get all of them, shrug in a cooly non-committed way and don't give the impression of being too pleased with yourself, while exuding cool smugness.
 Guy in Beret
 Car or moped beeping horn enthusiastically while driving past the peloton at about 300 kph
 A discarded pack of Gauloises
 Some bloke carrying a baguette under his arm as he exits a boulangerie
 Someone riding  bike while playing an accordion
 Actually, any kind of accordion player
 Surly and/or indifferent table service
 Two blokes playing boules on a path
 Sneering, world-weary existentialist philosopher in roll-neck black sweater listening to jazz
Avuncular, slightly mad man in a town square
A 2CV rolling down a road with tall poplar trees at the side
Some guy with a fishing pole and a fag dangling from the side of his mouth

Well, we'd already scored one, and we cycled along in the cool morning along roads that were thankfully flat, for the first twelve miles, anyway. Marco had informed us that the day would be 'undulating'. Now, when someone says 'undulating', you imagine a serpentine gradual rise and fall of the landscape, nothing too challenging really. Marco's definition, as it began to turn out, had more in common with some of my Academic English students' descriptions of 'fluctuations' in a graph description - not so much minor changes, as BLOODY ENORMOUS hills. And so it proved. You can tell you're heading towards high land when you suddenly see loads of wind turbines, churning merrily away. The other thing that you can tell when you see loads of wind turbines is this:
It's going to be windy.
Fortunately, because we started off relatively early the wind hadn't really kicked in. We ploughed on, with Kevin now joining us, his legs frantically pumping up and down whenever we hit a hill. Sabrina's bike was still stuck in the middle front ring, so I was the only one finding it relatively easy getting up the hills. After 27 miles, there was a big downhill, followed by a big uphill through a forest and then the first water break.

Sabrina feeling an eensy bit chilly

mmm bananas and oaty snack bars

Despite all the riding, it was still cold in the wood: The sun was only just beginning to get going on the clouds, and what was clear was that everyone was still feeling stiff from the previous day. My thighs and knees were hurting, but I suspected it was more to do with the cold start than anything. I didn't want to to hang around too long - what warmth I'd managed to squeeze into my legs I didn't want to lose - so after ten minutes or so, Sabrina and I saddled up, accompanied by Kev and Glen, the extrovert South African who'd been showing off his grazes the day before. The landscape carried on undulating, by which I mean it carried on going uphill, with the odd downhill to make it all worthwhile, and the wind turbines proliferated. And the roads! God, I could carry on about them, but the quality....
'See?' said Glen, as we pedalled along 'that's what happens to all our EU subsidies - wind turbines and roads smoother than a fresh Hollywood waxing!'
'Yeah, and fuck the Greeks...'
By this time as well, the landscape of Northern France had really opened up - great wide fields and views stretching for miles. I suppose I could have included this as part of the French Stereotype Bingo, but it's a bit hard to regard land as a cliche: it's just there, and it is down to the observer to endow it with beauty.
Of course, one steretype I should have included was Lycra-Clad Cyclist Having A Piss In a Field of Freshly Harvested Stuff.

Glen watching a lycra-clad cyclist having a wizz...

Camp pose racheted up to the max! Peeing lycra-clad cyclist just to the left

the field in which our micturating velocipedist was

By the time lunch arrived, the sun had finally come out properly, and the heat suddenly leapt. Because it was so humid however, Thunderheads began to grow, and it was obvious that there would be a few sharp downpours at some stage. the lunch stop was in a field full of deep, lush clover, next to a shuttered up house. In fact, we'd already passed quite a few villages where house after house was closed up - of course, mid-August, and all the locals had disappeared to the south for their hols. This would also explain the relative paucity of traffic. Lunch was good - hot meatballs and pasta, tuna salad, several things from the previous day, a really good pate, fresh bread and the 80's mix tape.

a good lunch, a good stretch and about 300 ibuprofen - sorted!

A thunderstorm growled past nearby, and after about an hour we set off again - Kev, Sabrina, Glen and me, along with Pat, Ross and Dave. The thunderstorm growled on,  and the sky was punctured by some spectacular flashes of lightning. As we cycled along, we became strung out along the road, coloured beads running on a line of tarmac, the smooth thrum-thrum-thrum of the wheels on the road.
Pat began racing ahead. I found myself in a really comfortable rhythm going along with him, so I stuck by him for a while.
'Hey, Pat - you're caning it a bit!'
'It's fucked!' He yelled in his Brogue.'Me bloody gears are fucked! I either get stuck in the top ring or the granny ring, and nothing inbetween! And this bloody lot (by which he meant Discover Adventure) can't bloody fix it!' And he continued to pedal furiously.
A few raindrops fell, then more, then there was a gradual increase of rain - not too bad, but still enough to soak you through eventually. After a downhill, I decided to take a bit of cover next to a statue of the crucifixion that was under some lime trees. Pat thundered on ahead, and after a few minutes, Kev, Sabrina and Glen appeared. I got back in the saddle and joined them.
'Ross' wheel is buggered, and Dave has had his seventh puncture', said Glen. 'They're being looked after by the support vehicle'.
The rain eased, and on we went over the miles, and the riding became easier, despite the aches and pains. By the afternoon water stop, I was feeling exhilarated, partly because it marked the halfway mark of the entire journey, and also because the sun had come out. The ride into Arras itself was absolutely fantastic - it was over land that I would say could be defined as undulating, rather than hilly, and the temperature was just right for pedalling along. Sabrina and I got chatting again, about family and children. She's been married for a few months, and was speculating about kids in the future.
'The trouble is, it's all a bit scary.'
'You're not wrong', I said. 'There aren't any Instruction Manuals for them when they arrive, and you end up freaking out when they have their first temparature or fall over or whatever. They first few weeks are really intense, then it's pretty calm and sweet for a few months.'
We pedalled along in now-warm sunshine.
'And then there's nothing but worry for the next twenty-odd years.'
I talked a bit about my job, then she described hers. 'I'm an event organiser, but my real passion is cake. I do wedding cakes, birthday cakes and so on, but I've been thinking of whether to set up something new..'
I asked her what it was.
'Basically, it's a mobile cake business. I buy an ice cream van, convert it, and sell cakes at markets, events and things.'
Now, I'm not a cake man myself (except for yours, Sabrina, of course!), but I got into her description of what she wanted to do, and the possibilities it entailed.
'As far as I can see, there's only one problem' I said.
'What's that?'
'What kind of jingle will your converted ice cream van play to announce the arrive of the Cake Lady?'
Cue silly discussion about what would and would not make a decent jingle, very much in the vein of one I had with Lee several weeks ago.
We arrived in Arras at around five, Glen booming on over a hill and on to the centre.
And we promptly got lost.
We'd already been warned that there wouldn't be the little orange arrows in the town, because the locals tended to pull them down. As we neared the centre, one of the DA team was waiting at a corner to point us in the right direction. Unfortunately, we got it a bit wrong - we raced up a hill, then stopped. Where was the hotel?
'Do y'know where it is? said Pat.
'No - I'm following you'.
Sabrina and Kev both shrugged shoulders.
'Oh jeez...this is fucked. Let's ask'.
Pat went up to someone.
'Hey! You speak English? English? Holiday Inn? Where?'
A gallic shrug. He tried again with several other people, one of whom gave instructions - in French, which lead us directly to the central square - a thoroughly pretty early rococo confection, but no sign of our hotel. We pedalled round it for a bit.
'Oh, for fuck's sake! This is fucked!'
Eventually, we found someone else who gave somewhat better directions, and we finally arrived at the hotel. Pat stomped in, fuming. I was just glad to get there. I got my room pass card, and discovered that I was sharing with Dominic, the faller from the previous day.
I went to my room, showered and changed and went back down to the bar, where Glen was waiting with a pair of gin and tonics. You'd think beer would be a better idea than G&T, but my God, it was an absolutely brilliant idea - it really hit the spot. After three of these, it was time for dinner. The starter, a quiche, was alright, but the main course....
There was gloopy, rubberised pasta. There was a slab of meat from something that had lived a sad and awful life, and had clearly expired a long, long time ago. It had more than the whiff of equine to it. There was an indifferent sauce that had been made several months earlier. And it was all served up with the due amount of indifferent service. Glen got through about half of his, then made his excuses and left. I was a bit more enduring and managed to chew my way through it, and listen to the speeches from Gemma and Marco, before deciding to go out and explore the town. Gemma had said that the town centre was well worth seeing at night, and I'd already scoped a couple of promising-looking bars earlier on. As I left, I came across Glen, smoking a miniature stogie and drinking a cognac, looking pensively over the fountain towards the rail station. I sat down with him, and we chewed the fat a bit. Across the road, in another hotel, the silhouette of a woman appeared at a top-floor balcony, dressed in a nightdress and looking down the road. She leaned elegantly against the wrought-iron balcony railings, then turned her head as someone called her, before sidling, feline-like, back inside.
'Now, how French was that moment?', said Glen, who'd been as mesmerised by it as I had. Another Stereotype for the Bingo card, then. He drained his drink, then we went together to the town square.

Glen took this one.

see? pretty, isn't it?

We found a bar pumping out French heavy metal music, and went in. I  just pointed at a pump of beer, and out came a red concoction - strawberry lager! Oops. Glen was about to have a beer when he spotted a bottle behind the bartender.
'Is that what I think it is? Yes - Chartreuse! I love this stuff.'
He ordered a green Chartreuse, and we went outside to sit on the square.
'Ah, this is the life! I've never got why you guys in England always drink the way you do - necking it like that. It's so much nicer to sit outside and chat and enjoy it all. Here, have you tried this?' he asked, proffering me his drink.
I had a try.
Hmm, best described as an, er, acquired taste. He taold me how it was made by Swiss Monks, and how noone knew exactly what was in it, but it was 57% proof. I could imagine exactly how it was made - it came across as one of those cocktails you invent really late at night after far too much booze:

Sometime in the Middle Ages...
First Monk: Oh God...how much have we drunk?
Second Monk: I dunno...is there anything round here to eat? And is there more booze?
First Monk: There's half a bottle of Martini...
Second Monk: There's always half a bottle of Martini! Oh look, I've still got some pizza stuck to my habit.
First Monk: OK, I've got, let's see....some kind of ethanol - you can drink that, can't you?
Second Monk: Yeah, but it needs some flavour, doesn't it? Look, just pour it in this bucket....right, what can we shove in it?
First Monk: I know, I know! Let's get some of this mint.....and some of this - what's this?
Second Monk: Tarragon? I don't know....Oh look, some cheese cubes on sticks!
First Monk: Right, mint, tarragon, and......Oregano!
Second Monk: OREGANO? Are you sure?
First Monk: Yeah, totally - just think, it'll make it go all green, and it'll give you really fresh breath even if you do heave it up afterwards!
Second Monk: well, if you're sure...(tries some. pukes)....bloody hell! You're right! Genius!
First Monk: Ain't I just? (pukes)....ah! Minty fresh!
Second Monk: Hold on, I just found some lager with strawberries in it...
First Monk: Oh come on - that's just wrong....

we chatted away, discussing out respective jobs, and me probably going into somewhat too much detail about language learning and acquisition theories, although Glen seemed fascinated by it. I went to get more drinks, and when I came back found him chatting in French to a couple on the next table. He was talking animatedly and warmly, happy to converse despite making mistakes. With my schoolboy French I could folow the conversation, but found myself unable to really participate, so just sat there, doing the dumb smiling and nodding thing everyone does when they are listening to someone talk in another language. After about twenty minutes, a man staggered up, pushing a bicycle. He was clearly known to the couple, and sat down heavily with a boozy smile on his face. He spoke English, and began to tell me about his travels as a chef in various countries, and of his children, and how well they were doing.
'Burt now I erm retarred, zo I tak it eezy, burt I still need monnaie, zo I 'ave this...' He pointed to his bicycle. It was no ordinary bike. It was an electric one, but with a remarkably unobtrusive battery. He explained how he'd bought fifteen of them, and 'I ave an accord with the tourisme office here...we shall make tourist tours round Arras!'
'Let me have a go!' said Glen, and he got on it. Suddenly, he was whizzing round the town square, literally squealing and laughing.
'Oh Paul, you've got to have a go!'
So there I was, biking around the centre of Arras at half past eleven, with loud French Metal music pumping out from the bar, and Glenn was all of a sudden animated, and running round with another glass of Chartreuse in his hand, persuading other people to have a go on the bike. He jumped over to another bar where some other cyclists from our group were sitting and bought them a round of Chartreuse, then got one to have a go. He whizzed off, laughing, and said as he went past me 'These are way better than Boris bikes!'
As you can probably tell, it was a somewhat memorable night. We left around one, Glen slightly the worse for wear from the Chartreuse, and headed back to the hotel.

The London to Paris cycle ride, part one

Oh, my aching legs.

Not.

In fact, I feel remarkably well, and well enough about the whole experience to consider doing it all over again - but more about that later. In the meantime, here's how it went.
DAY ONE: LONDON to CALAIS
Woke up at about 4.15 am in Karen's house, and had a steaming bowl of porridge. Well, I wouldn't have a cold bowl of porridge, would I? That would be like chowing down on beige puke. No, porridge must always be steaming, cliche though it may be. I may be talking about cliches and stereotypes later on. Anyway. Part of my feeding plan while on the go involved eating items largely based around oats and bananas. I was helped in this by Karen giving me a small sack of energy bars consisting of these two items. She also gave me some energy jellies and energy drinks, several of which I decanted into my luggage, and several into the bag I'd be using while riding. After careful consideration, I'd decided to eschew panniers, especially after seeing photos from the previous cycle challenge of people of ultra slimline road bikes seemingly consisting of straws and dental floss, and use a  daysack, containing one fleece, a hi-viz jacket, repair kit, one inner tube, one pump, food supplies, ibuprofen, paracetamol, hand wipes, hand cleansing gel, vaseline, sudocrem (the stuff you put on babies to control nappy rash), some antihistamines, and a large tub of Udderly Smooth, aka Bum Butter, used to prevent certain areas being rubbed rawer than a carrot on a grater. I began to wonder whether I may have overpacked. Still, I didn't have much time to reflect on this, as we had to be on the road by 5.
The journey to London went without incident - the sun rose over a cool morning, and the traffic gradually intensified the more we approached the centre. There were plenty of early morning cyclists around, probably enjoying the relatively quiet streets of the capital, and the sight of them made me feel more apprehensive about the challenge ahead. I knew in my head that I could do it, but even so....what about the traffic? what if I got injured? what if I just couldn't move my legs by the third day? I was also feeling somewhat lonely - I didn't know anyone else on the challenge, and wondered if they were going to be ultrafit athletes, gliding miles ahead of me while I ploughed a lonely furrow at the back.
Yes, I know, all total balls, but let's face it - when we stare at a task ahead of us, it's far easier to imagine all the worst things about it than the possibilities, and I reminded myself of this, but even so....
We arrived in Blackheath just before 6.30, and there were already several other cyclists there. I registered with the person from Discover Adventure (the company organising the trip on behalf of MacMillan), and had a look around at the other cyclists, and felt heartened by the fact that amongst the young whippets there were also a few riders who had clearly never been averse to a pint or a pie or ten.
Karen was ogling the road bikes. 'Look at that one!' , she said, 'that's about two grand's worth of carbon frame!'  It was clear to me that my saddle probably weighed more than some of these bikes. Fortunately, I also saw a few mountain bikes and hybrids as well, as well as one with panniers attached. Clearly, it was going to be a lot more eclectic a range of participants than the worst case scenario in my head. A few more people rolled up, then we were all called to huddle round one of the support vans for a briefing. First of all was Gemma, the MacMillan rep, giving some info about the day, and lots of encouragement and thanks for doing this for MacMillan. Next up was Marco, one of the Discover Adventure team, telling us to follow the little orange arrows all the way along, which were apparently attached to anything static the team could find every few hundred metres along the way. 'And don't forget', he said, 'it's quite hilly, so don't attack the hills too early or you'll get too knackered to carry on'.
Hilly? I'd looked at the route profile beforehand - it hadn't looked that particularly hilly to me, certainly no worse the anything I'd tackled in training.
Oh deary, deary, lordy deary me. How wrong can you be?
We set off at seven o'clock, and were almost immediately introduced to our first little hill of the day - namely, Shooter's Hill, also known as one of the biggest hills in bloody London. Thanks, Discover Adventure. I got chatting briefly with another cyclist, Pat, who was wearing a Heathrow Airport Hi-Viz yellow jacket, but then we got separated by traffic lights. Oh, what fun they became. It seemd that everybody got stopped by every single traffic light on the route leading east-south-east. It was pedal-pedal-pedal-stop......pedal-pedal-pedal-stop....and so on. Fortunately for me, I wasn't using cleats, so I didn't have to unclip myself from the pedals every time.
The traffic wasn't too bad, considering it was London, and I've seen worse in Reading, but I was glad to see a sign saying 'welcome to Kent' and the gradual thinning down of houses and businesses and the appearance of first greenery and then countryside proper. Pedalling along, largely by myself, I didn't feel that the route was too bad - certainly, there were a few hills, but nothing like the route up to Cooksley Green. Well, that was up to a couple of miles before the first water stop, when everything suddenly decided to go more vertical. Not horridly vertical, just decidedly more uphill, in a way that implied there were the mummies and daddies of hills lurking ahead, along with lots of little baby hills just for the hell of it.
The first water stop appeared after 21 miles, a gazebo with a table full of cyclist goodies - namely, bananas and oat-based snack bars. I was quite gratified to see that there were only ten or so riders ahead of me - looked like I wouldn't be the slowest then. I overheard someone say that one of the riders had fallen off their bike right at the beginning, smacking their face against the kerb, thanks in large to being cleated in. I filled up on water and snacks, and at this point I'll just preempt the rest of this report by saying these stops were an absolutely brilliant idea, well-executed and throughly timely - they broke the days up into achievable targets, gave mor eor less just the right time to rest, and ensured everyone was well fed. I stayed about ten minutes, then ploughed on. About a mile or so on, I got my first good vantage view - a spectacular panorama of the Kent countryside from high up, looking over our route southwards. And then -
woooooh!
The first big downhill, a real sinus-opening plunge through a woodland road and towards a village, designed to put a grin on your face. We came into a village and then I encountered for the first time a phenomenon that haunted me for the rest of the first day and for part of the second:

SIGNAGE ANXIETY n. the sensation that one has missed a crucial little orange arrow and one is now headed towards Slough

I almost missed a turning - in fact, I was pretty sure some other riders behind me did. Fortunately, I stayed on the right road, and the route to lunch wasn't too bad - a little hilly, yes, and getting hillier by the time we stopped in Charing, but still doable.

lunch was in a church hall, next to a picturesque church - well, obviously next to a church, or it would just be a hall, wouldn't it?  Anyway, it was a good place to take a break. The food was good too - loads of pasta, salad stuff, a platter full of what turned out to be grated cheese and pickle, cake, some hot pasta stuff and an 80's compiliation CD that came to typifiy the entire lunch break experience.

The London to Paris Lunchtime Listening 80's Experience Compilation CD:
Gold - Spandau Ballet
Karma Chameleon - Culture Club
Down Under - Men at Work
Toy Soldiers - Martika
Welcome to the Jungle - Guns 'n' Roses
Everybody Wants to Rule the World - Tears for Fears
Fast Car - Tracey Chapman
...and many, many more! BUT NO DURAN DURAN - we don't tolerate that kind of crap while catering to hungry cyclists

After lunch, I felt a bit stiff for the first mile or so, but then got back into rhythm, still pedalling along quite contentedly. As I was ploughing my way up a hill, however, I had a sudden attack of signage anxiety and looked behind me. Sure enough, I saw two cyclists pootling away down another round road a village green. There was a turning just ahead of me that would allow me to join up with them. One of them was the rider with panniers, and the other a young woman on a red bike. These turned out to be Kevin and Sabrina, who I ended up riding with for the rest of the ride, as we were all doing more or less the same pace.I raced ahead of them for a while, then Sabrina came up alongside as we hit a hill. We talked about the other riders - she was sure a big group had gone ahead of us, and  had taken the same wrong turning. We carried on chatting as we plodded up hill after hill, including one beast that went on for well over a mile and a half. Her gears had got stuck in the middle front ring, so she had to power her way up, while I could comfortably get down into my lower set - even so, it wasn't the easiest uphill.
These undulations went on, and on, and on until finally we saw the third pitstop, manned by a single person.
'Has everyone else come through?' I asked
'No!' replied the woman, whose name has completely slipped my brain, but she has curly hair and works in TEFL in Spain and sorry for forgetting your name if you're reading this, 'You're the first in'.
Wow! Leading the peloton! Sabrina and I gave each other a high five, then attacked the bananas and snacks. The next in was Kevin.
'That was a bit bloody 'ard' he said. 'You know what? we passed the top of the road where I live earlier on - I'm from Maidstone - should 'ave gone in for a cup of tea'.
Gradually, more riders appeared, including the group who had got lost. Sabrina and I were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves, so after we'd rested, we set off ahead of the others.
...And very quickly got lost.
Kev had set off a couple of minutes earlier than us, as well, and was nowhere to be seen as we cruised through the Kent landscape. After a few miles, we hit another spectacular downhill, turned left and pounded down the road. We were talking about why we'd decided to do the challenge - for me, about the family members and friends who'd had cancer; For Sabrina, it was to honour her dad.
'This is his bike', she said, patting the machine she was riding.'I do have a carbon fibre one, but there was a problem with it and I decided to use this. I've spent months training with his old friends - we've done all these long distance rides. The distance for this doesn't bother me - it's just going up all these hills and doing it in time!'
As we went on, the wind decided to get a bit friskier, and the clouds gradually darkened. After I while, I said, 'when did we last see an orange arrow?'
Signage Anxiety was beginning to creep over me once more.
'Ages ago. There's a road sign at the top of the hill - let's look at it'.
So we pedalled up the hill. The road sign pointed to a few local villages and Canterbury via an A road.
Suddenly, Kev appeared, pedalling madly towards us.
'We've gone the wrong bleeding way! I've ended up halfway to bleeding Canterbury!'
We stopped to check on our road maps - the one I'd hardly bothered to look at. Sure enough, it seemed to show a route turning about four miles earlier. So, off we turned and after four miles, there was the little orange arrow, flipping round in the wind. We got back on the correct path, and followed a route that was more undulating than hilly, and finally, a road sign saying 'DOVER'.
We arrived at the ferry terminals just before five, with a lick of rain just starting and an expensive coffee waiting in the ticket sales terminal. Most of the cyclists had arrived, all with their own tales, and a couple bearing a few cuts and bruises. Dominic, the guy who'd fallen off at the beginning, was sporting a really nasty bruised face and cuts, while another rider, Glen, was showing off an elbow he'd grazed up twice. Several of us were grumbling about the signs, but overall, the sensation was of quiet exhilaration, of a job done.
And then we had to go and wait for the ferry, on our bikes, in the rain.
For an hour!
I have to say that this was, on reflection, quite easily the lowest point of the entire jaunt. It was a just a miserable and increasingly chilly wait, and when we finally boarded, our spirits lifted somewhat, just to be dashed by SeaFrance's catering efforts - which leads me to another theme during this ride:

REALLY CRAP FOOD IN THE EVENING

For your delectation on this, your first evening meal of your four-day quest, we have:

A rubber cheesburger-delicious hot or cold!

A chicken 'Curry' - it's beige!

sausages and chips - mmm, stale!

I had the chicken 'curry' and 'rice', most of which could quite happily be bounced across the floor.
The ride across the Channel itself was smooth, and I chatted with some of the other riders about how they felt it had gone so far - everyone still came across as enthusiastic, albeit knackered. Eventually, we arrived at Calais, along with the rain. We had to wait until all the motor vehicles had disembarked before we were allowed off en masse, into an evening full of swirling rain and wind. The Discover Adventure truck was waiting for us, and we followed their instructions to follow it in convoy through the Calais night to our hotel. We bumped across the ferry terminal road, out onto the main street, and all of a sudden my bike started purring, as it had its first ever encounter with French tarmac, smoother than any road I've been on before.
After five miles or so, we finally arrived at our destination - a Holiday Inn. I got my room keys, and found I was shairing with Ross, a tall guy from Aberdeenshire who I'd been chatting with on the boat. After having a shower and a truly well-deserved and expensive - 6 euros!)beer, I crashed out after what can only be described as a bit of a long day.

ready for the off....

Well, I hope so. After eight months of cycling, the day has finally arrived. I think it'll go well, but there are times when you just know that the Cycling Gods don't want you to proceed - as my last training ride proved.
My last ride was meant to have been at least a 60 miler. I intended to head up to Oxford then either carry on towards Banbury, or head back to Wallingford. However, several things queued up to militate against this. First, it started tipping down - no problem, I've pedalled through rain before. Then it started hailing. Nice. After that, a large pothole while going downhill that gave me one hell of a jolt. And then, Cows. A herd of them. With calves. And a bull. I encountered them in a field just outside Radley,through which NCN route 5 runs. They were clearly on the nervy side, so I had to gingerly pick my way through them, especially past the bloody bull, which looked at me in a distinctly suspicious way. After about 10 minutes, I finally got on my bike again, got to the suburbs of Oxford, and developed a great big flat, courtesy of a stone piercing right through the thickest part of my brand-new rear tyre. So I started repairing the tyre while getting soaked by another heavy shower.
Oh well.
This I do know: I can ride 190 miles in the space of a week. My top speed is 40 mph, and cruising speed of 14-15 mph. I can ride on the flat for hours without breaking sweat. I should be able to ride from London to Dover in about six hours of continuous cycling. And I haven't succumbed to much to the siren lure of ridiculous amounts of lycra.
AND, I've gone through my funding target!