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  • Messing about on the river (and the canals)

    Messing about on the river (and the canals)

    Watching an upside down world pass by on my left, the sky below me, heading to the south west skirmishes of London. The eastern end of a canal I rode along as a kid. A startled heron flaps away low across the water. “No Fishing”. The way temporarily blocked a feeding family of geese. Houseboats and allotments, rusty bikes and inflatable kayaks. Warehouses glimpsed through spiked metal fences and budding trees. Posh suburban houses on the far side as the tow path edges along the ex-council estates, tatty garden fences, concrete walls and blocks of garages. Over the water there’s a garage at the bottom of a garden with a red and green canal boat. Back gardens with waterside patios, tree houses, summer houses and mooring rights. Ducking under humpback bridges and ramping down past lock gates. Canals join at a t-junction butted up against the A3 above. Hefty concrete stanchions and pylons, bright graffiti and empty lager cans, faded and dented. The narrow canal widens into flood plains and ponds, waterways blend. The quiet still of the canal replaced by the rippled running water of the river and the rush of weirs. The buzz of motorboats and riverside hustle grows as the city gets nearer. A cox on a bike noisily relays orders to the boat in the river via a tannoy slung over his shoulders. Kids feeding ducks and families lazing and laughing in the park. The river splits and reconnects, weirs and islands. A haunted house with a private bridge to it’s private driveway. Ice cream vans and rowing clubs. Dodging runners with headphones and dogs off leads. The chatter of riverside pubs and spliffs and tinnies in the shadows. Ring a bell to call the ferry from across the way to carry me to my destination.

  • Winding Back

    Winding Back

    In the last post about Eurovespa I mentioned watching a couple of ’96 Tour stages on the side of the road. I found the negatives from a roll of film I shot at the time in a shoebox and had them scanned.

    Video of Stage 14

    Video of Stage 15

  • Frimley – San Remo

    Frimley – San Remo

    From deep in the archives..

    Found some old scooter stuff in a box under the bed, including a bunch of photos and write up of a trip to Italy in a copy of a scooter club ‘zine. Twenty five years ago and bits still ring true from bikes tours since. Transcription below – how handy is text recognition software on phone cameras!? Verbatim (and a bit sweary, apologies) apart from some tidying up and added notes.

    In a pub with a couple of mates in the summer of 1995 I came up with a plan to save up some dosh, buy a scooter, jack in my job, and then doss round Europe on the scooter. The only problem with this plan was I knew sod all about scooters, having never owned one, or ridden one let alone had a licence (back then you could ride up to 125cc with L plates on a car licence, however you needed a motorcycle licence to ride in Europe). Minor problems. Anyway by October that year I had purchased my very own Vespa T5, which turned out to be a time and money sucking heap of shite. A month after I bought it the rear wheel bearings went. Oh joy, first engine strip (and not the fucking last I might add) and whilst stripping it down I also discovered the fourth gear had been chewed badly whilst the wheel wobbled about on the axle. Getting the wheel bearing out involved a blow torch, a big hammer, and a lot of swearing. Then followed months of grief when stuff broke or fell off on a regular basis, including the exhaust pipe. The final thing being the need to replace the cylinder and barrel the weekend before my ferry ticket was booked for! So the week before I left I had to do 500 miles round the block running in a Polini 152 piston kit. However this did have the benefit that it would now happily sit at 75mph on a motorway (foreign motorways obviously, not condoning speeding. Also the cable would drop out the back of the speedo on a regular basis so often I had to judge speed by the gear I was in and the engine tone).

    Originally I was planning to get to my parents holiday home down near the Dordogne and use it as a base for trundling around, but had since found out about the Eurovespa 50th Anniversary Rally in San Remo in June 1996. Mmm I thought, that sounds like quite a smart rally for a beginner. Whether a 2000 mile round trip to Italy on a ropey Vespa was a good idea is an entirely different question. Miraculously on the Saturday 8th June I semi-sped (taking it easy on the new piston) down the A3 to Portsmouth to catch the overnight ferry . I got off the ferry about 7 the next morning after a cup of tea and a cigarette for breakfast.

    9th June

    Down long straight main roads through Le Mans (including a section of the race circuit) and Tours stopping for the night at Chateauroux. Had a four course meal with wine for less than a tenner after I had the most welcome bath of my life! Slept like a log after having got sod all sleep on the ferry the night before, and having ridden for about 8 hours.

    10th June

    After brekkie the next morning I set off for my parents gaff. The scenery on this part of the journey was far better than the day before which had been a bit flat. Loads of rolling hills, lush pine forests, rivers and valleys. Around 2pm I arrived in the tiny village of Gagnac-sur-Cere. Bloody hell I had got this far, 460 miles from home in a foreign land on a shit scooter – roughly 459 miles further than most people thought I would get. Could I push my luck and try to get to Italy for Eurovespa?

    11th to 18th June

    Spent the week eating loads of fresh food, drinking exceedingly cheap plonk, and watching Euro ’96. Visited a couple of nearby towns; Argentat, a medieval town on the Dordogne, which is beautiful with some nice cafes down on the quay side. The other town was Rocamadour that has grown up around a monastery built into the side of a cliff. Absolutely stunning as you ride towards it but really touristy when you get there. The rides to both places hard work but fun, because in this area there are a lot of hills and valleys, rivers everywhere. You can’t ride anywhere without winding your way up a hill the size of Dartmoor, and more often more than one. I’d also decided I would have a go at getting to Italy making the scoot promise to get me home if I took it back to it’s homeland for a visit.

    (I seem to have written this with the scooter club in mind who wouldn’t have been concerned with the intricacies of French village life. I also played petanque with the neighbours on the street outside the house. Now tarmaced that street used to be gravel. Auguste, the old fella who lived opposite and used to ride his ancient bike to his field every morning to tend his veg, and his wife Simone used to leave me fresh lettuces and veg on the doorstep in the mornings. Very drinkable red wine in plastic bottles was about 90p in the local supermarket and you got 10p back when you returned the bottle. My French improved no end seeing as no one spoke any English and I only had French TV. Euro ’96 was watched with French commentary. There was the Arte channel, a co-French German channel that showed lots of arts programming and the occasional film in English with subtitles. I remember watching some of Leonard Bernstein’s music lectures from the 1960s on Arte.)

    19th June

    Got up early, packed and pointed the scooter south west. Rode 220 miles to Montpellier through the best scenery I had seen so far, and over some of the biggest hills – probably classed as hills in France, but as far as me and my gearbox were concerned mountains. First sight of the Med and it’s misty and grey. Found a campsite a few miles east of Montpellier which was only 4 quid and had showers. As I was pitching the tent a couple of Welsh hitch-hikers came over and had a chat about scooters because they fancied getting one when they got home.

    20th June

    At 5.30 the next morning I discovered why the site was cheap, there was a train line right behind it and freight trains are not quiet. I couldn’t get back to sleep so went and showered about 6.30. Left about 8.30 and head east for Cannes. I reckoned if I could get that far it only left about 50 miles the next day to San Remo. Pretty flat all day until about 15 miles from Cannes when I hit the Maritime-Alpes. Right, these were deffo mountains, hairpin bends and 2nd gear all the way. The theme to The Italian Job played in my head and I prayed the brakes worked on the descents. Cannes didn’t look all that and I couldn’t find a campsite (I didn’t exactly look hard) so I kept going. Through Nice, also looking fairly dump like from the main roads, so on to Monte Carlo, most definitely not a dump! Parked the Vespa next to a Ferrari outside a Spar and bought food for dinner. Ended up on a campsite about 2 miles from the Italian border. An English couple spot the number plate and ask where I’ve ridden from. The showers were freezing when your warm water token ran out.

    21st June

    Woke up to a thunder storm. Oh marvellous. Rained for a couple of hours and then the sun made an effort to come out. Hurrah! Packed up my damp tent and got to the border within 5 minutes and then it was cliff top roads and tunnels to Ventimiglia and the first taste of Italian town driving. Lunatics the lot of them! Not one sane driver amongst them. Hundreds of scooters though and not just battered P range and PX’s, but pristine GSs, Sprints, Rally 200s, V90s, all sorts. Arrived in San Remo by 11am. As I hadn’t been sure if I was going to make it to Italy I hadn’t actually booked into Eurovespa and had absolutely no info (remember these were the days before Googling things on phones). Time for the fun to begin! First find the campsite. This wasn’t too hard, after I had been passed by the umpteenth Vespa I guessed it was in the opposite direction, quick U-turn and followed the blue cloud of two-stroke.

    Got myself pitched and unpacked. There were quite a lot of German and Austrian riders already but they seemed to have created their own enclave up the other end of the site. I decided to go for a wander and bumped into Les and Dallas, Peter and Jan (from my club, Farnborough Vepsa Club. I knew before I left the UK that they would be on the main campsite so it was just a case of locating them once I got there) just around the corner, which was quite handy as I then discovered everything was going on the other side of San Remo, which I was obviously unaware of as I had no official info. After midday shitloads more scooters arrived, more Germans and Austrians, as well as Vespas from Denmark, Holland, France, Greece, Portugal, Spain, Switzerland, Italy, from all over, the smell of two stroke everywhere. The campsite was a holiday village with caravans, chalets and bungalows as well as tents, swimming pool and pizzeria, and there were many families on their annual hols. They must have been well chuffed with us lot! Late afternoon I went with the others down to the registration site, but it’s wouldn’t be open until the following day.

    I rode back up through town to get some food. Fucking bedlam, Italian traffic ignoring all lights, pedestrians, rozzers, everything. The only way to survive was to follow the local scoots in and out of traffic and scream up the middle of the road. Seemed skid lids were optional. Later in the evening I met up with the others back at the rally site for a drink with some of the other British here. So far I was the only one who had ridden to Italy. Lightweights the lot of ’em.

    EUROVESPA 22-23 JUNE

    Saturday, the official start, and it’s off down town to register first thing. It’s completely booked and I couldn’t get in, which meant I wouldn’t get a goody bag, the lunches or the evening dinner. There was a rumour that one of the Bats (South East London scooter club) had booked but wasn’t coming. I could have his place but I would need to wait until 5 in case he turned up. Oh well, a 9 hour wait to see if I’d ridden all the way for nowt. So I buggered off back up to the campsite for a while. There appeared to be about three times as many scooters as the day before, chrome, flags, banners and smoke everywhere. The holiday makers must be ecstatic, there’s French teenagers racing around on screaming small frames and people jumping over the speed ramps. So much for the “All motorcycles must be pushed around the campsite” rule, oh yeah and the “Keep quiet from 1 till 3, and after 9 in the evening.”

    At 1pm I rode back to the rally site and found the others. Peter has now decided that I will get in regardless (“You’ve bloody ridden here unlike the rest of us”) and we go off to find Norrie Kerr (I’m assuming he was the president of the Vespa Club of Britain or something like that) who told us that the registration people know that two Brits aren’t turning up for definite. So by 2pm I’m officially at Eurovespa ‘96. Time to go Vespa watching and badge swapping. It was getting busier by the minute, there must have been over a thousand Vespas and twice as many people. The only Lambretta was having it’s clutch fixed up at the site! There are riders here from all over the world, I spoke to some from Japan and America. At 5pm it was time for the ride out around San Remo. The town band played us off. A cloud of two-stroke smoke and horns going, locals out on their doorsteps and balconies waving and smiling. Up into the mountains overlooking the town and back down again. It was utter chaos back at the campsite as everyone returned, people and noise all along the front as the cloud of exhaust smoke descended upon San Remo. So far pretty ace for a first rally.

    Time for a shower and get changed for the evening do (packed a Ben Sherman for the occasion). It turned out to be a bit of a let down, we’re hidden away in a corner and our food, the courses that actually turned up, are late and cold. By midnight we’d had enough and head back to the campsite. Riding back through town (sans helmet and probably having had one too many glasses of wine. It’s not big and it’s not clever) we pass a fire engine and police outside one of the parks that overlooks the Med. At the entrance to the park the steps that led to a fountain were covered in foamy water. We thought there must have been a fire or something. It turned out to be something: Someone had filled the fountain with washing powder! I could only assume that the person in question may have owned a Vespa…

    Sunday morning I packed ready for the ride back into France because I had to be off my pitch by ten. I paid up and park under Peter’s treehouse bungalow. There was another ride out, this time along the coast to a sports field where lunch is handed out and everyone mills around eyeing up shiny vintage scooters. There was supposed to be a further ride to a church (looking at the event brochure it seems this was at the top of the Poggio) but people started to disperse after lunch so I said my goodbyes and headed back towards France. The weather was really good and little traffic once past Nice and Cannes, I was in Aix-en-Provence by six and found a cheap hotel. Yet another welcome bath followed by a four course meal with wine.

    24th June

    After breakfast I replaced the speedo cable which snapped about 30 miles from Aix the day before and set off. (Like cycle touring I carried a bunch of spare cables and basic tools. Unlike cycle touring I also had a plastic petrol can bungied to the running boards. It was used more than once. French petrol stations can be quite spaced out, further than the range of a Vespa petrol tank, or rather I kept pushing my luck and much like the speedo the fuel gauge was open to interpretation). It was 310 miles back to the house and I was knackered by the time I got there. The wind in the morning was ridiculous. I had to steer towards the verge to keep in a straight line and I got blown all over the place by the mistral. Getting overtaken by lorries was not much fun. Then followed a 60 mile stretch through the Cervenne hills in the afternoon which were stunning. Thirty miles up and then thrashing the engine thirty miles down the other side to make up the time I lost stopping to take photos on the way up. Eventually got back at seven and fell asleep never wanting to sit on a scooter again.

    27th June – 4th August

    Drunk plonk and lazed about until I ran out of money basically. Managed to have my first crash a few days after getting back from Italy. Bloody stupid, rode 1500 miles no problem and then stack it on the way home from the shops. Learnt my lesson, don’t ride too fast on narrow country roads or you end up doing a bit of impromptu grass tracking on your arse across fields, and it hurts. (What actually happened was I decided to ride back from a garage a few miles away – I was running out of two-stroke oil – the scenic route, and got chased by a couple of farm dogs. So I opened the throttle and then realised there was a tight corner ahead and gravel all over the track and thought “It’s OK I can run off into that field” not realising that the field was a few feet lower than the road… and there was an electric fence. Never trusted a farm dog since.) Had to phone Dad to ask him to order a replacement brake lever from Blackpool. Scoot didn’t look too hot and the front end didn’t handle properly but it was rideable. As long as it got me home… (flogged it to a mate for spares when I got home and bought a 1969 Vespa 90) Next time I do something like this I might be organised enough to get breakdown and health insurance.

    (Again, written with scooter club in mind. Absolutely no mention of the Tour de France which I not only watched on telly but two stages on the side of the road. One day there as a cat 4 climb near Carrenac up the road on the banks of the Dordogne river. I rode out with a picnic and plonked myself on the raised edge of field looking over the road. There was a semi-coherent conversation with a large family group when they arrived a little later and it transpired that I was trespassing on their field but they let me stay. They had a barbecue and wine, the works and were still going strong when everyone else drifted off after the race passed. There are a load of photographs somewhere I hope, or the negatives at least. I’ve cycled up that hill many times since. It’s also a lovely sweeping descent. The next day the stage finished in Tulle, about 25 miles up the road in the other direction. I found myself some space on the barriers on the outskirts of town about 5km from the finish to watch a blur of riders fly past. Actually I’ve just wikipedia’d that and the stages were the other way around.)

    5th August

    Down to my last 60 quid and time to head back to Blighty. I packed up what appeared to be twice as much as I left home with. Got as far as Tours by 4pm and gave up for the day, ridden about 240 miles and I couldn’t feel my legs or butt. Scoot seemed to be holding up, forks hadn’t dropped out or anything. Booked into cheap motel and bought dinner from the local supermarket – I didn’t have enough cash for hotels and four course meals on the return leg. Watched the weather on the telly to find it’s going to piss down the next day. Great.

    6th August

    Woke up and it’s overcast. Its only 170 miles to the port and my ferry isn’t until later tonight. Either I needed to ride very slowly or hang around for ages in Caen. I remembered there was an afternoon ferry at 4-ish so if I could get there by 3 I might be able change my ticket. Leave the hotel at 10 and head north. Get caught in a huge downpour just north of Le Mans. Can’t see anything, down to about 30, and risking my life with very large lorries. No fun but the sun eventually comes back and I arrive in time to change my ticket. All’s well that ends well. Back in Portsmouth and off the ferry by 10. Home by 11. The end.

    photo taken by mum the day I left Gagnac. It was the school holidays by the time I left so my parents had arrived the last week I was in France.

  • Winding On

    Winding On

    An old point and shoot, one roll of film. A week off work. Aeroplane mode, wider world switched off. Perhaps an audiobook in one ear. The sun stays close to the wide crisp horizon, bright light skims the surface of the sea followed by my eyes. Low waves lazily sparkle and ripple towards the shingle. I recall swims between spring and autumn but it’ll be a while before I dare again. We’ve passed midwinter with days easing out again, tilting back towards the sun and warmth but not just yet, overnight the wind flipped from over the sea to across the hills. A stern breeze brings an abrupt decrease in temperature. I’m dressed for autumn but winter has finally arrived and drills into my bones. I turn for home early, not an auspicious start. Warm up and pop out for a sundowner with a G&T in a bidon. Following signposts and memory. I know these ways like the back of my hand, chunks of old commutes, undulating crisscrossing lanes, the meandering long ways home from previous office days. Autopilot allows mind and eyes to wander, things glimpsed, caught out of the corner of an eye. The lack of greenery offers a change of view, a different focus, field of vision stretched. Supine shadows slump across hillsides. Horse riders in hi-viz, stripey scarves and fake fur trimmed Christmas hats, bobbles hanging and swaying along with horses tails. The shuttered concrete of that fancy house on St. Helena’s bend. Forgot how much I like this road. Ways memorised in pedal strokes and wheel revolutions, every incline and dip, where the potholes hide under the flooding, which lines to take through grit scattered bends. Pull my buff up around my ears. Setting off north and west to make the best of tailwinds later on. Sheltering on the lee side of the downs, hugging the coast home. Tacking into winds along the edge of land. Following rivers to use gaps in the hills to save legs for later in the week. A canyon of billboards and logos, cold bright light sliding in at an angle, high pitched picture postcard colours, all the levels pushed. Waves break, the splash and spray taken by the wind. The next day someone has fiddled with saturation settings, the vibrant colour of yesterday stripped back to greys and browns. A heavy leaden sky pushes horizons flat, the sun smothered. Flanders in tone. Mud and gravel and twigs and leaf mulch and water fill the lanes. A glass and concrete cuboid stands out ahead, a modernist lump plonked in a farmyard, the white angles gleam against the surrounding winter drab. Not seen that before but not been this way for quite a while and summer foliage normally blocks this view. The focus is pulled, the blur of drizzle sharpens into raindrops at the furthest point from home. Santa climbs a cottage chimney. Powerlines swing across the broad empty land, framing hills and spires, close cropping views. The languid palette of winter colour flattens the scene further. Bleak cold damp penetrates. Remember that coffee hut on the beach was open yesterday when I passed so swing by for coffee and sfogliatelle, one lemon, one hazlenut. Hide from the wind and neck the coffee and tuck the pastries in my musette. A coastal wander. Kilometres for the sake of kilometres whilst the sun shines. Forgot I changed the focus the camera yesterday. Dark city streets and lit underpasses. Thinking up a route around weather, floods and wind, maps unfold in my imagination, the edges defined by the county borders. Seeking out the rarely ridden ways, less frequented lanes. Delving into memory, thinking which ways are likely filthy and almost impassable in winter. Switching to the alternatives, the back ups and making use of bigger roads out of favour most of the year but quiet now. A hushed service station, a squeeze of hand sanitizer. Double espresso with two sugars and a tepid pasty in a deserted smokers area. Fifty pence bags of manure. Duck eggs and honesty boxes. Swollen streams run ochre with earth. Burst banks, waterways and tarmac become one, puddles stretch across lanes. Mud and gravel washed into the bends, feather the brakes, ease into the corners. Flooded fields, sky mirrors. A tree stands naked, silhouetted against the sky, twice. A dragon with rainbow wings. Reindeer and nativity scenes on the roadside. Queues at tips, backseats full on boxes and wrapping paper. A fridge dumped by a gate, an unwanted gift from fly-tipper to farmer. A kite glides ever decreasing circles before dropping to the ground. Rises again with empty talons, better luck next time. Beech and bracken, concentrated orange amongst dull greens and browns. The last leaves cling to branches, hanging precariously, it’s just a matter of time. A ray of light slips between a gap in the clouds. Sunlight flickers, splinters between boughs. The first shadows of the day pass beneath my wheels. Vacant fields, mud and stubble and scruffy grass, no crops nor livestock. Sitting on a bench between bin and phonebox absorbing as much heat as possible from the feeble sun, warming my hands around a cup of coffee. The final stretch, estuaries and suburbs, cycle lanes and traffic lights, level crossings and traffic, roundabout and junction and roundabout and junction… The payoff for the flat way home is faff. Caught at the lock gates, again. Low tide and dog walkers and a pod of surfers. The first ton for a while. Another day and another almost commute, I’ve ridden past the office more times in the last few days than the last nine months. The flatlands between chalk and clay lumps. Straight angular lanes, field divisions, drove roads. Hedge tops warmed by the sun, riding on the wrong side of the road to avoid the chilly lilac-blue shadows. Vending machine hot chocolate and a reduced vegan sausage roll, the last of the warm food star struck under the bright lights. Standing against a brick wall in the warmth of the diluted sun. Going back into the petrol station for another blast of heat from the vent above the door. Twenty odd kilometres to go. Shudder as I remember these lanes were the stupidly-left-it-to-the-last-day-again finishing circuit of a previous Festive 500. It was vile that day. A brutal wind whipped across the fields and rain lashed sideways but thankfully not now and I finish with a day to spare for a change. One last spin to drop the film at the lab.

  • North London Dirt III

    North London Dirt III

    The woodland, bridleways and quiet lanes beyond the confines of the M25 are not the reason I set an alarm and drag myself from bed on a dark wet morning to get an early train to London. Not meaning to be churlish as it’s always nice to discover new places and I’m glad the lovely chaps from The Ride Journal find this stuff for us to ride but I live with the South Downs on my doorstep, I don’t need to bother with cancelled and delayed trains to ride this stuff. What I come for are the hidden bits of London and it’s outer reaches, the sprawl and scruff. That’s what I like. The hinterlands and in-between places. To be reminded of how we rode as youngsters, riding a dropbar bike over whatever happens to be in front of us, hopping curbs, darting down alleyways, cutting corners across the grass in the park. Finding our own ways, the secret places. The alternative routes from A to B. The paths and cut-throughs that echo and shadow the liminal spaces of railway lines and dual carriageways, the edges of non-spaces, transitional places. The blanks on most people’s maps. Forgotten places or maybe never known to many but not abandoned, we’re here and the existence of these paths mean others come this way, the runners, the dog walkers and the cyclists seek them out… and the fly-tippers and others up to no good. Some of these paths may even predate the city itself. Dotted lines on maps cross stitched into the fabric of the city. Paths over and under roads and railways, bridges and flooded underpasses. A man in wellies carrying his kids and bikes under a low railway bridge. I duck and splash, no hope that my socks will dry out before I get home. Beer cans and barbecues on tow paths, ghosts of evenings past. All consuming puddles, hoping there’s nothing hiding beneath the reflected sky. No idea where I am. The overgrown places behind the houses and over the river from factories, ducks and herons, rabbits and kites, a cat prowling far from home. The straight lines of the city disrupted and disguised but ever apparent, pylon lines fizzing overhead, tower blocks and cranes poke above the treeline like angular artificial mountain ranges. Both sides of the track, and the canal, and the river. Two young fallow stags within sight of a housing estate. Smashed padlocks and forced gates. A fridge in a hedge, a sink in a ditch. Sneaking between back gardens and wasteland. The damp saturates the green against a grey sky pushing down hard. Gravel pits and rivers, cobbles and lock gates. A memory of Belgium flickers in the back of my mind. Rivers running high and fast, banks on the verge of bursting, boundaries blurred, thresholds compromised. The squelch and the slop, vague steering. Wondering why we’re going over that way just to get to over there then realising there an interesting church hiding next to that alley, that the way through the park is quieter, the cheeky steep street chucked in near the end. It’s a ride made from shortcuts but joined together in such a way none of it is a shortcut. Turning right to end over to the left. Crossing rivers just to cross back again and then again. Marshes and reservoirs, football pitches and go-kart tracks. Dashing past ‘Private Road’ signs and CCTV cameras put there to discourage you from a right of way. Straying towards trespassing but always staying the right side of the fence. Out of sight places populated with dented vans and bonfires billowing smoke, the stench of burning plastic, semi-derelict barns that are either storing stolen cars or dead bodies. Isolation and the uncanny. Potholes and speedbumps. The places where the Underground isn’t. Neighbourhood Watch signs and local parks. Shimmying through staggered railings and gates, juddering over roots pushing through concrete, second guessing where that football might end up and still having to swerve. The suburban equivalent to singletrack. Skids and bunnyhops. Happy tired legs. Catching red lights and wondering if I’m getting any better at track stands. Nope but I’ll keep trying. Maybe next year I won’t need to put a foot down.

  • Heading West

    Heading West

    I started by boarding a ferry but not the ferry I was meant to be on yesterday afternoon. In this year of kiboshed plans I was supposed to be riding down France to visit my parents now, but quarantine rules and COVID numbers ramping up again in France put paid to that. The original original plan was to ride the pilgrim trail from Canterbury to Rome this month but that went out the window too. Back at Easter I had wanted to ride down to Cornwall but lockdown scuppered those plans, so I’ve returned to them now but rather than audaxing it all I’m having a holiday, riding between B&Bs and visiting family.

    The first cycle tour I ever did was from Frimley in Surrey to Cornwall when I was seventeen with a mate from school. He raced for Woking CC and riding his Raleigh Scirocco, later to become mine when he upgraded to a fancy Peugeot when he moved to (the recently formed) VC Meudon based in Farnborough. The club had a deal with the French manufacturer or a bike shop in Meudon, outside Paris, which was Farnborough’s twin. Hence the oh so continental name of the club, differentiating it from Farnborough & Camberley CC, more of a CTC club with less of VC Meudon’s racing aspirations. I was on a mid-80s Peugeot PH8 (pale grey, turquoise and blue decals). We stuck racks on our bikes and that made them touring bikes for a week or so. We both had racing gears but our knees were young and we coped. Well, I may have walked up one hill on Exmoor. The first day we rode from Surrey as far as Dorset, the memory as faded as the photographs I can’t find inevitably are but I think it was the youth hostel at Bridport. Either way it was around a 200km day so even though I only started officially audaxing a few years ago it seems I did my first audax distance as a teenager. Back then you got a hostel stamp in a YHA “brevet card” too. Second day was Bridport to youth hostel on Dartmoor, and I remember absolutely bonking my tits off on the climb out of Exeter and sitting on the side of the A30 munching the emergency Marathon (Snickers) from my back pocket.

    To avoid roads I’ve ridden a lot in the past and the dull suburbia of the south coast I jumped onto a train this morning to Southampton where I caught the foot passenger ferry across the Hamble to the edge of the New Forest, where the skies are big and there’s no hiding from the wind. Over the top of the forest the Isle of Wight appears on my left reminding me it’s an option for the return journey next week. Cattle grid rumble and pony tails swish against bracken on the turn, the year is rotating into autumn. Signalling right I change course northbound and the road narrows and trees arch overhead, branches and leaves create a verdant interwoven ceiling. Climbing slowly until both the landscape and sky open wide again, the wind making its presence felt once more. Back in the trees a fallow deer stutters in the middle of the road, turns and squeezes back through a fence. Horses and cows are less jittery and have to be swerved. Dropping into Wiltshire I trace the Avon to Salisbury, through the city, past players casting long shadows across a cricket green, the sun low in early evening another indication that summer has faded. A city where rivers meet I cross the Wylye north of Salisbury but pick up the Nadder west until I find my pub B&B nestled on the bank of the river. Shower, Tour De France highlights, dinner and a pint.

    …

    Early the next morning I start along the gently rolling Nadder valley, sticking close to the river, the blue squiggle on the GPS given a reality by tree lines twisting and turning across the flood plain. I cross a stone bridge and the road starts to rise, signs indicating Lower, Middle and Higher Coombe hinting that I may be climbing for a while. I hit Shaftesbury an hour or so after setting off, time for breakfast. A sandwich, coffee, and Pastel de Nata on the high street listening to the church service over the way. Hovis hill and some faff getting out of town, a steep drop to a lovely flat section of Dorset under blue skies. An enormous buzzard, the biggest I’ve ever seen, swoops across a field ahead. A minute or two later I pass an aerodrome for model aeroplane enthusiasts. A miniature wind sock flutters in the wind and my giant “buzzard” splutters on the landing strip.

    Crossing into Somerset then back again, I play tag with the county lines for miles and miles. A crossroads. “Welcome to Dorset” to my left, “Welcome to Somerset” to my right. I appear to be in No Man’s Land? Adding to this sensation I’m in the shadow of a stone wall for the next few miles. Dorset keeping out Somerset? However judging from the number of Wessex this and Wessex that I pass I feel the locals may find the county borders just a bit too modern.

    The skies darken as the hills really start. Blackdown Hills grey with drizzle. Some routing errors and back and forth and around that way and somewhere across into Devon but I’m not sure where. Honiton appears on a signpost. Gateway to the West Country, I’m not sure anyone actually calls it that but I always feel like I’m into Devon proper by here and Cornwall isn’t far away. Before I drop into town I can see the granite lump of Dartmoor. That’s for tomorrow though, today I only need to get to Exeter.

    I’ve plotted a route that first heads north up a hill before a steady drop all the way to Exeter but am aware there’s a flatter option tracing the A30 to the city. After a couple of hours of steep inclines and rain I turn off the GPX file and follow the blue Exeter cycle route signs… most of the way anyway, somewhere near the airport I miss one and find myself on a roundabout above the A30. I retrace my steps looking for the missed sign and make my way into the city via every housing estate, park, dead end street, alleyway, and carpark until I find my hotel. No one bats an eyelid as I wheel my bike into reception and then into the lift. Bath, Tour De France highlights, and a short walk to Wagamama.

    …

    “I saw you looking at the café, if you’re after a hot drink the butcher is the only place on Monday.”

    I’ve been climbing all morning, up through wooded valleys and slowly clambering onto Dartmoor, trees receding, bracken and gorse plastered across the Moor that stretches out before me. I drink half the takeaway cup of instant coffee before tipping the rest down a drain. I’ll find a café later. From a distance the hills have a red tint, as I get closer I realise it’s from the autumn bracken, more exposed here than the New Forest it’s browner and curlier. Following yesterday’s pattern the skies darken as I climb. I can see a long way south, the Devon coast looks like it’s having a sunny day. Behind me I can see yesterday’s hills, definitively blacked from this distance. I zip my jacket up and tuck low in the drops making myself as small as possible for the desolation and wind. I lose height just to gain it again. And again. Heavily laden camouflage clad soldiers march along the edge of the Moor guns slung across their fronts. Above the prison a communicatuons aerial keeps disappearing into cloud but the views to the land below are clear. I’m not sure if it’s Bodmin Moor I can see ahead or the hills I need to traverse in order to get to that next moor. A not so great pasty in Tavistock, I retrieve the spare ketchup sachet from the early Maccy D breakfast from my framebag to add some flavour.

    A steep wooded descent jettisons me across the Tamar into Cornwall. Straight up an equally vicious climb into rain. A fast road covers some distance quickly before I turn into the quiet in-between lanes towards Bodmin Moor. The numbers on my Garmin indicate I’m climbing but there’s a sense of burrowing into the land. Lanes where hedgerow are taller than the road is wide, holloways where even standing on the pedals the base of tree trunks are above my head, roots, moss and earth surround me. I’m venturing into a subterranean realm, swimming through green filtered light, sunlight speckles dancing beneath my wheels, the only sign that the sky is brightening.

    It doesn’t last long, by the time I excavate myself from the underground maze the sky is dark and damp again. Whilst Dartmoor feels barren and open Bodmin moor has a bleak emptyness that induces claustrophobic paranoia. I’ve been here a few times, it feels an odd place, ancient and not for people, dark even when it’s light. Probably best to keep moving. I burrow back into the land, earth and trees closing in. Walls and exposed roots are covered in moss and lichen, the land isn’t giving these things up easily, keeping them in its clasp. Hiding from the wind houses are built in the lee of hills from dark stone and black slate, as if designed to suck the light from the day. Keep pedalling. Another hill. Then another. Dark sharp shadows. Into Bodmin itself to find the river to follow towards the coast where the land will open back out embracing the sea and sky.

  • Spy Deer

    Spy Deer

    “Don’t you need it for Super Randonneur?”
    “Yeah but if we don’t finish it means I don’t have to ruin a perfectly nice holiday to Cornwall by trying to ride all the way home in 24 hours. Or do a 600 in October when the weather is cack. Maccy D in Newbury and a train home? We can get train beers.”
    “Deal!”

    We lost Simon forty odd kilometres back because his knee was playing up. George has had a couple of punctures, we’re an hour or more behind schedule, the sun’s brief appearance has been extinguished, we’re getting cold and it sure isn’t going to get any warmer. Doing some quick sums we realise we are likely to get back pretty late, within the time limit but over schedule. Neither of us are particularly keen to ride for hours in the dark.

    “I can tell you now if we get that far it’s not going to be chatty.”
    “That’s fine, I’ve got headphones.”

    Like the sunlight the thought of riding all the way home has faded rapidly. We’ve ridden 140 kilometres of the planned 300. From here we’ll catch the edge of the Wessex Downs, the black hills we can see rising on the horizon, which like a berm will jetison us down into Hurstbourne Tarrant from where I know the roads back home well. The section to Whitchurch is predominantly downhill apart from the last few k’s but then, depending how the legs feel, the bit to Petersfield is either rolling and pretty or a tedious up down up down grind. We’ll have ridden 230 by the time we get to Petersfield and we’re both thinking there’s a very good chance that’ll be our limit for the day. In fact we are almost certain. Do we ride another eighty kilometres just to get a train anyway, or make the decision now whilst there are plenty of train options.

    We set off a little after sunrise over Devil’s Dyke in wind stronger and colder than that forecast. We’re going to be pushing into this for the first half of the three hundred kilometres. Fortunately there should be enough woodland and hedgerow to shelter us from the worst of it. I’ve cobbled the route together from various chunks of audaxes; Ditchling Devil, Devil’s Punchbowl 100, Dauntsey Dawdle, Hailsham 600, and stuck them together with some of the ride to Lambourn when I volunteered at the London-Wales-London control a couple of years ago. The original plan was to get out to Oxford and back but I couldn’t find a nice way of doing it without going way over distance. However I worked out a route to Greenham Common and back that avoided big roads.

    Ticking along nicely towards Billingshurst I abruptly notice I’m being sprayed by tubeless jizz from George’s rear tyre. Cue much innuendo. The tyre seals before too much air is lost and the first stop is planned when we get to Billingshurst in a couple of kilometres anyway. We’re bang on schedule. Coffees are purchased and a tyre reinflated. A short blast along the A272, pleasantly quiet as it’s still early, gets us to Wisborough Green and gently rolling roads and peaceful lanes with lots of tree cover from the wind.

    Into Surrey and places I know from my youth, the days of 7-Eleven or Z jerseys with with nothing more than a puncture repair kit and 50p in the pocket for a toasted tea cake at a Little Chef. Through the ford at Frensham Small Pond where I fell off one winter and spent the rest of the ride with cold wet tights. The route is now undulating a bit more regularly and I notice Simon is drifting off the back on the hills, even the slopes that barely count, which is unusual. I ease back and he mentions he’s thinking about bailing, his knee is giving him grief. There’s a Coop with a coffee sign on a junction at Wrecclesham. We’re close to where I planned to next stop but here gives Simon easy train options if he’s going to stop. After crap vending machine coffees and deliberations Simon decides to head into Farnham. George and I chat, decide we feel alright, for now at least, and will carry on.

    Over the M3 down from Fleet services, across the A30 near Hartley Wintney. Definitely on more roads I ragged about on a teenager. Over a small humpback bridge I get a flashback of a ride when my mate and I were joined by a squaddie from Aldershot, ‘Home of the British Army’, not far down the road, on a track bike who smashed us at every sprinting for signs opportunity. We cross the Reading Road at Mattingly which looks vaguely familiar, might be the Heckfield 10 time trial course. Somewhere George’s rear tyre finally deflates and needs a tube.

    “Have you got your pump? I left mine at the first stop.”

    A buzzard circles overhead. The sun comes out. A few villages later the tyre is looking quite squishy again. Another change needed.

    “There’s a nice pub just round the corner, I’ve stopped there before.”

    Two pints of coke, two packets of crisps, lots of chat. Our schedule is slipping and neither of us are entirely convinced we’ll get all the way round anyway but we’re having a fun day. Despite being in a busy part of the south-east crisscrossed by A-roads and motorways our route has been on beautifully quiet lanes, we’re enjoying unfamiliar places and the changing landscapes. The only sign of towns being the names on actual signs. It’s been a day of chat and laughter so far. We’ll head for the next scribbled-on-a-bit-of-paper-in-my-wallet stop at Newbury, about thirty kilometres away. We’ll decide what to do there as once past there bail options get trickier.

    A pair of Chinooks hum over, a reminder that the MOD has a strong presence in this part of the home counties. There are two perimeter fences around the MOD base at Aldermaston, one barbed wire and a higher fence topped with swirls of razor wire, a narrow no man’s land between them “…so the dogs can maul you uninterrupted!” There are CCTV cameras at regular intervals and ‘No Stopping’ signs. There’s some secret squirrel stuff going on in there. I’d take a photo but I’m not entirely sure we’re not in the sights of snipers right now. I catch sight of something running alongside us.

    “That’s a roe deer.”
    “Nah, it’s a Spy Deer, the government breed them.”

    Into the village of Aldermaston there are tracks into an estate shut off with barriers and concrete road blocks. It’s all very ‘Defence of the Realm’. I’ve vague recollections of CND marches and Aldermaston on the news in the 80s, and links to Greenham Common. I’ll later check what all the AWE signs mean: Atomic Weapons Establishment. It’s the main nuclear warhead factory and storage facility for the UK. That explains everything

    The last tour of the Greenham Common Control Tower has just finished as we lock our bikes to a fence. There are kids on bikes, people walking dogs, and the Control Tower is now a museum and cafe. A bit different to when this was RAF base operated by the US Air Force and used to house nuclear Cruise missiles, a dark shadow cast by Cold War paranoia in Thatcher’s Britain, something else I remember from news reports of the Women’s Peace Camps when I was a kid. There’s a map that overlays the previous air base on the current open parkland, the once longest runway in Europe is once again common land, but the six shelters that once housed fully operational Cruise missiles are still present over the way. Seeing as they were built to withstand nuclear attack they’ll be here for a long while yet.

    Use the free wifi in MacDonalds to check trains.

    “It’s thirty odd k’s to Reading and we can get the Gatwick train. Looks like a chunk of A4 then some back roads.”
    “The A4!”
    “Loads of audaxers use the A4. It’s not too busy, the M4 runs parallel and everyone in a rush gets that instead.”
    “There’ll still be some dicks though.” (There is)

    Back outside it feels colder. I pull knee warmers from my framebag – knee warmers at three in the afternoon on August Bank Holiday!

    “Wow, look at that!?”
    “Is that a kite?”
    “Looks like it, it’s massive. What’s it doing hunting over a retail park?”
    “Looking for rats.”

    Rattle back across the cattle grids onto Greenham Common and down to the A4, taking turns on the front in a two up time trial. We get to Reading in not much over an hour. The fastest hour of the day. I find a ticket machine and George goes to find some beer. Then we discover the trains are messed up due to signalling problems and sit around waiting. We wait for quite a long while. The already an hour late train is cancelled and next one delayed. It seems no one is really sure where the train actually is or when (if) it will get here. I ask if it’s possible to use our ‘not via London’ tickets on the Paddington service. “No problem, it’s not your fault there are no trains, it’s been chaos today” says the ticket chap as he hands over bike reservations for the fast service to London in ten minutes.

    Before we know it we’re pulling into Paddington. Cans of San Miguel are decanted into bidons. Checking a map on my phone to remind myself of the way to Victoria I remember I’m with an ex-London bike courier. I chase George towards the Edgeware Road, filter into traffic that doesn’t want to be filtered into, shimmy between wing mirrors and cones, lean into Marble Arch, sprint down Park Lane, across Hyde Park Corner, bounce a curb, hack around Belgrave Square, hop another curb and dismount at the side entrance to Victoria, glance at the departure’s screen, fast Gatwick Express service in three minutes, go to the wrong platform, run round to the correct platform. That’s the quickest I’ve got from one train to another across London. We’ll be home by eight p.m., well up on schedule. Plus we’re warm and have beer.

  • It’s Been a While

    It’s Been a While

    My elbows nudge into the hoods and my head hangs over my front wheel. I haven’t ridden in this kind of heat since southern Europe on last year’s Transcontinental. I’m empty and cramping, absolutely ruined. This is the second time Simon and I have had to ride straight to ferry check-in after what should have been a simple 200km DIY audax. Last time was due to weather too, but that time rain and a battering ram of a headwind all the way back from Amiens. In fact the only times I’ve ridden 200km over here and not made it back to Dieppe in time for a late lunch and beer/cidre/wine (delete as applicable) I’ve been with Simon. I’d blame him but it was categorically me that went piff a few hours back. Unfortunately there were no shortcuts available as I watched the kilometres tick down way out of proportion to the minutes ticking by.

    It started well. The ferry was very quiet and passport control was quick, though asked for the first time where I was going. First couple of hours on silent empty roads, bats flitting across our path, and watching night turn to day. First pastry stop as a church bell struck 7am. A hare alert in the middle of a field. Tracking our shadows up hills as the temperature slowly rose. By mid-morning already in the high twenties. Espressos and Orangina with ice. Water towers and cornfields. Humidity and heat crippling (me) by the coast. More cold drinks as a bar closed around us. The up and down and up and down of the coast road back to Dieppe into a stiff headwind. Favourite hairpins and stripey shadows. Sci-fi looking nuclear power station perched on the cliffs. Sitting in the shade opposite a supermarket eating mussels out of a tin with a pen knife as I can’t locate my spork. Back into the heat and hills. Feeling sick every time I drink tepid water. One earphone in, need some tunes. Tell Simon to go ahead, I need to ride alone (and so he doesn’t see me get off and walk up that steep bit). Head down, not in time trial but “this just needs to be over” mode. At least the last few kilometres are downhill.

    I owe Simon a cafe bimble and three course lunch next time we come over. Whenever that is allowed again without having to quarantine.

  • The Straightest Line

    The Straightest Line

    …within a few minutes Cal and I had formed a plan. Route plotting was pretty simple. Stane Street, a Roman road is traced in its entirety on Ordnance Survey maps. It’s pretty much entirely straight so any missing bits can be guessed at. Utilising considerable engineering skills the romans built this road almost 2000 years ago, ostensibly a direct line of communication between London and the military and naval bases at Chichester, or Novimagus Reginorum back then. From the port at Chichester goods were transported back and forth to the capital as well as to and from towns along it’s length, and used by the Cursus Publicus, the postal service of Roman Britain. There is no record of what the Romans called this road, Stane Street was recorded later, derived from an old spelling for stone (from Norse “steinn”).

    …somewhere along the line i’ve managed to delete the rest of the text and I’m unable to find any saved drafts, so here at the pictures all shot on 35mm and 120 B&W film stock by me and Cal

  • Beach Bivi Beach

    Beach Bivi Beach

    8pm Thursday to 8am Friday