The London to Paris cycle ride, part three

Day Three: Arras to Compiegne
Ahh, I love the smell of Ralgex in the mornings...
The early morning air hung heavy with the aroma of embrocations and unguents, along with the post-storm smell of the earth. We were getting ready  to set off again, and I stared blearily up the road.
I hadn't had a decent night's sleep. Strawberry lager, proper lager, Chartreuse and Gin and Tonic were not entirely conducive to nestling gently into the arms of Morpheus. However, I would probably have managed more if it hadn't been for the fact that my room mate was a heavy snorer - or, to be perfectly honest, a heavier snorer than me. He sawed away from about half three to about five, and I finally managed to get a little sleep before the wake up call at 6.10. God, my legs hurt. I stretched one leg out of the bed, reached for the ibuprofen and tried to find a cool spot on the pillow.
'Stretching your legs?' asked my room mate.
'No, hangover'.
Well, it could have been worse. I could have had Glen's Chartreuse and Cognac hangover.
Once again, Sabrina, Kev and I rode out into the day, and once again, it was a cool start, but now promising to get warm sooner rather than later. And my God, it hurt to start off. Ow.Ow.Ow.Ow., went my legs as they pedalled around, but after a few kilometres they got into their stride, and on we went. Glen was somewhere to the back, and we were joined by Dave and Ross as we cycled. The land undulated, the vistas opened up, and suddenly we were in a landscape of tranquil bucolic charm, a scene entirely unrecognisable to someone who'd stood there some 95 years ago.
The valleys that had been fought over, inch by bloody inch, by imperial forces during the First World War. The sky remained grey and the mood among us remained quiet, sombre even, as though this was a place that should be either flitted through with the minimum of fuss and attention seeking, or should be processed through at a funereal pace. Here and there, as we turned a corner, along with the small roadside chapels, there would be a cemetery, neatly tended, its gravestones serried and white, inscribed with the names of boys who'd been sent off to die a long time ago. The whole landscape, despite its sleepy charm, seemed to me to carry a terrible song of sadness. Every building, every stand of trees, every little hillock, every stump, each single little thing had been fought over and had witnessed mechanised, industrialised mass death. We spoke almost quietly, discussing what we were seeing, what we remembered of WW1, what we knew of these wars. I described my Great-Uncle Charlie, who had been in the first push over the top at the Somme Offensive, who got shot and spent three days in the mud before being taken prisoner. I talked about Karen having served in Iraq, and Ross mentioned a friend of his who was in the SBS, and who had been in both Iraq and Afghanistan.On we went, the land climbed, the smooth road unrolled underneath us, more wind turbines appeared, and suddenly we were in the Somme Valley, and approaching our first stop of the day, at the Thiepval Memorial.

I don't want to say much at this juncture - if you've been there, you'll know exactly how it feels. If you haven't, go. The number of names of people who haven't even been found is staggering. I found it deeply upsetting. One of the other cyclists sat quietly in one corner of the monument, red-eyed. We walked quietly around the monument and its superbly-tended grounds, visited the information centre, then getting our fill of bananas and oaty snacks. After nearly an hour there, we saddled up again and climbed upwards, and the sun came out, and seemingly, all of a sudden, this:

look at that view! Not Glen, the green stuff behind him.

look at that view! Not the green stuff, my complete absence of beer gut!

that's what we're heading to - next stop, downhiiiillll!

...and the day just exploded into a joyous one of cycling. I was still aching a bit, but the road and the weather and the company worked together to make it everything not just endurable but utterly enjoyable. We were far more relaxed, I think, and this made it far easier to ride. The land remained ridiculously pretty, and on one stretch I noticed a 2CV shooting along a poplar-lined road. I should also point out that I had spotted not one, but several, discarded packs of Gauloises, so I was doing quite well with my stereotypes bingo. The pace, while still vigorous, was distinctly more chilled out, and people rode sometimes ahead, sometimes behind. I found myself riding by myself for a while, totally absorbed into the Flow - not the flow, but the one with the capital: the same place you find yourself when writing after a certain amount of time, that point of almost effortless effort where there is only the Now, the Here, where you feel you can continue for mile after mile, hour after hour. My legs smoothly pedalled the bike with seemingly the minimum of work, the road held the tyres in a kiss of kilometres, and the landscape flowed from beautiful moment to beautiful moment. By now,  our mini-peloton consisted of me, Sabrina, Kev, Dave, Ross, Glen and Carol, the indefatigable 73-year-old. She's quite a fascinating person, not because of doing such an event, but because she is one of those rare humans who can lob a simple question and then you end up compelled to speak without even noticing it - she's a natural listener, a person with a touch of the Jane Marple about her. We'd asked her earlier about why she was doing this.
'well, I decided to do all those things that I'd never done once I reached 60, and keep looking for challenges. I've forgotten how many marathons I've done, now'.
She'd certainly done well in this ride - she was by no means at the back of the pack.
Lunch was in some kind of picnic layby. As well as our group, a family were trying to have lunch on a picnic bench nearby. Glen accosted them, sat down, started chatting and got fed. The rest of us made do with a lunch comprising some of the stars of the previous couple of days' lunches, plus a chicken curry pasta that tasted almost exactly like a pot noodle, with the same effect - you feel a little bit grubby and shameful eating it, but you end up wanting more, a bit like illicit Office Nookie. All this, and 80's music.
While we were stretching, eating, relaxing and finding convenient bushes, the question of what to wear came up. Not this:

reminds me of wrestling on World of Sport....

but rather, when cycling, do you wear pants or Go Commando? I won't mention who brought it up, because I'm being possibly unusually tactful, but she was clearly suffering from Tight Pants Syndrome.
'I tried both ways over my training - Commando is definitely the way to go', I said.
'Really? It's been really painful today'.
'Imagine what it's like having some meat and two veg down there'
'That's right', said Dave. 'Get 'em off, let the air circulate'
I should also point out that the lunch break was where I would apply:

BUM BUTTER
also known as Udderly Smooth, an embrocation originally designed to be applied to cows' udders to prevent sores and injuries, Bum Butter is not actually made out of either bums or butter. That would be perverse. Instead, it is a paraffin and glycol based compound that, when applied, brings to mind the 1970's pop song 'Slip Sliding Away...'

 - that is, I would apply it if I could find a secluded spot, which fortunately I did on this occasion. We didn't hang around too long on this occasion, and before long we were once again on our way. The Tight Pants Person wafted along with a look of bliss on her face.
'Oh my God! That feels so much better! Wow!'
On we went, and things started to get a little silly. Another knot of riders, lead by Laura, stormed past us, laughing noisily. In Laura's case, actually laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West. We carried on at our own pace, through a few villages and up a couple of hills, then down some wonderful downhills. We came towards some huge golden fields, hay baled in tall towers, and we noticed four figures in one of them.
'Why are there so many scarecrows in one field?' I asked.
As we got closer, it became clear - Laura and her group had stopped and were posing in the field, arms outstretched and heads lolling. From a distance, it would have been easy to fool, except that they were heaving with laughter.  The ride continued, but there was now no sense of tiredness - we talked easily and the miles melted away. A few miles before the last water stop, we cycled over a little bridge with a picturesque duck pond to one side and a stream issuing out of the other. We stopped so that some of the group could take pictures.
'God, that water looks really nice', said Glen.
A minute later, he was wading bare chested down the stream, splashing along. and trying to catch fish in his hands.
The next water stop came in due course, next to probably the prettiest of the places where we took a break.

what do you mean, the bananas have almost run out?

There was even a bloke with a fishing pole and a fag dangling from the side of his mouth.
By this time of day, it was pretty hot, so we made sure to drink and replenish and set off at a relatively leisurely pace for the rest of the journey. By now, everything undulated, rather than climb in bloody big spikes, but somehow we stilll managed to get these wonderful downhill sections. Laura & co whizzed past us again, and again laughing like drains, so we were wondering what they were planning up ahead. We climbed a bit, then a  bit more, then reached a plateau looking down into a village and the prospect of a good downhill, and then
THUMP
Lorraine, who had a constant supply of drugs and Lanacane, took a tumble. She'd come too close to the side of the road, hit a pothole, and ended up arse over tit on a grassy verge. She'd been remarkably lucky - the way she'd fallen could have resulted in a broken neck, and a little further on would have seen her fall down a 30-metre slope. Several of us stopped and made sure she was OK.She was deeply shaken, and her bike, while not exactly buggered, wasn't entirely damage-free, but after the support van had arrived with the nurse she rallied. Actually, she rallied when some slender, muscular olive-skinned bloke in jodphurs came riding past on a horse. He slowed down as he reached us, then when Glen (who had caught up with us) said to him 'wou;d you like to help her?', he gave an almost imperceptible shrug, then galloped off across the fields.
Once the nurse arrived, we carried on. A couple of miles down the road, we found Laura and co, lolling on a haystack
'We've been here ages! what happened?'
apparently, they were going to do some kind of display for us, but instead they just got bums full of straw. Oops.
Compiegne was visible from their field, and it wasn't long before we entered the town. We cycled past the centre and headed towards the outskirts. Because of problems with hotels, we were split into two groups, with the majority heading towards Le Campanile for the night. It came nto sight, and didn't look too bad - a kindof Travelodge-type thing. I found out that I was sharing a room with Dave. I also found out that they were charging lots for a large lager. Anyway. Several people had already arrived when we got there, and had scouted out the local supermarkets for bargain beers, and were lolling on the front lawn with cans.Sabrina went off in one direction with Pat, who was visibly fuming about something being fucked up, to a local petrol station. I went in the other direction, following someone else's advice, going past all these wonderful boarded up villas, or places guarded by snarling dogs, then, as I was about to turn into a road with an offy, what do I see in the evening sunlight?
Two blokes playing boules while smoking gauloises and complimenting each other.
Parfait!


I came back, had beer, showered, and went to dinner. Tonight's dinner wasn't as bad as the dinner in Arras, pretty much in the same way that the bombing of Dresden wasn't quite as bad as the bombing of Hiroshima. It consisted of something that was recognisably pork, though from which bit fo the animal was impossible to guess. It even had a few sad and lonely slice of some kind of pickle shoved apologetically underneath.
Fortunately, there was plenty of booze on supply, despite the fact that we needed to get up even earlier the next morning. Kriss (Glen's personal trainer, no less!) helped massage Gemma, and I played the Elephant on a Moped Trick on Laura, although I was laughing so hard I buggered up the punchline.

All in all, it was a wonderful day of cycliing. I got to bed at late o'clock, wondering about the final 55 or so miles to Paris that lay ahead.

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!

New Wheels.

So far this year, I've changed the chain, the rear gear cassette, two inner tubes, the saddle and the headset on my bike. I've now changed the tyres completely. I'm beginning to think I should have changed the bike entirely. Ever since I've had it, I've used big, chunky bobbly tyres; I've now changed these to a pair of Continental semi-slicks that are a good inch narrower and a half-inch thinner. In theory, I should now be gliding along in unimpeded comfort on the road - so why does it feel like I'm doing more work? The whole bike moves differently and the way I'm riding it feels different too, as though I have to work harder to propel it along on the flat, in direct contradiction to what should be happening. I just don't seem to be moving fast enough, even though going up and down hill is distinctly easier and the two timed runs I made suggest otherwise. Maybe I just miss the noisy hum-hum-humm-hummm of the tyres as I increase speed. Anyway, I'll be doing a long run this weekend which should tell me what difference they've made. Now, all I have to do is change the front forks, the front gear set, the brakes (again), the gear cables and the frame, and I should be ready for London-Paris.....
Talking of moving along, I find myself once again moving office at work, for what I think is the ninth time in ten years. We are being heaped into one staffroom with teachers from other groups to create one large, amorphous Adult Learning department. Or something like that. I'm also supposed to be starting a new contract from the 1st August, one that guarantees that I'll have more work for less pay. Yet I've still to have a sniff of a contract to sign. I don't even know how much I'm supposed to be paid. If there's anyone out there who might advise me about the legalities of this, please let me know.

more cycling

This week's route:

I've also included the elevation profile for this ride - as you can see, Cookley Green/Christmas Common is pretty much the peak for this ride, although there's a very tough uphill on the way to Henley - one that goes past a vineyard. This was a decent run of 42 miles, but I had been hoping for something a little longer. The weather forecast, however, militated against it, so settled for what turned out to be a verys satisfying ride.

Ouch!

the route I took on sunday - a 59-miler. I was trying to emulate my disgustingly healthy little sister's ride of a couple of weeks back, and in fact I think I may have outdone her in terms of uphill bits - there's a particularly nasty pointy-uppy bit in Bradfield on the way to Theale. The worst thing about this ride, if you don't count the bunch of smug wealthy people in identikit lycra with identikit expensive road bikes drinking identikit expensive coffees outside a coffee shop in Henley, braying smugly at each other, was the headwind going west, especially from Cookley Green to Wallingford, then down south towards Streatley. The high point (quite literally) was the descent from Cookley Green - a magnificent 35 mph view of the countryside. If you say, 'why only 35 mph?' then you have either a) not seen my bike, b) not seen the lane down which you do the descent or c) have a far too expensive road bike ;)
edit - as you can see from my comment, the above pic is not actually the route - but this one is:

Bits and Pieces

Just a short one today, as a) I'm knackered, b)I'm studying and c)I've got a twelve-hour day tomorrow.
Cycling update: I'm not doing as many miles at present as I'd like, but what I have done has convinced me that I'm pretty close to the fitness levels I'll need for London to Paris. Sunday saw me cycle down to Kingsclere for the family golf trophy day. I didn't actually participate myself - a good decision, in the end, I think, as there was a very cold north-east wind blowing strongly for most of it. The ride was only 26 miles or so, but it was a very good ride - down to Silchester first, then through a forest to Tadley, then down the Wolverton road. I'll be trying for a longer ride this weekend if the weather holds up.
Fundraising update: well, I'm ten per cent of the way, and I've got a few plans up my sleeve. I'll be holding a yard sale sometime in the next couple of weeks to raise funds, and I've got my ESOL students also roped in - we'll be doing a coffee morning and a summer fair-type thing towards the end of term. And to publicise it, I'll be going on the college radio in the next couple of weeks! But, more importantly, is this - the first print edition of A Guide To Reading, available for £8.99. I've finally got round to publishing it! OK, it's lulu.com, a self-publishing website, but the manuscript has been languishing for the past few years and I reckoned it's high time I did something with it. This way, I can contribute more to the fundraising. Feel free to buy a copy....
I could say more, but I'm feeling somewhat knackered at the moment. More soon.

Cycling update

Managed to get in the saddle on sunday - a fifty-miler to Windsor and back. As you can see, the weather was fantastic - temperature just slightly above optimal, but still great. This photo was taken from a field of rape (that's a field full of the crop known as rape, not a site of some ghastly mass atrocity) at Knowl Hill, looking towards Windsor. I'd recommend visiting it just to see, although you'll need to go on foot or bike to reach it.
The only thing that ruined it was the broken headset on my bike. It'd been growling at me for a few months, but yesterday it went completely. This left me with the alarming sensation of feeling unbalanced every time I turned a corner, went above thirteen miles an hour, or indeed, moved, thanks to the steering post wobbling inside the frame shaft. The fact that I still managed to do the whole distance is down to the fact that I know the bike and sheer bloody-mindedness.
As to fitness, I felt pretty comfortable for the distance, and the time (4 hours in the saddle moving; 5 hours for the total ride time) was just slightly under what I'm aiming for. Overall, I'd say I'm fairly close to the fitness I need for the London-Paris ride in August (for which you'll see a link over here on the right). My only issue with how well I feel is my left knee, but I suspect that's just because of  the saddle height rather than anything serious. I need to play with stuff like post heights and cadence to get it all right, along with doing different distances.
Right now though, my priority is to fix the bloody headset.