Saturday, January 21, 2012
missed typo....
......or deliberate? This made me smile today: I was looking through the What'sOn section of GetReading, and saw this ad for a concert:
Now, how do you go around proving that you are qualified for free entrance?
Monday, January 16, 2012
Faffing about.
OK, this is one of these posts where I'm not sure where it'll end up, simply because I'm being a bit aimless, and also because it's mid-January, and that is entirely in keeping with the spirit of the month. In fact, thinking about it, January is one of my faffier months. This is probably because of several factors:
1) Resolutions crashing and failing miserably.
2) Lack of money due to Christmas.
3) It's bloody January, and it's dark outside and it's easier to sit in a pit at home, lurking and watching duff TV.
As I have mentioned on this blog before, I tend not to make any solid resolutions as such at this time of year, as they are almost certainly doomed to fail due to the fact that we tend to indulge in far too many bad habits around the winter solstice, such as drinking and eating too much or generally being a bit gloomy.
But one habit I've become more mindful of is mental faffing. Having completed a series of challenges last year, I find myself at a bit of a loose end, and I've noticed how much of my thinking time is taken up with idle speculation and random thoughts. At the same time, I've really noticed how much general faffing I do - at work, at home, whenever I'm on my netbook, whenever I'm standing in a corner and idly staring at drying paint, or whatever. Now, I'm certainly not alone in this - it's amazing how much faffing you can get away with: Boris Johnson appears to have set up an entire career out of being a professional faffer. And, come to think of it, virtually every presenter of daytime TV. But it sometimes seems to me that I've spent too much time in thoughtful idleness, and it leads me to wonder how much more I could do by being more mindful - that is, more focused on doing something rather than let my mind wander.
Then again, this makes me wonder whether it is worth being mindful: Would I actually be doing anything worthwhile, or would it just be Doing Stuff? In which case, it's faffing, but concentrated faffing. In fact, this is a variant on this good old question: 'What If...?' 'What if I'd done more at school? What if I'd jumped to this job? What if I'd stayed?' etc and so on and so forth.
The fact is, it's so easy to flail around in life, and it is extraordinarily rare to find people who focus single-mindedly on things - and it should be borne in mind that such people are committing themselves to a high-risk game - if they fail and fall, they fail and fall spectacularly. And they don't get to smell the roses along the way. There's nothing wrong per se with the faff: it's when the faff takes over from real life and we mistake it for such. But also, when we are jolted into notcing that what we are doing is an act of faffiness, then it is time to do something different.
And that's the end of this bit of faffery.
1) Resolutions crashing and failing miserably.
2) Lack of money due to Christmas.
3) It's bloody January, and it's dark outside and it's easier to sit in a pit at home, lurking and watching duff TV.
As I have mentioned on this blog before, I tend not to make any solid resolutions as such at this time of year, as they are almost certainly doomed to fail due to the fact that we tend to indulge in far too many bad habits around the winter solstice, such as drinking and eating too much or generally being a bit gloomy.
But one habit I've become more mindful of is mental faffing. Having completed a series of challenges last year, I find myself at a bit of a loose end, and I've noticed how much of my thinking time is taken up with idle speculation and random thoughts. At the same time, I've really noticed how much general faffing I do - at work, at home, whenever I'm on my netbook, whenever I'm standing in a corner and idly staring at drying paint, or whatever. Now, I'm certainly not alone in this - it's amazing how much faffing you can get away with: Boris Johnson appears to have set up an entire career out of being a professional faffer. And, come to think of it, virtually every presenter of daytime TV. But it sometimes seems to me that I've spent too much time in thoughtful idleness, and it leads me to wonder how much more I could do by being more mindful - that is, more focused on doing something rather than let my mind wander.
Then again, this makes me wonder whether it is worth being mindful: Would I actually be doing anything worthwhile, or would it just be Doing Stuff? In which case, it's faffing, but concentrated faffing. In fact, this is a variant on this good old question: 'What If...?' 'What if I'd done more at school? What if I'd jumped to this job? What if I'd stayed?' etc and so on and so forth.
The fact is, it's so easy to flail around in life, and it is extraordinarily rare to find people who focus single-mindedly on things - and it should be borne in mind that such people are committing themselves to a high-risk game - if they fail and fall, they fail and fall spectacularly. And they don't get to smell the roses along the way. There's nothing wrong per se with the faff: it's when the faff takes over from real life and we mistake it for such. But also, when we are jolted into notcing that what we are doing is an act of faffiness, then it is time to do something different.
And that's the end of this bit of faffery.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Christmas Time, Mistletoe and Wine etc.
Yes, I know, a long pause between the triumphal entries of my ride into Paris and now, and there is a very good, but rather sad, reason. I'll probably talk about it another time, but it's too personal and raw for now.
Instead, let's talk about Christmas, well, just a little bit. It's a great time of year for broken promises, whether they be New Year Resolutions that last about as long as a snowball in Hell, or intentions to make Xmas Xtra Special This Year, ending up with everything going into meltdown. As ever.
One things I always intend to do is write a short story for Christmas, something festive or spooky or something. I haven't had much joy with doing this so far, and none this year either.
However, I've been digging through my old archives of written junk, and I discovered this little piece from December 1992, so I thought I'd share it here, as a sop to festive writing. To be honest, it's pretty miserable stuff. Oh well.
Instead, let's talk about Christmas, well, just a little bit. It's a great time of year for broken promises, whether they be New Year Resolutions that last about as long as a snowball in Hell, or intentions to make Xmas Xtra Special This Year, ending up with everything going into meltdown. As ever.
One things I always intend to do is write a short story for Christmas, something festive or spooky or something. I haven't had much joy with doing this so far, and none this year either.
However, I've been digging through my old archives of written junk, and I discovered this little piece from December 1992, so I thought I'd share it here, as a sop to festive writing. To be honest, it's pretty miserable stuff. Oh well.
A BRIEF TALE
It was Christmas Eve, the time towards chucking out, the pubs heaving with beer and nicotine and revelry and sweat and the juggernaut thudding of music, when you could stand at the doorway of a bar and feel the difference between the heat within and the cold without like walls pressing against each other: It was the time to stagger off in search of any parties that might be happening, anywhere awash with alcohol. One such group of people, hot and laughing, were planning exactly this.
- Onl On!
-What,now? Wooh !
-Phil! Are you with us, you old sod?
-C'mon !
-Are you coming Phil?
Phil Bravo, drunk as the next, but his insides remaininq somehow sober, raised a hand in denial.
-Not I. No dosh.Tired. Must wait for Santa.
-Oh, come on!
-No.thanks, must wend my weary soon.
-You sure? Oh all right then.
-See you soon. Merry Christmas.
A chorus of goodnights and kisses flurried briefly, then fluttered into the road with yelps and cheers sidling along, echoing to silence, Ieaving Bravo to finish his pint. The pub emptied, the barmaid
cleaned up around him.
-C'mon now!
-Sorry. Here you go.
-Ta. Merry Christmas.
-And you.
He left, legs heavy with beer, lurching into the street, the cold clear wind scouring. Christmas. It grew less every year, lost its weight, became insubstantial, he thought.
Times I remember, magic, wonder. Transformation. Looking at myself in a bauble on a tree, spinning the little glass orb round on its thread, my reflection rolling over it, ghostlighted. The imminence of the next day, the eager anticipation that kept me awake half the night, sent me hurtling from the bed like a dog out of the slips in the morning.....The fairy castle of lights and turrets and frosted crenellations my father made from blue card and glitter, placed by the tree every year, and I believing the magic, the sheer magic of it all.
What is it now? Another holiday, a long weekend.
Bravo entered the town's High Street and looked up its length. Christmas lights clung to the lampposts, a flotilla of lanterns and decorations harboured in the cold night, feeble in the immense blackness, the indifferent anonymity of unlit shops, the broken reflections from the puddles.
What's missing?
He tried to remember what it was, the formula or the way of seeing things that made it good, that made this time so special, so fecund with maybes and nearly theres. Faintly, faintly, from a nearby church, a high thin arc of song reached into the air, arched overhead, and just as he thought he could almost hold it, the melody disappeared into the gap between the stars.
He couldn't imagine.
The glitter and the goods heaped in the shop windows looked cheap, there'd be rain tomorrow, having to deal with the bloody relatives, the niceties of the season, then back to sodding work. All this intruded into his mind.
Where had the magic gone?
Phil Bravo, disappointed adult, staggered home, his mind on Christmas dinner, the new day’s surfeit.
Elsewhere, as Midnight moved on, some children, somewhere, half asleep, heard the possible clatter of secret hooves, a shuffling on the roof, bells maybe. And certain animals, as they dreamt, found they could speak for a while, spoke and laughed and kept the secret to themselves.
December 1992
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
The London to Paris cycle ride, part four
A thump on the window. Le Campanile's version of a wakeup call. I'd actually woken a little earlier, feeling remarkably good, certainly better than I deserved to. And, contrary to expectations, not particularly sore: In fact, I seemed to be floating slightly, with a faint grin on my face. We were all up earlier than any of the other days, simply because we had a rendezvous with Paris at 2.30. I found I couldn't eat much - too early to eat, or maybe too excited, I don't know. It was a somewhat perfunctory affair, a croisant and a coffee, then I packed my daysack and main pack for the last time, keeping the former as light as possible for the last leg. The morning was cool, with mist hanging around the tree tops opposite the hotel, but it boded heat - you just knew that when the sun got going, it would turn into a hot one. We threw our bags into the support van, saddled up, and, from me -
'ALLONS-Y!'
We pedalled onto the road again, the whole pack of us. The atmosphere was one of excitement and anticipation, of knowledge of a job nearly done. We turned a corner, then another, and then whoosh! into the mist and the forests and the hills. Riding through fog is always a strange and exhilarating experience - the movement into the unknown, the way the opaque curtain closes behind you, the sense of being held in a bubble, the way it emphasises that, as you ride, there is only you and the now and the road.
And what a road! A sheer joy of tarmac: with the exception of our voices and the odd car, we moved on in near silence, a ghost peleton, a glimmer of brief rushing colours passing through the fog. As we came out of Compiegne, I also saw, for the first time ever, a red squirrel. Sadly, little Squirrel Nutkin had not heeded his own road safety advice.
It was splattered across the road.
'You Ok?'
'No!', she smiled, nearly crying at the same time. She'd done something to one of her legs, and was obviously in quite a lot of pain. We stopped for a breather, and she hobbled off her bike, nearly collapsing. Kris, Glen's trainer, had a look at her leg, and tried giving it a massage. It had already started swelling.
'I felt it go as I came up the hill', she gasped.'I just started off too cold'.
While Kris looked after her, I tried helping out Ross and his back tyre, which had suddenly gone flat. He tried reinflating it with his pump, but it was a screw-in type, and kept on taking the valve out. We tried with three different pumps, with mine eventually getting a bit of air successfully into it. Someone else had also developed a flat. It seemed as if, on the final day, whatever could go wrong, would go wrong. The support vehicle turned up, and Marco got to work with inner tubes and pumps. Suddenly, from out of the mist, there was a tremendous roar, the sound of what I thought was a jet fighter flying low and very, very near.
'Jesus! That plane's close!'
'It's not a plane', replied someone, 'that's the Eurostar - the line's just down in that valley'.
Never heard a train sound like that. I felt my legs were getting cold, so rather than run the risk of them cramping up, I decided to ride on to the water stop, which was only a couple of kilometres ahead, and located in what should have been on the stereotypes bingo list - a lovely, honey-coloured chateau:
across the road, over the field, electricty pylons poked their heads through the mist, and down a misty lane with sunlight lancing, a man on an old-fashioned bicycle went by.
He wasn't playing an accordion though.
the road on which we stopped was Rue Jean-Paul Satre, which almost counts for the sneering existentialist philosopher in a black roll-neck sweater listening to jazz stereotype.
The rest of my pack came in a few minutes after me, and once they'd had their fill, and Sabrina had been checked over again, the nurse asked her if she'd be ok.
'I've come this bloody far, I'm finishing this!' Good for her.
We carried on into a brighter day, and as we headed towards Paris, we came on older roads, and an older type of road surface: cobbles, or CCCCCOOOOOOBBBBBBLLLLLEEEESSS AAAAAGGGHHH, as all the people on road bikes called them. My cunning plan to use a heavy mountain bike was finally coming to fruition, I kidded myself. It was only in the villages we passed that we encountered this - in between, there was still the baby-smooth EU-subsidised, Tour de France-attracting tarmac. We glided down one hill, across a plain and towards another ridge, on which a ruined turret jutted from the tree tops, looking in sunlight like a ragged face staring towards us. Another uphill, a sudden bout of cobbles, the sound of Sabrina going 'Oooowww!' as she went over them, a brief stop at the top, and then we were in the Oise Valley - the Oise, which debouches into the Seine. We were almost on the final leg.
We rode through a village with more traffic than we had been used to, and there on a corner was -
man with baguette under his arm exiting a boulangerie!
we cheered, much to the bemusement of people watching us go by.
Lunch. At ten o'clock. Did we care? Hell no - there was apple pie, more pasta of various hues, a final melange of options from the previous few days, and 80's music: What more could you ask for from a saturday in France with the sun rising? The nurse gave Sabrina an injection to help with her swollen leg, and within half and hour she was feeling a lot better - well, she could actually walk, for one thing. Lorraine, who had taken the tumble the day before, was sore and riding slow, but still in one piece. In fact, everyone was bubbly and ready for the very last section.
We thanked the field catering team (Extreme Catering, for those who want to know), and got into the saddle.
And promptly got almost lost. Well, actually, we were in the right direction, but Dave suddenly said,
'Hang on, this must be wrong - we're doubling back on ourselves'.
We looked at our maps, tried to work out what was going on, then went back down the hill, went down a side road, saw that was wrong, saw another group of riders, then decided to follow them. And that was the last example of signage anxiety of the trip. Carrying on up a hill, I ended up ahead of the others, and decided to stop and put on some sun cream - by now, it was seriously hot. The rest of the group came up the hill, and on we went - down one road, through another surrounded by older houses, down a hill, up the other side and then, a couple of kilometres later -
Pylon after pylon, marching across the countryside, all aimed in the same direction. Planes coming in to land, or lifting up into the sky from some as yet unseen airstrip. Glints of glass, roads to the left, to our right, ahead, all with a single destination - the towers and buildings on the horizon, so close -
'PARIS!'
we whooped and cheered, and seemed to get more life into our legs. We were almost there, it seemed. Team Rouge (me, Kev, Sabrina, Dave, Glen, and Ross ) ploughed on. And on.
In fact, there were quite a few more miles to cover. The Banlieus of Paris approached. We went down one downhill, and in front of us were the skyscrapers of the financial district and suddenly, between two buildings, gone in a flash, the Eiffel Tower. Not everyone got downhill in one piece. We passed Dulcie, being helped by the support vehicle, who'd come off in a pothole, bashing her knee.
On went the banlieus, and the traffic became heavier while the roads became narrower. It was time to switch to city-style cycling, slower and more defensive, and after the freedom and speed of the last few days, immensely frustrating. Paris exuded heat: It clung to us, a clammy shirt of humidity, and left us sapped and increasingly thirsty. The traffic meant that it became difficult to overtake or move ahead easily. At one stage, we were forced to crawl behind a guy driving a mobility shopper down the road, who I suspected was thoroughly enjoying reducing our speed. Finally, the Seine appeared, and we moved along its banks, frustrated by the traffic lights - but where was our stop? We still had kilometres of avoiding pedestrians, cars, and parked vans that abruptly pulled out, earning at least two a thump on the side from me.
'Where the bloody hell are we bloody stopping?' I yelled, annoyed.
'There!' said another guy just in front of me, pointing at Marco, who was waving frantically in the middle of the road. At last, the park!
'Well done guys, you're here! Get in the park and have an ice cream.'
I didn't even mind spending three quid on a Cornetto.
So, we all got drinks and ice creams and changed into our MacMillan Tshirts, and suddenly no-one really knew what to say. It's always the same when you reach a target or achieve something: there's a moment of anti-climax, of doubt, of 'well, what next?' We stood or sat, relaxing, and actually there wasn't a need to say a thing. We had ridden three hundred miles in four days, and you don't do that too often.
But we hadn't quite finished yet. There was still the small matter of another ride in formation to do, and do THIS:
Holy Shit! We rode round the Arc de Triomphe and down the Champs Elysee! It doesn't get much better than that.
Well, actually, it did.
We headed towards the Eiffel Tower, the support vehicle ahead of us, holding us together as a pack. As we approached the Champs du Mars, it slowed right down at some traffic lights, then suddenly roared off as they turned red. We had to wait, and it dawned on us that we had to do a sprint finish. We lined up, poised on the pedals, waiting for the lights to change. One of the Discover Adventure team was ahead of us, waving a flag and beckoning, and the the lights changed, and BOOM! we cranked it as hard as we could, and there ahead of us was a roundabout and friends and relatives all screaming and cheering and waving flags, and Marco was shouting 'keep going round, keep going round!', so we did, everyone whooping and laughing.
Fortunately, there were several little blokes running round with buckets of beer, and by God, they tasted good. The beer that is, not the little blokes. All that was left was the photos and greeting families - and for Laura to fall over on her bike because she couldn't get her cleats out in time. It was time for a last pedal - down to our hotel, The Pullman Rive Gauche, which was definitely a notch better than the other hotels we'd stayed in. I went to get my key and find out who my roommate was for that night - turned out it was Ross once again, but:
'My girlfriend's got a room. No offense, but I think I'd rather spend the night with her', he said, grinning.
Bonus!
I had a couple of glasses of champagne that had been laid on, and checked on my bike, which was in the stack that were being loaded onto a lorry for transportation back to St. Pancras.
'You did well on that', said one of the Discover Adventure guys. ' When I first saw it, I thought, nah, he'll never make it.'
'It's not that big a monster!'
'That is a Claud Butler. I reckon that's one of the heaviest bikes ever to complete this challenge. However, I've seen someone try to do this on a shopper bike.'
Feeling terribly chuffed with myself, I went up to my room on the fifteenth floor, one I could enjoy in glorious solitude, with views across Paris and the Parc des Princes. I poured myself a beer and treated myself to a long, hot, shower, a great big grin spread over my face.
And that's where it ends, nearly. The victory dinner was socially pleasant, but the food was, beyond doubt, a disaster. If I thought the grub at Arras was bad, it hadn't come remotely close to what awaited me here. It was :
THEY SERVED ME CAT FOOD.
Well, it was some kind of potted lamb meat, served on a bed of couscous. It's really hard to bugger up couscous, but by God they'd done it. And the lamb - it really did taste as bad as it looks in the photo. However, it was more than made up for by the party in the bar across the road, which went on to past three in the morning, survived a sudden torrential thunderstorm, and saw at least one broken table.
All that was left was a couple of hours walking round a sunday Paris. I ended up in the Tuileries with Kev, admiring the gardens and statues, then headed back by metro to the hotel. And finally, coming up the exit tunnel, there he was:
An accordion player.
Accompanied by a tuba player.
Playing a rendition of The Birdie Song!
What an adventure. What a great five days.
To everyone who made this possible, thank you. To everyone who participated, you're all brilliant. To Sabrina, Kev, Glen, Dave, Ross, and Kris, thank you for making the whole thing so enjoyable.
And would I do this again?
ALLONS-Y!
'ALLONS-Y!'
We pedalled onto the road again, the whole pack of us. The atmosphere was one of excitement and anticipation, of knowledge of a job nearly done. We turned a corner, then another, and then whoosh! into the mist and the forests and the hills. Riding through fog is always a strange and exhilarating experience - the movement into the unknown, the way the opaque curtain closes behind you, the sense of being held in a bubble, the way it emphasises that, as you ride, there is only you and the now and the road.
And what a road! A sheer joy of tarmac: with the exception of our voices and the odd car, we moved on in near silence, a ghost peleton, a glimmer of brief rushing colours passing through the fog. As we came out of Compiegne, I also saw, for the first time ever, a red squirrel. Sadly, little Squirrel Nutkin had not heeded his own road safety advice.
It was splattered across the road.
ENGLISH ROADKILL vs FRENCH ROADKILLThe roads were fairly hilly, but by and large not excessively so. Well, that's how it seemed at first. We went into dips, then rose again, occasionally climbing up out of the fog into a brief view of a small island above a sea of white, before dipping again. But then, we hit a hill. A big bugger. It went on and on, and then on a bit more. And then a bit extra. Finally, we got to the top. The road was clear of mist, although it still lay in the fields to either side. The sky was suddenly properly visible, the kind of blue that turns gradually paler as the day passes. Turning on to a side road, we waited for others to catch up. A couple of minutes passed. Ross appeared, struggling with a very spongy tyre. Following him was Sabrina, clearly having problems.
There can be little doubt that roadkill in the United Kingdom exhibits a far greater range of wildlife than it does in the French Republic. Upon the roads of the Green and Pleasant Land, one may observe Hedgehogs, frogs, toads, rabbits, pigeons, squirrels, pheasants, peasants, grouse, ptarmigans (in the north), quail, sheep, muntjac and other varieties of deer, even the odd wallaby. France, however, displays a far greater amount of roadkill. rare is it to go 200 metres along a main road without encountering a flattened rat, or exploded mouse. If one wishes to enjoy sheer roadkill headcount, then France is the country for you.
'You Ok?'
'No!', she smiled, nearly crying at the same time. She'd done something to one of her legs, and was obviously in quite a lot of pain. We stopped for a breather, and she hobbled off her bike, nearly collapsing. Kris, Glen's trainer, had a look at her leg, and tried giving it a massage. It had already started swelling.
'I felt it go as I came up the hill', she gasped.'I just started off too cold'.
While Kris looked after her, I tried helping out Ross and his back tyre, which had suddenly gone flat. He tried reinflating it with his pump, but it was a screw-in type, and kept on taking the valve out. We tried with three different pumps, with mine eventually getting a bit of air successfully into it. Someone else had also developed a flat. It seemed as if, on the final day, whatever could go wrong, would go wrong. The support vehicle turned up, and Marco got to work with inner tubes and pumps. Suddenly, from out of the mist, there was a tremendous roar, the sound of what I thought was a jet fighter flying low and very, very near.
'Jesus! That plane's close!'
'It's not a plane', replied someone, 'that's the Eurostar - the line's just down in that valley'.
Never heard a train sound like that. I felt my legs were getting cold, so rather than run the risk of them cramping up, I decided to ride on to the water stop, which was only a couple of kilometres ahead, and located in what should have been on the stereotypes bingo list - a lovely, honey-coloured chateau:
 |
| what - no bananas? |
He wasn't playing an accordion though.
 |
| honest, that's a bloke on a bike without an accordion. |
The rest of my pack came in a few minutes after me, and once they'd had their fill, and Sabrina had been checked over again, the nurse asked her if she'd be ok.
'I've come this bloody far, I'm finishing this!' Good for her.
We carried on into a brighter day, and as we headed towards Paris, we came on older roads, and an older type of road surface: cobbles, or CCCCCOOOOOOBBBBBBLLLLLEEEESSS AAAAAGGGHHH, as all the people on road bikes called them. My cunning plan to use a heavy mountain bike was finally coming to fruition, I kidded myself. It was only in the villages we passed that we encountered this - in between, there was still the baby-smooth EU-subsidised, Tour de France-attracting tarmac. We glided down one hill, across a plain and towards another ridge, on which a ruined turret jutted from the tree tops, looking in sunlight like a ragged face staring towards us. Another uphill, a sudden bout of cobbles, the sound of Sabrina going 'Oooowww!' as she went over them, a brief stop at the top, and then we were in the Oise Valley - the Oise, which debouches into the Seine. We were almost on the final leg.
We rode through a village with more traffic than we had been used to, and there on a corner was -
man with baguette under his arm exiting a boulangerie!
we cheered, much to the bemusement of people watching us go by.
Lunch. At ten o'clock. Did we care? Hell no - there was apple pie, more pasta of various hues, a final melange of options from the previous few days, and 80's music: What more could you ask for from a saturday in France with the sun rising? The nurse gave Sabrina an injection to help with her swollen leg, and within half and hour she was feeling a lot better - well, she could actually walk, for one thing. Lorraine, who had taken the tumble the day before, was sore and riding slow, but still in one piece. In fact, everyone was bubbly and ready for the very last section.
 |
| would you like some pie with your cream, Ross? |
And promptly got almost lost. Well, actually, we were in the right direction, but Dave suddenly said,
'Hang on, this must be wrong - we're doubling back on ourselves'.
We looked at our maps, tried to work out what was going on, then went back down the hill, went down a side road, saw that was wrong, saw another group of riders, then decided to follow them. And that was the last example of signage anxiety of the trip. Carrying on up a hill, I ended up ahead of the others, and decided to stop and put on some sun cream - by now, it was seriously hot. The rest of the group came up the hill, and on we went - down one road, through another surrounded by older houses, down a hill, up the other side and then, a couple of kilometres later -
Pylon after pylon, marching across the countryside, all aimed in the same direction. Planes coming in to land, or lifting up into the sky from some as yet unseen airstrip. Glints of glass, roads to the left, to our right, ahead, all with a single destination - the towers and buildings on the horizon, so close -
'PARIS!'
we whooped and cheered, and seemed to get more life into our legs. We were almost there, it seemed. Team Rouge (me, Kev, Sabrina, Dave, Glen, and Ross ) ploughed on. And on.
In fact, there were quite a few more miles to cover. The Banlieus of Paris approached. We went down one downhill, and in front of us were the skyscrapers of the financial district and suddenly, between two buildings, gone in a flash, the Eiffel Tower. Not everyone got downhill in one piece. We passed Dulcie, being helped by the support vehicle, who'd come off in a pothole, bashing her knee.
On went the banlieus, and the traffic became heavier while the roads became narrower. It was time to switch to city-style cycling, slower and more defensive, and after the freedom and speed of the last few days, immensely frustrating. Paris exuded heat: It clung to us, a clammy shirt of humidity, and left us sapped and increasingly thirsty. The traffic meant that it became difficult to overtake or move ahead easily. At one stage, we were forced to crawl behind a guy driving a mobility shopper down the road, who I suspected was thoroughly enjoying reducing our speed. Finally, the Seine appeared, and we moved along its banks, frustrated by the traffic lights - but where was our stop? We still had kilometres of avoiding pedestrians, cars, and parked vans that abruptly pulled out, earning at least two a thump on the side from me.
'Where the bloody hell are we bloody stopping?' I yelled, annoyed.
'There!' said another guy just in front of me, pointing at Marco, who was waving frantically in the middle of the road. At last, the park!
'Well done guys, you're here! Get in the park and have an ice cream.'
I didn't even mind spending three quid on a Cornetto.
 |
| Paris! And this, unbelievably, is a public toilet. |
 |
| Team Rouge! |
But we hadn't quite finished yet. There was still the small matter of another ride in formation to do, and do THIS:
Holy Shit! We rode round the Arc de Triomphe and down the Champs Elysee! It doesn't get much better than that.
Well, actually, it did.
We headed towards the Eiffel Tower, the support vehicle ahead of us, holding us together as a pack. As we approached the Champs du Mars, it slowed right down at some traffic lights, then suddenly roared off as they turned red. We had to wait, and it dawned on us that we had to do a sprint finish. We lined up, poised on the pedals, waiting for the lights to change. One of the Discover Adventure team was ahead of us, waving a flag and beckoning, and the the lights changed, and BOOM! we cranked it as hard as we could, and there ahead of us was a roundabout and friends and relatives all screaming and cheering and waving flags, and Marco was shouting 'keep going round, keep going round!', so we did, everyone whooping and laughing.
Fortunately, there were several little blokes running round with buckets of beer, and by God, they tasted good. The beer that is, not the little blokes. All that was left was the photos and greeting families - and for Laura to fall over on her bike because she couldn't get her cleats out in time. It was time for a last pedal - down to our hotel, The Pullman Rive Gauche, which was definitely a notch better than the other hotels we'd stayed in. I went to get my key and find out who my roommate was for that night - turned out it was Ross once again, but:
'My girlfriend's got a room. No offense, but I think I'd rather spend the night with her', he said, grinning.
Bonus!
I had a couple of glasses of champagne that had been laid on, and checked on my bike, which was in the stack that were being loaded onto a lorry for transportation back to St. Pancras.
'You did well on that', said one of the Discover Adventure guys. ' When I first saw it, I thought, nah, he'll never make it.'
'It's not that big a monster!'
'That is a Claud Butler. I reckon that's one of the heaviest bikes ever to complete this challenge. However, I've seen someone try to do this on a shopper bike.'
Feeling terribly chuffed with myself, I went up to my room on the fifteenth floor, one I could enjoy in glorious solitude, with views across Paris and the Parc des Princes. I poured myself a beer and treated myself to a long, hot, shower, a great big grin spread over my face.
And that's where it ends, nearly. The victory dinner was socially pleasant, but the food was, beyond doubt, a disaster. If I thought the grub at Arras was bad, it hadn't come remotely close to what awaited me here. It was :
 |
| shame on you Pullman Rive Gauche! Shame |
Well, it was some kind of potted lamb meat, served on a bed of couscous. It's really hard to bugger up couscous, but by God they'd done it. And the lamb - it really did taste as bad as it looks in the photo. However, it was more than made up for by the party in the bar across the road, which went on to past three in the morning, survived a sudden torrential thunderstorm, and saw at least one broken table.
All that was left was a couple of hours walking round a sunday Paris. I ended up in the Tuileries with Kev, admiring the gardens and statues, then headed back by metro to the hotel. And finally, coming up the exit tunnel, there he was:
An accordion player.
Accompanied by a tuba player.
Playing a rendition of The Birdie Song!
What an adventure. What a great five days.
To everyone who made this possible, thank you. To everyone who participated, you're all brilliant. To Sabrina, Kev, Glen, Dave, Ross, and Kris, thank you for making the whole thing so enjoyable.
And would I do this again?
ALLONS-Y!
Friday, September 02, 2011
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:
...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:
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:
'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.
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.
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.
 |
| 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.... |
'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- 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.
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...'
'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.
Monday, August 29, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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:
'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.
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 |
'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! |
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? |
'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...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.
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....
'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.
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