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  • De la Med à la Manche – part I

    De la Med à la Manche – part I

    Saturday

    I tap the gear shift button. Nothing. Fucking fuck! I’ve just snagged the di2 cable in the seat clamp rebuilding the bike outside Montpelier airport and now I have no gears. Or rather I have one gear: 48×17 or maybe 19 by the looks of it. That’ll be OK today which is pretty much flat but the next few days are anything but. Fuck. Today I’ll ride west along the Mediterranean and inland to the Pyrenean foothills of Corbieres to stay with friends Gus and Sarah for a couple of nights. I’ll see if I can fix the cable tomorrow and if not work out a bodge. Fortunately I’m not heading into the Pyrenees after them but north, though even factoring out the Pyrenees the bottom half of western France is lumpy and I have three days with significant amounts of climbing. I wheel the bike into the airport and look for a cafe. Sitting with a coffee and a doughnut I try to calm down. You absolute fucking idiot.

    Away from the airport the roads are bigger and busier than I’d like but I couldn’t find any quieter alternatives when plotting the route. I get caught at every set of lights. Liminal spaces and scruffy hinterlands, telegraph poles and pylons. Canals and freight trains, industrial estates and car dealerships. A standard routing error, a broken concrete road that turns to gravel and ends in a field next to the road I want to be on. There’s a deep ditch between me and it so back the way I came, then a no left turn onto the same road so back another way again, round the back of some houses the wrong way down a one way street and I get myself onto the road I need to be on. It’s big and fast and shit.

    I’m really not into this. The landscape and weather are not heartening, the flatness and greyness mirror my listlessness. I was feeling a bit out of sorts before I left home, something didn’t feel right, an unwanted anxiousness. I’m not convinced I’m in the right headspace for a long solo ride. All the doubts and fears usually fall away the moment I start pedalling. Not this time, trepidation lingers. I feel agitated and on edge. The busy roads aren’t helping, nor the stupid cyclepaths to avoid them that go all the way over there to get just over that other way. Knackering the gears has only compounded my disquiet. I’m only a couple of hours in to a week long ride though, I need to give this time. There’s always part of a long ride that is a bit crap, perhaps it’s the start of this one. Flick ‘long ride shuffle’ to a happier song.

    The sea appears on my left as I join a cyclepath parallel to a narrow beach. The wind picks up, sand is blown across the path. The sun comes out, I take my jacket off. A few kilometres of listening to the wind and waves. Turn inland again. Deserted adventure parks, silent rollercoasters and dry water slides. All the cafes are shut. Out of season melancholy seeps into my bones, I still don’t feel settled. Towering reeds and long straight roads. Smaller quieter roads between the bigger roads now. The towns all feel very north Italian, narrow streets and a little scuffed around the edges. Coffee and Orangina from a side street bar. Faded, peeling shutters. A small climb past the motorway and descent onto yet more flat roads towards Narbonne.

    Gus and Sarah are driving back from the UK via Narbonne so there’s a possibility of crossing paths with them and cadging a lift the rest of the way. However I’m a couple of hours ahead of them so I may as well continue and overlap with them nearer home. Another busy road out of town, I resist the temptation of a 24 hour McDonald’s on a large roundabout. Things start to change, the road starts to rise and fall, large hills appear in the distance, a jagged horizon. The landscape turns a deeper shade of green, more verdant, less wind scorched. I ride down strobing sunlit avenues of plane trees. Vines glow orange-red in the dying sunlight. A feeling of calm starts to fall over me as I drop into the shadows between the hills. I’m not sure how to get to Gus and Sarah’s house so I turn towards Lagrasse to look for a bar and wait.

    Sunday

    I’m poking about in my upside down bike with the spare spokes I’m carrying in my framebag. The di2 battery and rubber seatpost holder have dropped into the seat tube and got stuck. After a bit of silent swearing I manage to hoik the battery out. I inspect the damage I’ve done to the cable. I’ve not cut all the way through it but stripped the rubber insulation back to the bare wires that must have touched and shorted the system. I’m hoping if I cut out the damaged section and reconnect the wires it’ll work again, that the wires touching haven’t screwed the battery or one of the junction boxes. The Swiss army knife and electrical tape from the other framebag pocket are called into action. It’s not a pretty fix but the cables are reconnected and I metaphorically cross my fingers as I plug the cable into the battery. I notice the green light flash on the bar end junction box. YES!! That means power is restored. I tap the shifter button and the mech moves. I stuff everything back into the seatpost and insert it back into the bike…far more carefully this time. Tap the button again to make sure. The mech clicks again. Relief washes over me.

    After brunch Gus shows me on a map one of his favourite two hour loops around the local hills. The forecast looks a bit iffy, possible thunderstorms, but the wind is strong and this high up there’s a good chance if I get caught in bad weather in one valley it’ll be clear in the next. Worse case scenario is I turn around. It’s worth the risk. I head off tapping away at the gear shifter. I get caught in torrential rain at the first summit but it passes quickly, a rainbow appears by the next summit, and then I’m under blue skies. The post-storm light and the views are worth the wet socks.

    Monday

    After breakfast I make a mid-morning start from Gus and Sarah’s towards Carcassonne. Unlike the last couple of days there’s a chill in the air but it is soon offset by the effort of climbing, twisting through vineyards up the side of a quiet hill. Before leaving I noticed the Garmin map indicated many an ‘Isolated dwelling’ scattered around the hills. I’m riding between farms and remote houses, occasional villages, so silent they almost feel haunted. No sight nor sound of people. It’s just me and the buzzards. I fall between two hills and start to climb again. I think this is where Gus said he had his accident. A moment’s reflection about how lucky I am to do this. Follow the line of telegraph poles with my eyes to see where I cross to the other side of this ridge. Quiet isolation.

    Suddenly the land drops away to a wide plain that stretches all the way to dark lumps in the distance, black silhouettes shrouded in cloud. Proper hills. Actual mountains. Through sunlit curves the road swoops quickly down to Carcassonne. I totter through the old town cobbles and look over the orange and red roof tiles of the town from the ramparts. I find the remains of the concentric circles painted on the walls that I saw on television watching the Tour de France in the summer. Time for a quick coffee and then head for those dark hills, the Montagnes Noire.

    Thirty kilometres of up, not steep but constant. From the main road I can see the Pyrenees to the south jutting through cloud. I turn onto a lesser road and follow a river along a valley of trees for a few kilometres after which the climb steepens on small lanes. The verges are full of golden leaves. The gradients ease and I realise I’m nearing a plateau, a wind turbine pokes above the trees, I look behind me at the mountains one last time. Once I get to that wind turbine I won’t be able to see so far south again, I will have tipped north over the summit of the mountain. The road enters dense forest and I follow a gravel track shortcut through autumn colours. The far side of the mountains are clad in mist and the road damp. The descent is fast and cold and sketchy at times, the road has been resurfaced – “Gravillons” – but seemingly only in random corners which keeps catching me out. Coffee and Orangina in Castres. Pick up an emergency sandwich and tuck it in the musette on the way out of town.

    The land changes again, low wide rolling hills, big vistas, huge skies, long straight roads lined with Plane trees. Archetypal French roads. The sort of hills that give you a kicking if you don’t pay attention. I sit in a bus stop in a hilltop village and pull the sandwich from the musette. Thirty kilometres left to Albi. The sun comes out and shadows lengthen. Just one more hill, oh hang on… no, one more… what the… another one? I’m glad I sorted the gears. The setting sun catches the top of the cathedral as I arrive in town.

    Tuesday

    Get up early and leave in the dark. Constant up and down and up and down and… each time getting a little bit higher. Big wide hills push me nearer the low grey sky. Autumn alchemy turning greens to gold. It’s going to be a day for the rouleurs. I’ve noticed the last couple of days that many village name signs are in both French and something looking more Latin. I realise it must be the Occitan language. The first half of this week is being spent in the French region of Occitanie, part of a wider historical region of southern Europe that took in most of southern France as well as parts of Spain and Italy. Having spent a lot of time in northern and central France there’s definitely a different look and feel to this part of the country, the architecture has often made me think of northern Italy. The land and buildings are starting to subtly change though, cream render and red clay tiles giving way to stone walls and brown tiles. A gentle shift to the central France I know.

    Thick forest coats the hillsides, lakes of cloud sink into the valleys. A fast misty drop to a small river and switchbacks back up the other side. Climb even higher again. A long descent into the Aveyron valley where I have a coffee and pastry beside the river. A gentle but long climb on a main road to the next large town, a tailwind gives me a gentle shove. I notice every other place name on roadsigns ends in ‘ac’, must be getting close to Lot. A fast drop to the river Lot and across a bridge into the department named after it. A short sharp shock of a climb in almost rain to Figeac. A round the houses detour thanks to roadworks (I’m noticing a lot of roadworks this week, is it the end of the tax year in France so departments and communes spending their money before they lose it?). The daily coffee and Orangina combo on an empty square.

    Last set of hills. Same ones as I’m used to a bit further north, I’m only 45 kilometres from my parents house. Hills that seem to go on forever, tilting away from you so any summit is always just beyond the horizon, not obvious until you eventually find yourself on a mildly flatter bit of tarmac, briefly. The wind picks up and the rain starts to fall. Copper chestnut and beech leaves drop in the woods, nuts and shells crack under wheel. Still climbing, 400 metres, 500 metres…pretty sure this should top out at about 600. T-junction, left turn onto a ridge. “Terrou 7km”, hang on I know Terrou. Home (from home) roads, and it should be downhill all the way from here to Saint Cèré. Home and dry, except it’s damp and cold. The sky closes in a little tighter, the rain falls a little harder, I pull my buff and jacket zip up. Wet brakes squeal on the town square in Saint Cèré. I know lots of pretty ways to do the last bit but I’ve over 140km in my legs and most of those ways involve at least one big hill, but it’s mainly the weather dictating the short easy way, let’s just get this done. Past the paper shop and the bakers, the cinema, the jam factory for the hundredth time. Under the railway bridge and straight into a warm shower at Mum & Dad’s.

    The two photos of me were taken by Gus

    Thanks to dhb sport for supplying kit for this trip. As always, thanks to Reilly Cycleworks and Upgrade Bikes for the continued support.

    Link to part II

  • From the South Downs to North London

    From the South Downs to North London

    Saturday – Rule 5 Bikes Summer Send Off

    Meet up with friends at Freedom Bikes, sign on and collect brevet card…and a pen, as usual I’ve forgotten to bring one. There’s a lot of dithering in the street after the pre-ride briefing inside the shop (didn’t listen, sorry Paul, assume it was the usual “Don’t be a dick, off you go”) so head off with Claire, Vic, Magda, Iain and Jay. Through Kemp Town to the lung busting stupid climb up the back of the hospital to the aerials by the race course. Commute territory so ping along out front to Wilson Avenue but catch the lights at the top on Warren Road. Look behind and there’s a swarm of riders. Hop a curb and down the step onto the bridleway towards Castle Hill. Turn down the cyclepath to Falmer, glance behind and now only three others with me. Oh, Garmin says off-route. I’ve read the course entirely back to front, clockwise rather than anticlockwise, nor did I bother checking the order of controls on the brevet card. We can get back on course by Housedean Farm where the A27 path and South Downs Way overlap briefly. Just me, Claire and one other now as Jay goes to find the answer for one of the controls. I’ll cheat and copy someone’s card in the pub later, or maybe ride back this way on the return leg to do the full route just not in the right order.

    The South Downs Way to Black Cap, the first gate held open so can clear the steps and into the field for the steep grassy climb, another gate, my turn to hold it open, hop roots through the copse, another gate, long climb to the chalk road junction, look back and below, a line of black dots, riders, on the track we’ve just climbed, hounds to our hares. Gate tag as we hold more open for one another. Down the scarp slope of Black Cap. Not been down this way for years, the last time it had rained and the we chalk was terrifying. Drag the rear brake all the way down, slaloming lumps of flint and bigger clumps of cow poo whilst avoiding the water carved ruts. Claire holds the gate open at the bottom, out into the shadow of the Downs. We chat as we spin along under trees that will soon turn, the ceiling of leaves above will change hue and fall to carpet the road below our wheels. The weather has altered recently, feeling cooler, jackets or gilets and arm warmers needed in the mornings. The tarmac crumbles to gravel as we join the old coach road that runs parallel to the bottom of the downs past stables and farmyards, slowing for horse riders. Streat Church gravel to the concrete track. We stop for coffee and cake at Velusso and wave to Vic and Magda passing, shortly followed by some Brighton Mitres, then the next batch of riders all stop and join us; Iain, Dave, Chris, Tom, Rich, Bryan, many others. Lots of hellos and chats, order another coffee.

    We head up to Oldlands Windmill in a small group but then on through Hassocks and Hurstpierpont as a duo again as there seems to be group faff occurring behind. Catch up with the Mitres, who stopped at Proper for coffee, including Alex, Martin and Elaine. Settle into this group for a good few miles. A bridleway I don’t know between Sayers Common and Twineham Lane, Bob Lane, Frylands Lane to a favourite bridleway that pops you out by the Big House and church at Shermanbury Grange. The avenue of tall straight trees to the gatehouse. Hack it along the Downslink to Steyning. Say goodbye to Claire as she peels off for home to get ready for the Torino-Nice Rally, “Good luck, have fun!”

    Sopers Lane and down Steyning Bostal to get the brevet card stamped (scribbled on) by Paul at the timed control at The White Horse. A pint and some lunch. Everyone else turns up in little groups at irregular intervals. Start chatting and miss the Mitres heading off. Caught between groups, could wait for someone else to leave but most of these look like they’re going to be a while, full pints on tables, plate of food arriving. Decide to head back alone and adjust the official route, take out a bit of tarmac, add a bit of stupid, I’ve got all afternoon after all. Might bump into some others along the way.

    Bramber Bostal to Truleigh Hill and follow the South Downs Way to Saddlescombe. Ride the road round to Pyecombe where the line on the Garmin indicates a lane I’ve never been up. It soon turns to farm track before narrowing to singletrack bridleway along the side of a hill. Where am I? Where does this go? Wolstonbury Hill. New to me – I think, I have no recollection of having been here before, maybe I have but not recently. A slightly different viewpoint to many recognisable hills around me. That feeling of knowing exactly where I am whilst simultaneously not having a clue. Jack and Jill windmills and the (empty) dew pond. Less than thirty minutes to make it to Woodingdean for the second timed control. Going to be tight. Scrap the idea of riding the bit I missed earlier. Anyway I added Bramber Bostal, that more than makes up for it. Ditching Beacon, turn onto tarmac, click down some cogs, push hard. Singletrack or fire roads through Stammer Park? There’s no time for either, scream down Coldean Lane, past the Uni, hit the bottom of the cyclepath with seven minutes to spare, stand on the pedals, rear wheel slips in the gravel, sit down again, push hard, back out of the saddle, forty five seconds, not gonna make it. Thirty seven seconds late but brevet validated and a cold can of beer thrown to me. Sit on the verge and get my breath back. Downhill to the finish now.

    Pizza and more beer. Lots more talk and laughter. Stay out too late.

    Sunday – The Ride Journal’s North London Dirt II

    5am alarm. Far too early after yesterday’s shenanigans. 6.08am train to London Bridge, fortunately the coffee kiosk is open. Tall buildings, blue sky, red buses. Get lost in the back streets but find my way to the sign on at Rapha in Spitalfields. Say hi to the Ride Journal bros. and friends. A pastry and more coffee. Half eight and we’re off, riding with Dean, Sam and Matt, zigzagging through the quiet streets, down alleyways, bouncing kerbs, Olympic Park, actual parks. Sunday league goalposts and corner flags. Squeezing between cemeteries and railway lines, snagging on brambles, fizzing on stinging nettles. Traffic lights and cyclepaths. Urban wilderness, tower blocks peak out above tree lines. Nattering and laughing. Skids and giggles. How we rode bikes when we was kids. Probably a bit too fast given yesterday, think (know) I’m going to regret this later. Suburban single track along rivers and under pylons. Concrete bridges and graffiti. Into Essex and out of Hainhault Forest. Essex, much maligned by cliche and reputation, always seems serene and bucolic whenever I’ve been here. However there was that one audax where I passed through Clacton-on-Sea on a Saturday evening…

    On my own now, drifted off the back into Sunday cafe spin pace. Cricket greens and village pubs. Quiet lanes, big fields, larger sky.  Have I been here before? A sign for Toot Hill, been there on rides to and from Cambridge. El from Bristol is stamping brevet cards in a pub car park. Cold can of fizzy pop, sit in the shade, have a chat. Yesterday has caught up with me. Could probably do with a nap but it’s not far back to London now. From the ridge the tall silver buildings of the city poke into the sky on the horizon. Drop sharply from the ridge and under the M25 and over the M11. Into Epping Forest, lost on the single-track, definitely not on the proper route, clipping roots and shimmying round trees, spliff smoking dog walkers sitting on fallen tree trunks. Tottenham Marshes and canal paths. Suburbia hardens into the city. Hackney Carnival blocks the route so smash it down Kingsland Road, drop a shoulder and wiggle the arse between a bus and breakdown truck. Back to the starting point. Hand brevet card over in exchange for a cold beer.

     

    A fantastic weekend of hanging out with friends, proper chats with people only ever spoken to on the internet socials, and meeting new people. Riding bikes for the hell of it, messing about and having fun. Absolutely shattered by Sunday evening! Thanks to Paul and Rich for organising and route plotting the Summer Send Off, and to the Philip and Andrew of the Ride Journal for North London Dirt II.

  • Transcontinental no.7 – Part 2

    Transcontinental no.7 – Part 2

    I pull into a tiny petrol station in the small Croation border town of Ilok to buy water as I’m almost out. I would have bought some before leaving Serbia but I spent the last of my Dinar on breakfast in Novi Sad. For some reason I assumed as I was now into the EU that I could use Euro but Croatia uses the Kuna. All I have is Euros or some Bulgarian Lev tucked in a framebag pocket. I ask the guy if there’s a bank nearby but he says “Yes, but it long way away.” I go to put the water back in the fridge and leave, and he says “I buy you the water, a present.” I don’t know what to say other than thank you. I sit in the shade outside and glug down mouthfuls before refilling my bidons. Tired tears are streaming down my face. Yet again the kindness of strangers has floored me. Last time around it was Dilman and the guy in the Italian restaurant, this time a guy working in a small petrol station. I can afford to do the Transcontinental because I’m in a privileged position of having a well paid job that is flexible enough to let me take three weeks off to do something self-indulgent like try and ride a bike (an expensive one that I haven’t paid for with fancy wheels that I also haven’t paid for) across Europe. Yet someone who earns way less doing long shifts filling tractors and plastic bottles with petrol is willing to buy me a bottle of cold water.

    The roads in Croatia are nirvana! Smooth and traffic free, initially at least. It’s lumpy for the first part as I follow the Danube but flatten as I turn away from the river. When I get nearer to towns the roads are busy but traffic gives me plenty of space. It is so much more relaxing. Once I’m onto the flatter roads I can settle into a position where the saddle sores aren’t too much of a problem. With a bit of luck I can put in a longer day and start to get near to the daily distance I need to be doing. 230km today, still not ideal, I should be able to easily manage 300 or more on this kind of terrain. Part of the problem is I’m stopping when I find hotels so I can clean myself and my kit so the saddle sores don’t get infected. I just need to push a bit harder each day to cover a greater distance between hotels, get to the next town up the road.

    Earlier this evening I was riding alongside another TCR rider called Erwin, our dots have overlapped for a few days now but this was the first time I’d seen him. We rode together for about ten kilometres until reaching the town where we are both staying this evening. We chatted and he said he visits the area regularly as he has friends here, he was stationed here with the UN when in the Belgian army in the 90s. He mentions that Vukovar, the town I stopped in for lunch, was totally destroyed during the Yugoslav Wars. I saw the bombed water tower on the outskirts and signs for a memorial centre, and noticed that the town centre itself seemed very new, but the Transcontinental being a race and not a tour there wasn’t time to stop and investigate.

    In the comfort of the hotel I Google ‘Vukovar’. The details are harrowing; a three month siege, complete destruction of the town, over 3000 people killed, more than a third of those civilians, ethnic cleansing. It’s a sobering reminder that for the last couple of days and for more to come I’m riding through a region that in my adult lifetime has torn itself apart and rebuilt itself. I think about what that guy in the petrol station might have been through. Any ideas that I’m struggling are firmly put into perspective. The notion of suffering is prevalent in cycling but it really is ridiculous hyperbole, most of us have absolutely no comprehension of real suffering. I may have thought I had it tough on those Serbian roads but I wasn’t doing it under gunfire. I could stop for coffee and ice cream. I don’t have to do this: I chose it and I can make it stop any time I want. I have a home to which I can return.

    Now that I have a phone again I also use the hotel wifi I to download some things to listen to for the next few days. Serbia may have been more bearable with music and podcasts. I spent two days with only my inner monologue to listen to and I’m not sure that was helping matters. Some full on techno bangers may have got me further up the road last night.

    It’s really humid and sleep doesn’t come easy. Around half midnight I hear a freehub buzzing along the corridor which seems to send me off as the next thing I know my alarm is ringing at 03.45. I’m out the door and on the road by 04:30. I flick through the podcasts and decide on a Fatboy Slim set from Cream in 1999…

    BACK ONCE AGAIN FOR THE RENEGADE MASTER

    The sun rises over my right shoulder to the sound of moving to Brighton in the late 90s. Those were the days of Big Beat Boutique and coming home at sunrise. Surviving entire weekends on not much sleep. I need to channel some of that for the next few days. I’m going well, the early mornings suit me. The heat of the afternoon is shredding me but in the mornings I can chunk out a good distance. All seems comfortable in the seating area too, perhaps things are repairing themselves and the smooth roads lessening the discomfort. I stop at 7 to grab some breakfast and as I climb off the bike…erm, and this is the most delicate way of putting this… my shorts separate themselves from my person and it stings like hell! OK, saddles sores aren’t improving. After a breakfast of yoghurts and Fanta on the step outside a little shop, that I share with two guys drinking beer before climbing into tractors and driving off, I find somewhere discreet to apply more Sudocrem.

    THROW YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR, IN THE AIR, IN THE AIR…

    Feel like I’m flying this morning. Happy tears of exhaustion and elation. Forgot about how accumulated tiredness messes with everything. I can forget about the last few days. I’m enjoying this again. This constant movement accentuates the now, intensifies the moment, what’s behind me is gone and can’t be changed and what’s to come will be whatever it is. No point thinking about anything else other than right now. And right now this is bloody brilliant.

    A LITTLE BIT OF THIS, LITTLE BIT OF THAT

    Off my tits on espressos and sugary drinks. Kilometres are clicking over, this is more like it. Keep shovelling food into my face, a little and often, don’t overload the system but stop the needle dipping into the red. I know how to do this, keep pedalling, efficient stops. Audax mode, diesel chugger, the kilometres will drop away. If I can get to Austria tonight, put in a 300+ km day, then I’ll be nearer to where I should be by now. String a few good days together. C’mon!

    SHE’S THE ONE THAT KEEPS THE DREAM ALIVE, FROM THE MORNING, PAST THE EVENING, TO THE END OF THE LIGHT

    Who turned the sun out? The sky turns black, a crack of thunder. It starts to rain. Lightening. Torrential rain. Shit. Spot a bar across the road. Decide to sit it out for a bit. Dammit, didn’t need this. There’s a large town in twelve kilometres where I planned to stop for a late lunch and then crack on for Slovenia and Austria. The bar I’m in doesn’t sell food and for the first time in a week I’m not carrying anything. I order a coffee and ask for the wifi code. Check the weather, hmm, this could rumble on for a few hours. Shit, shit! Can’t afford to lose time today, things were just starting to go well. I wait some more. I’ve wasted enough time, I may as well ride into town where at least I can get some food and waste time more effectively. I really can’t lose any more time and there’s only so wet I can get.

    I’m absolutely soaked by the time I get to Varazdin. Whilst I eat savoury pancakes I check the weather forecast and map. The rain is easing. If it’s showers for the rest of the day I can at least make it into Slovenia. There’s a town called Ptuj not far over the border with hotels but I need to get further than that. Maribor is about 70km away, that is manageable and means around 250km for today. I really want to get 300 done and get into Austria but the storm has lost me a couple of hours. It’s frustrating but it is what it is. Let’s see how far I can get.

    Over the border into Slovenia, through Ptuj, someone shouts “Have a great ride” on a roundabout. On a bridge across the river I check the time and distance to Maribor. OK, I can manage another couple of hours so book a room in a hostel in Maribor. Fatboy Slim for the third time today. Shouting DER-DANG DER-DANG along to the sped up intro to Smells Like Teen Spirit and munch on sweets I bought with the last of my Kuna in a petrol station just before leaving Croatia. Cyclepaths next to dual carriageways and some confusion on the outskirts of the city. I’ve lost one of the pads on my aerobars in the dark. When did that happen? Ride through the bright and noisy city centre to the hostel on the outskirts. Check in, shower, wash kit, hang up kit, set early alarm, fall asleep.

    At 3am I wake up from the pain of saddle sores and bruising in places you really don’t want to be bruised. Might as well get up, planned to be out by 4.30am anyway. Out onto the dark streets, ride through town and clubbers returning home. Pass a coffee vending machine, 1 euro coffee on a bench under a street lamp. An hour later I’ve barely made it ten kilometres up the road. I’m in pain and I can’t pedal properly. The last couple of days were going much better, I was starting to get myself into a rhythm, each day riding a bit further, reaching the point where maybe I could put in an allnighter, survive 48 hours on disco naps, but I’ve been shifting around on the saddle for days and sitting slightly to one side to alleviate pain which has just shifted it elsewhere. I’ve been avoiding taking any painkillers as I don’t want to start disguising any knee pain (which is now quite possible due to pedalling in a weird position) or anything else I should know about. I can’t take ibuprofen or NSAIDs for medical reasons anyway and have worked in the pharmaceutical industry long enough to know sustained use of any painkiller really isn’t wise. I’m putting my body under enough duress as it is without chucking a load of pharmaceuticals into it.

    I stop and sit on a sofa on the veranda of a closed bar. It’s still only 05:30. I don’t know what to do. I am determined not to scratch out of this damn race again but right now I can barely ride at 15kph. I climb back on uncomfortably and ride up the road but the pain is excruciating. I turn around and start to ride back towards Mirabor but it doesn’t feel right turning around and giving up. I cannot give up. I pull over into a bus stop and sit and think…

    I’ll keep riding. Klagenfurt is about 120km away and it’s 06:00. I can limp that far by mid-afternoon taking it easy and stopping whenever I need to. Hopefully an afternoon and full night off the bike plus some proper rest will let things start to heal and ease discomfort for the coming days. If I can get some painkillers I can at least take them in the evenings so I can sleep properly. I stop for coffee in the next town and check hotels in Klagenfurt, I find a room with a balcony, perfect for washing and drying all kit. Dry kit will also hopefully make things easier. It has been damp for days now, due to humidity in Serbia and not stopping long enough for things to dry fully.

    The valley from Mirabor to the Austrian border is beautiful and takes my mind off things somewhat. By mid-afternoon I’ve reached Klagenfurt. I check in to the hotel, shower, and wash every single bit of kit and turn the balcony into a washing line. I stroll into town to find a pharmacy but it turns out they all closed at midday. I’m told I might be able to find an emergency 24 hour pharmacy but quite honestly I’d rather rest than mess around looking for one. I can ride another day through gritted teeth if necessary. I buy a load of fresh food and return to the hotel. I spend the evening lying down, eating, and listening to the radio. I’m asleep before 10pm. I haven’t set an alarm.

    I head down for breakfast at 6.30am and demolish the buffet as well as pocketing a couple of packs of Nutella for emergencies. I’m out the door around 7.30am and head west, accidentally on a road that leads to a motorway, a car pulls alongside to tell me of my mistake. I lift my bike over the central reservation and find my way out of town on legal roads. I ride alongside a lake on a cyclepath before joining a road through touristy towns and past lakeside holiday camps. I’m slowly climbing towards Italy but the gradient is gentle and I’m making good progress, I certainly feel better than yesterday. A rest seems to have done me some good. A couple of petrol station coffees and lunch sat on a pile of compost bags outside a Lidl (possibly the most comfortable thing I’ve sat on for days) later I start to climb in earnest. A 40km undulating road up the Lesachtal Valley, the first part is steep and twisting, tight hairpins mean I gain height quickly but every time I gain it I lose it on sweeping downhill sections. This pattern repeats all afternoon; gain height slowly, lose some of it rapidly, gain a load more slowly, lose some of it again quickly… Somewhere a landslide means a lengthy detour on a temporary gravel road bulldozed through forest.

    Finally I pass a summit sign and the legs get some reprieve and a series of hairpins swiftly drop me into the Puster Valley. I turn left onto a cyclepath as the SS49 is prohibited by the race organisers. The cyclepath is convoluted and annoying so I decide to hop onto the road for a bit, it’s Sunday evening and it’s not busy. Later I see a ‘No Cycling’ sign so jump back onto the cyclepath and follow it all the way to Brunico where I’ve booked a hotel. The path turns to loose gravel around a lake just after sunset. Great. Now is not the time to be dealing with bloody gravel, I just want to get to where I need to get to. My backside, in fact my entire underside, is hurting again. I nearly lose the front end on a couple of corners and then end up in a bush when I overshoot a bend and daren’t try and steer out of it. Much messing about later I pop out into Brunico and find my way to the hotel in the next village.

    Standing in reception I am blankly ignored until a woman asks what I want. I say I have a reservation. She checks for my name and looks at the bike leaning against the wall. “That can go in the cellar.” I dump my bags in the room and change into civvies and stroll down the road to the restaurant that was open when I rode past. The kitchen is still open for pizza so I order one and wolf it down. Checking my phone I realise that check-in at the hotel was only until 7 and I turned up well after 9. That explains the grumpiness. That and the fact I probably should have left my bike outside until I checked in.

    The next morning I don’t hang around for breakfast. I want – need – to get to the start of the CP3 parcours as that’s ideally where I wanted to get to yesterday (quite frankly I should have been here two days ago). The main road to Corvara has a lot of tunnels for the first section but last night I found a cycle route online that avoids it. It means a 9km climb up to 1200 metres but it’s pleasantly steady climb through woodland and quiet early in the morning. Then follows a sharp tumble down the mountainside depositing me on the main road next to a shop. Breakfast of yoghurts and fruit juice.

    The next 30km is done alongside lorries and fast traffic up to Corvara. The climbing is relentless but the views that welcome me in Corvara are worth it. I’m properly in the Dolomites now and I love the Dolomites. Quite possibly the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. An expensive second breakfast and coffee on a hotel veranda. As I set off I spot Erwin, I’ve not seen him since Croatia two days ago, or is it three? I say hi and he says he’s decided to scratch. I say I’ve been close to it, saddle sores are making it hard work, but I’m going to get myself over the CP3 parcours before I decide anything. I wish him good luck and head up to Passo Gardena. The climb itself is a beauty and takes my mind off the pain for a while. The gradient is nice and even, not too steep, the roads good, a long climb to over 2100 metres but worth the effort. At the top I decide to have some lunch so that I can digest it on the long descent before the next climb which looks steep on the Komoot profile graph. Spag bol, Aperolspritz, espresso.

    The descent is amazing and fast and throws me out into a narrow valley looking up at a wall of mountain. Holy crap, that’s where I’m going! The afternoon heat is getting to me again and the steepness of the road means pushing hard on the pedals which is increasing my discomfort. I end up walking the steeper parts and then climbing back on for the shallower sections. I am going so slowly it’s soul destroying. I pass a rider in a restaurant and wave hello. A kilometre or so later he catches me, his name is Ross and I’ve seen his dot near mine the last couple of days. We chat for a bit, he’s had achilles problems but going OK again after some position adjustments. The road steepens again and he drops me. I climb off and start walking again. I walk a long way. Every time I get back on the bike pain forces me off again. It hurts to sit and to pedal out of the saddle. I’m even walking with a slight limp. Shit.

    At this rate I am not going to finish this race. I knew I’d missed the CP3 time window but I was optimistic that once I’d got through the Alps a couple of long days in France could at least give me a chance to get to the finisher’s party on time. It’s pretty obvious to me now that that is not remotely likely and I didn’t come here to muddle through. I scratched out of this race two years ago and I was determined not to do it again but it seems an inevitability now. My legs are good and my head is still in one piece. Every fibre of my being is shouting ‘Don’t scratch!’ except everything downstairs which is screaming ‘For fuck’s sake just stop this!!’ I think through the options: Scratch and ride to Brest the most direct route? Continue to CP4 by the weekend and work out what to do when I get there? Scratch now and go home? In my heart I only want to get to the finish if I’ve actually ridden the race route and even the straightest line to Brest is over 1500km. I have to get back for work next week. I don’t have an indefinite amount of time to complete this – realistically I’m going to end up having to scratch somewhere in France in order to get back on time. Do I really want to ride through the Alps in pain for another four or five days knowing I’m still going to scratch? I have a lot of time to think as it takes a while to walk to the summit.

    On the descent to Bolzano I’ve pretty much made up my mind, I’ve only done 110km today so far and the next few days are going to be as hilly. I’ll be lucky to make CP4 by Sunday at this rate. I find a bar in Bolzano, order a drink, pull out my phone and look for a hotel room. At the hotel I mull it over some more. I really don’t want to scratch but it feels like the only sensible option (not sure when sense came into any of this). I promised myself I wouldn’t scratch, that I’d get to Brest no matter what. I feel utterly deflated and beaten. Maybe I could do another couple of days, see where I get? Equally, why prolong the decision? It just means riding in discomfort for the sake of riding knowing that I will have to pull out of the race in a few days anyway. I won’t get to Brest before I have to be back at work. I email the race organisers to tell them I have decided to stop. I stare out of the window and feel like shit.

    I consider the my options now I’m out of the race however I know there is only one option and that is to get over the Timmelsjoch, the final climb of the CP4 parcours. The reasons are Jo and I rode over it from the Austrian side on TCRno5 plus Jenny left me a sticker at the summit and made me promise to take a photo of it. This means I can’t take the easy option of riding south on the flat towards Milan or Venice to get a flight home. It also means getting a train anywhere is definitely out. If I get over the pass I can get to Innsbruck and I know I can fly to Gatwick from there. I check flights and there is availability on Wednesday and Thursday. Wednesday is significantly cheaper so I book a flight but this means I have to get over the Timmelsjoch tomorrow no matter what. I email a bike shop to see if they have a cardboard bike box I can have. Thomas from Radstudio Innsbruck replies within 10 minutes to say “I will have one!” With things sorted I go out to find pizza and beer.

    The next morning I don’t ride the next part of the official parcours to Merano but rather the cyclepath I know runs along the river from Bolzano. It’s really overcast and I cannot see the tops of the mountains on either side of the valley. Hmmm, this isn’t looking promising. I get breakfast in Merano and buy some food to carry as I know the climb is long and will take a few hours. I head off up yet another valley to the base of the climb. It’s getting colder and windier. I look up… it’s a long way and I can’t even see the top. Click down some gears and start. Then the rain starts, getting heavier and heavier. Water runs down the road. I can see a TCR rider ahead. Thunder rumbles around the mountain. I have no choice but to ride. There’s both an expensive hotel room and flight that I’ve already paid for on the other side of this mountain. It’s been two years since I rode down this side but I instantly recognise the hairpins and tunnels of the lower section, and then the flatter but more open middle section. The rain eases and then increases again. A snack bar on the side of the road is open so I stop. I see the other TCR rider there. I say hello, order apfelstrudel and custard, and sit out the rain chatting with Zach. He was in a pair but now solo. By the time we leave the sun has returned and we ride together for a bit but then I stop to take off my jacket. The middle section is shallow enough to push a bigger gear. By the time the hairpins start on the upper section I’ve pulled my jacket on and the rain is clattering down again. I pass a motorcyclist who has stopped in the shelter of the rocks on the side of the road. I grind past them. I have to get over this mountain today. I get off and walk a bit. The altitude is getting to me. I pass Zach and ask if he’s OK. He feels woozy, the altitude getting to him too. We push on towards the top, the rain stops and the sun returns, a rainbow below us. The road has been resurfaced since 2017 and is so smooth. One long tunnel and into sunshine to the summit. I find Jenny’s sticker and take a photo. In and out of the dip at the top of the pass and into the motor museum for some hot food. My job for today is almost done. Just the 100km to Innsbruck to do now but it’s pretty much all downhill, shouldn’t take more than three hours or so.

    Back outside it’s cooling down again and cloud rolls around the tips of the surrounding mountains. The sky looks a little ominous down the valley. I pull on jacket, gilet, knee warmers, gloves, buff. The first part of the descent is silly fast and dry but soon the rain starts followed by thunder and lightening. I am soaked through, the road is like a river. Another 80km of this is going to be dismal. Out of the saddle, push as big a gear as possible. Just need to get to this done now. It’s so dark it’s like riding at night. It’s rush hour and the road is busy. Pedal… just pedal. I know this road is downhill all the way, let’s get it done as quickly as possible, the quicker I ride the quicker this is over. A little over an hour to do 40km. I remember that the town at the junction at the end of the valley is called Otztal-Bahnhof. Hang on, bahnhof means train station doesn’t it? And it’s in the same valley as Innsbruck. Surely I can get a train from there!? I pull into a petrol station and nearly go arse over tit on the tiled floor. I am drenched and leaving a trail of water. I order a coffee and dry my phone with a paper napkin. I punch Otztal-Bahnhof to Innsbruck by train into Google Maps and take a deep breath… a few seconds wait… YES!! Trains every half hour. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so happy.

    – – – – –

    Massive thanks to Mark and Damon at Reilly Cycleworks for the Spectre, a head turner and absolute dream to ride. Also to Rory and all at Upgrade Bikes for the custom Reynolds wheel build with dynamo hub and reflective decals.

    Thanks to Anna and Rory and all at Lost Dot for offering me a place in this year’s race and all the volunteers and dotwatchers that make the race possible. It’s a shame I didn’t get to all the CPs to say hello.

    Also it was an honour and a pleasure to share roads and petrol station forecourts with so many other riders. Some get mentions but many more don’t but every day I had interactions with other riders. Maybe as little as a nod and a wave, or a few words, a shared table or kerb at a petrol station, sometimes a few kilometres of road and chat. Some riders I saw just once, others bumped into repeatedly. I know some of them also scratched but many others made it to the finish. Some are still riding across France as I type this. They all have their own stories to tell.

    Despite scratching out of the race I feel much more positive about things overall than I did last time. I already plan to enter again next year. My route was good and I’d done enough research to alter it en route when it made sense to do so. My legs felt strong, no lower back pain or tension across shoulders, none of the stuff that can happen on long rides. Apart from my underside everything felt comfortable and strong. My head stayed in one piece. Every day something happened that would have had me doubting myself the last time around. I dug deeper than I’ve ever had to before and learned some lessons but I also made some daft decisions. Not going to the apartment on the third night was a massive mistake. I decided to go to CP2 because I knew I wanted to get there on Monday as that meant I was on schedule. Realistically it made absolutely no difference whether my brevet was stamped before midnight on Monday or early Tuesday morning. If I’d gone straight to the apartment I would have got a decent night’s sleep, could have hung all my kit up to dry, and maybe my phone wouldn’t have died. I would have got up early, gone to CP2, had still had my brevet stamped before it closed, and cracked on across Serbia. By heading to the CP that night it meant I didn’t sleep well, dragged cold damp kit on in the morning, faffed about and left a couple of hours later than I should have done. It was really dumb and had the knock on effect of me stopping early two nights later in Belgrade. Those two decisions probably cost me a finish.

    There are definitely things I will do differently if I can get a place again next year. I’ll ditch the bivvy kit, or minimise it to a lightweight bivvy bag and emergency blanket. Hotels were easy to find and a bed and shower make a hell of a difference. That will also save a kilo or two in the mountains. I’d seriously consider mudguards too, as much to keep kit in saddlebag dry as well as me for longer. Dry bags in dry bags for extra waterproofing and organisation.

    Also more chamois cream.

  • Transcontinental no.7 – Part 1

    Transcontinental no.7 – Part 1

    This is just the stuff I can remember and may not necessarily be the correct order of events. Serbia in particular is a bit of a blur. In no way do I promise to be a very reliable narrator.

    – – – – –

    I stare out across dawn over the Black Sea on the beach at Burgas before heading to the start line at the Pantheon of the Fallen Antifascists. I feel strangely calm, quietly excited but no nervousness. I chat to Jenny and look around for Josh and Beccy but can’t see them. At 6am a horn sounds and we’re escorted out of town by a police convoy at a speed which is a bit faster than I’d hoped for. I spot Tom and Adrian who I met at Normandicat and say hi and wish them luck. It’s pretty much a time trial up a dual carriageway until we’re directed into the hills and left to our own devices. A long line of red lights and hi-viz vests stretches away into the distance. The fact we’re all having to ride almost all of the first 400km on the same route it feels more like an audax than a race for now. I suspect it is unlikely I’ll not see other riders all the way to CP1. At times I also share the road with horses and carts, cows, goats, and sheep.

    I’m planning to use hotels for the first few nights through Bulgaria and Serbia. This is partly due to the stories of feral dogs in Eastern Europe from previous editions of the race. Also I’m expecting the first few days to be particularly tough due to terrain and off-road sections in the official parcours. Some proper rest now will hopefully mean I can push on harder and for longer each day as I get further west and bivvying becomes more appealing. For this first day there is a large town at roughly 300km with plenty of hotels, this is my aim and with a bit of luck I can get there at 10 so I can get a good few hours kip and still be out by 4am tomorrow.

    I see Beccy on the first off-road section of the Start parcours and we end up overlapping and bumping into each other all morning. I also cross tracks with Jesko somewhere along the way. The parcours winds through low hills for a while but I know there’s a bigger climb coming towards the end before it throws us out onto route no.6, the main road between Burgas and Sofia. It’s really hot, high thirties, but finding water isn’t a problem, there are plenty of drinking fountains and springs to be found. However food is proving problematic and the food I’m carrying won’t last all day. I can’t find much in the way of proper food so eat junk most of the day. The easiest way to get carbs in is fruit juice but the constant ingestion of sugar isn’t going to be sustainable for very long.

    A village where kids crowd around all of us that stop at the shop. Ice cream and water. Wiggle along a river, pass another rider, “Hey, I like your bag – Ride Like A Girl” I slow to chat, she’s called Andrea and from Germany. She asks where she can get the bag, I explain a friend made them a few years ago, the wording is reflective at night but they are sadly no longer available. The road starts to rise, we drift apart. Ivan passes me having to keep his fixed gear turning. I bump into Tom and Adrian again at a spring. Top up with ice cold water. A rider is sat on the ground blood covering his arm and leg.

    The descent off this first big climb of the day into Sliven is awesome fun, smooth tarmac carving a line along the edge of the mountains, a rock face on one side, a view out across the central valley on the other. The roads deteriorate as they level out on the outskirts of Sliven. Petrol station hot dog and ice cream in the shade of a wall staring at petrol pumps. This is a view I will no doubt get used to over the next couple of weeks.

    I use a quiet road to cut a corner out of town to route no.6 but some confusion over a road sign means I mess up my route and add in a bit of unnecessary ‘scenic option’. Eventually I get myself onto the 6 and within a kilometre or so Beccy passes me. How the hell did I get in front of her? Turns out she had to find a bike shop in Sliven due to a puncture.

    She soon drops me and I pull into yet another petrol station to yet again only find crisps and sweets. Crack on, need to get to Gabrovo where I’ve now booked a hotel room. Just have to get over a mountain and through CP1 first. I can see the Bond villain lair (or rather the Buzludzha monument) atop the mountain ahead as dusk falls. I reach the top of the mountain in the dark. It’s breezy and cold at the summit. Get the brevet stamped at the control at 22:19, that gives me an hour and 41 minutes to do 35km to the hotel. Should be easy as it’s mostly downhill. I hadn’t factored that there is a bit of a false summit to deal with first and the road surface is dreadful. Second light turned on so I can see the potholes and gravel better, it’s slower going than I would like. I’m sure reception closes at midnight, I need to get this done. The road improves and I click down some sprockets and crank it as hard as I can. I pass the town sign for Gabrovo and pass a couple of riders. “Hey, I see Ride Like A Girl!” I shout hello and carry on. I turn off the parcours towards the hotel, ten minutes to spare. A light follows me, turns out Andrea is staying in the same hotel and mentions it’s 24 hour check in. Phew. Make it seconds before midnight anyway. Check in. Carry the bike up the stairs. Plug in phone, rear light, and powerbank. Wash kit. Fall asleep.

    Up early and petrol station breakfast followed by vending machine espresso. Back into the hills, a podcast in my ears. A narrow badly surfaced road winds down the other side of the hill and straight into another off-road section. I feel some discomfort in my backside, the start of a saddle sore? It was really hot yesterday and the terrain hard going. To avoid pinch flats I’m running my tyre pressure way higher than I normally would, giving myself a harsher time than I could be. Descent into another village, another shop, another ice cream, more water. A pattern is definitely emerging. As I’m about to leave Josh appears. We chat before I head off. He catches me again by the next big town, we pull into a petrol station together. He has a message that ‘Tom Probert has your bank card, you left it in a shop’. I say I know Tom and just then he rides past. Josh goes to collect his bank card then passes me before I’ve hit the next climb. I doubt I’ll see him again.

    Next up, big mountain, a thousand metres of ascent to Beklemeto (or Troyan Pass) with an additional bit of climbing to a monument to The Liberation of the Bulgarians. It takes a long time to climb and hardly any time to descend. It reminds me of the descent from Monte Grappa on TCRno5, surfing the edge of the mountains down to a wide open plain. The Bulgarian landscape is knocking my socks off, way beyond my expectations. I overtake mopeds and cars but it’s like dropping into a sauna after the strong cold wind at the summit. Cold drink, ice lolly, and some fruit but it’s so hot I’m struggling to eat anywhere near enough or properly. I pay for this on a tedious and seemingly everlasting climb on the 6 that peaks at over a thousand metres. I’m starting to cramp. At one point I’m lying in a layby unable to bend my legs, my calves and my thighs are spasming as I silently scream and not so silently curse. The payoff for this climb is a lovely lengthy downhill section towards a town, the benefit of being on a main road across the country is decent tarmac. Soft pedal to try to spin the lactic out of my legs.

    Another petrol station stop. Bags of nuts and a coffee. I’d quite like a crappy petrol station sandwich. I’ve got a couple of options from here as I’ve plotted two routes; one through Sofia and a northern route to Serbia, the other looping east and south of Sofia on smaller roads to pick up a southerly route to the border. Through Sofia means it’ll be easier to find a hotel but does mean more traffic and the inevitable slowness of getting through a city. There is another option which is to take the main road to the south of Sofia to Pernik and then on towards Kyunstedil where I can pick up that southern route into Serbia. However I remember researching this route for TCRno5 and not liking the look of it. The road to Pernik and out the other side looked a busy dual carriageway, parts of it to all intents and purposes pretty much a motorway. I check the tracker and see that only one rider has taken the northern route and there’s a long line of people on the Pernik route. If that many people are going that way it must be safe. OK, book a hotel on this side of Sofia and then head that way early tomorrow. Flick the lights on, clip back in.

    Another sodding climb, more cramp. Once over the top I know it’s pretty much gradually downhill all the way to Sofia. Hammer as big a gear as I can all the way, the earlier I get there the more sleep I can get. The orange glow of the city appears on the horizon, nudge the speed up a tad more. Out of the saddle, sprinting. Miss the turning for the shortcut bit that avoids a busy junction and find myself spat out onto what feels like a motorway. Nothing honks it’s horn but I’m really not sure I should be on this bit of road. A blinking red light ahead, I’m not the only one. Pull into a petrol station, buy a cheese, salami, and salad roll, fuck yes, something resembling proper food. Stuff it the musette. Hit up Google Maps to find the hotel. Check in. Shower. Eat. Pass out.

    Wake up and the first thing I do is check Google Maps for McDonald’s. Big Mac, black coffee, and a pint of orange juice for breakfast. Compared to what I’ve eaten for the last two days this is a glorious feast. The cyclepath out of Sofia is slow going but looks preferable to the cobbled roads. The rest of the morning is pretty quiet, a long climb out of the city and then an equally long descent to Pernik where I bypass the town on a dual carriageway and out into the countryside, undulating up and down and up and down. The roads are nowhere near as bad as they looked on Streetview. [Also worth noting that Google appear to have Streetviewed the whole of Bulgaria in winter. Don’t be fooled, it’s not as bleak as it looks. In fact it’s bloody beautiful]. I see other riders at regular intervals. I stop and grab some freshly made sandwiches – I need to start fueling sensibly – and a coffee. The road flattens down onto a plateau but I can see I’m heading towards mountains. It’s in the high thirties again and drink stops are often. Petrol stations are my friends, thankfully they appear with regular frequency. I start to climb but the road twists itself through what might be a gap in the mountains? No such luck, I haul myself up to a thousand metres again. I pull into a petrol station for an ice cream and water after whizzing down the other side and find an English pair hiding in the shade around the side of the building. They used the same route I had originally planned through the hills around Sofia and spent the night being chased by dogs and didn’t get to sleep until 3am. My re-routing seems a wise choice.

    A meandering gradual climb up a wooded valley takes me to the border with Serbia. I bump into an Italian dude Cento who it turns out rode Single Speed CX European Champs in Brighton. We yo-yo all the way to the border controls. Quick and easy through the Bulgarian side but the Serbian border guard disappears with our passports into an office. Returning he hands me my passport silently but from what I can make out he is telling Cento that Italian girls are hot. There’s a clutch of riders sitting outside a bar in the town before the start of the CP2 parcours. Cento and I join them and order food. Josh appears. He also stayed in Sofia last night but further south than me. I saw his dot was still translucent when I left but I honestly thought he would have caught me before now. We catch up while Cento heads off to the CP2 parcours shortly before me. These next few hours are going to be difficult, two mountain summits and most of it off-road so I buy some emergency food from the shop across the street.

    I see ahead Cento just as the tarmac turns to gravel and the road rises. Seeing as he’s done the CX champs I decide to watch his line and follow the tyre tracks visible in the gravel and mud. Somewhere Josh flies past, young lightweight sod. The climb is long but I’m enjoying it, the gravel isn’t too bad and the views good [you’ll have to take my word for this as the photos are on a broken phone yet to be explained], well they are until I ride into mist at the top. My butt is hurting, I’ve definitely taken some skin off over the last couple of days. Over the top I find Josh with his bike on the ground, the rear wheel out and an inner tube strewn across the gravel. I stop to chat and eat some food before the next climb. The descent is tricky and I ride as light as possible to avoid puncturing, hover just above the saddle, knees as suspension, hold the bars loosely, let the bike find it’s own line. I hear the front wheel dink a couple of rocks. Not a sound I want to hear.

    The next climb to Besna Kobila is utterly hateful. A short steep bit of tarmac dumps me onto gravel where the gradient pitches about all over the place. The front wheel dives into sand almost throwing me off. The gravel becomes rocks and I get off and walk. What feels like an eternity of hike-a-bike later I’m at the summit in dark cold drizzle. Josh has caught up with me again but seems to be in a bad place. He’s talking about scratching and sleeping on the mountain. I tell him there’s no way he’s staying up here, he needs to get off the mountain and leave any thoughts of scratching to the morning after some sleep. Turns out we’ve both booked rooms at the same hotel in the village at the bottom of the mountain close to CP2. We layer up and walk the rubble and sand section together down to where the tarmac starts again. If it had been daylight still this might have been rideable but in the pitch black of night it’s not worth the risk. Many riders pass us pushing bikes on their way to the top, poor bastards. Once we hit the tarmac I make sure Josh is OK and say I’m going to head down off the mountain.

    For some reason on the walk down I’ve decided that I won’t go to the apartment but instead go straight to the CP which is also a hotel and see if I can get a room there. The road off the mountain is initially easy to cope with in the dark but then the heavens open and 20km of steep twisting descent is done is torrential rain. A couple of corners almost catch me out and I have to bunnyhop a crater of a pothole. It’s stressful and involves a lot of concentration. Rolling into the village at the base of the mountain I realise my gpx file doesn’t lead all the way to the CP. I find the next gpx file that should start from it so at least I can use the map to find it. I pull my phone out of my pocket to double check the location. It’s soaked and doesn’t respond to my damp fingers. I pull a baselayer out of my drybag to dry both my hands and phone pretty unsuccessfully. Josh catches me and I say I’m going to head to the CP. More faffing when my gpx file turns out to not start from the exact location of the CP. I ride on and find what looks like the hotel but seems to be a nightclub. There is crazy load music and people everywhere. Is this it? Just then I spot a fi’zi:k TCR banner and bikes stacked against the wall.

    I look for the volunteers to get my brevet stamped. I notice people in bivvy bags sleeping on the veranda which is under cover. “Is it OK to sleep here?” I stupidly don’t bother checking to see if there’s a room available. There’s a wedding going on, hence the people and music so assume the hotel is full. Never assume! The next rider in gets the last room. I weave through a lot of well dressed guests in my drenched kit and change into dry clothes in the toilets. I throw my wet kit all over my bike hoping it might dry out by morning, then unfurl my bivvy bag under a table and wriggle my way into it.

    I’m not sure how much sleep I’ve got but it’s not enough. I wake up groggy and take one look the kit hanging over my bike. There’s no way that has dried. I pull myself out of the bivvy bag then thus starts a morning of total faff. My phone is dead and won’t charge. I try a few cables, nothing. I find a socket on a landing in the hotel and try charging from the mains. It sort of works but it’s not charging quickly. I leave the phone in a pot plant next to the socket and go back downstairs to sort out whatever kit is dry. None of it. The kit I was wearing is soaked, the kit in my dry bag isn’t exactly dry. Damp kit is preferable to wet kit though. I see some riders with plates of fried eggs and baskets of bread. I order the same from the receptionist but there seems to be a skeleton staff this morning so it takes ages to arrive. Oh well, means my phone gets a bit more charge. I ask the CP volunteers if they can see Josh’s dot moving. Not yet. I wait longer, still not moving. Shit, he’s going to scratch. Then it moves. Cool. I wait a little longer, I want to check he’s OK before I leave. I know it’s a race but I’m hardly troubling midpack right now let alone the pointy end and mates is mates. Then his dot stops. It’s gone 9am, I really should get moving. I’m heading back that way so I should pass him but don’t.

    The morning passes without much incident other than some cobbles and a half-arsed dog chase. Flat boring roads, Lidl, petrol stations, more cobbles, terrible road surfaces. It’s not only hot today but also humid. The front mech changes to the small ring of it’s own accord – Di2 battery is dying. Today is not a day to be spinning away on the small ring. Charge it on a petrol station forecourt whilst eating ice cream and watching the last three riders I overtook pass by. As soon as I leave the road heads into hills and doesn’t stop for the rest of the day. Probably could have saved time and waited to tonight to charge the di2.

    I watch the sun set over mountains, a red ball falling behind purple-blue silhouettes. It is stunning. For the first time today I remember why I do this. There’s an extended descent and flat road to Paracin where I’ve booked an apartment for tonight. I settle into the aerobars and catch a few other riders over the next few kilometres, many of them TCR veterans and there’s a lot of talk of this being the toughest start to date. I’m having conversations over my shoulder, I don’t need to slow up to be told what I already know. Settle back into the aerobars for 8km of straight road into town. Blinking red light ahead, a carrot to chase. Head down, pedal. Boot up the phone and follow it to the residential street where my apartment is located. After a bit of wandering around I find it before my phone completely dies and I can no longer access the address. I spot a message from Josh, “Punctured on way to CP. I’m done.” Pants.

    The owners of the apartment don’t speak English but do speak French so we’re able to make ourselves understood to each other. I want to leave early so I need to leave my bike in the garden rather than garage. I’m slightly nervous about leaving it outside but there’s a very big dog in a kennel in the corner and a “Beware of the dog” sign on the gate. There again it didn’t seem too fussed when I strolled in earlier. Quite honestly if someone nicks the bike I’m not sure I’d care right now [sorry Mark, sorry Damon]. I shower and wash all my kit then stroll to Lidl down the street to buy two dinners and two breakfasts. After eating I plug everything in to charge including the dead phone. I try different cables again in an attempt to get it to charge. Nothing. I wake up on the floor at 2am with the phone under my face. The floor is remarkably comfortable but I climb onto the bed and pass out again.

    Sunlight is streaming in through the window when I wake up. Crap, overslept. No phone means no alarm. I turn on my Garmin; 05:37. Oh not so bad after all. Make coffee and eat one breakfast and stick the other in the musette. Make another coffee. The bike hasn’t been stolen so I strap on the bags, tucking the useless phone in a side pocket, won’t be needing that again and stroll out onto the quiet street.

    Today is bloody awful, worse than yesterday. Somewhere along the way I’m bent over the side of the road retching. Not sure why but I think dust and muck from a passing lorry has got caught in my throat. A dog barks behind a hedge as I stare at my shoes, spitting on the ground. More retching. Fuck this shit. I could happily scratch right now.

    The roads into a town called Smederevo are dreadful and the traffic worse. The hot humid air is thick with the stench of pollution. The centre of town is far more pleasant. I spot a restaurant so stop for spag bol and a pint of coke with ice. I ask the waitress if there is a nearby shop where I can buy a phone. She points across the square. An hour and 13000 Serbian Dinar later I have a working phone. That should make life a bit easier again.

    The roads out of town are OK but worsen severely as I near Belgrade. I’m actually scared for my life. Lorries pass close and fast. A bus screams past with an open door within inches of my shoulder. Fuck this shit. I can’t ride any nearer the edge of the road, I’m already being forced into the gutter. Cars just pull out of side roads without bothering to look or stop. I hit Belgrade in the rush hour which involves some weaving in and out of traffic whilst remembering not to get stuck in tram tracks. I notice a McDonald’s and slam on the brakes. I need food and wifi.

    I book apartment in Novi Sad which is about 90km away as it’s not quite 6pm, I’ve got hours yet. A heavy rain storm starts as I head out of the city. I cower under a shopping centre entrance with a load of commuters waiting for buses. I check online again and book an apartment in town half way between here and Novi Sad. My brain is short circuiting. I then book hotel on the outskirts of Belgrade. I am mentally exhausted, today has got so so close to breaking me. I know I’m making dumb choices, I’m spiralling into idiocy. I know exactly what I’m doing yet somehow incapable of stopping myself. All I need to do is find a cafe, sit down and relax for 15 minutes, think things through, carry on. I can’t remember how many times I’ve advised other people to do this. “It’s easier to not lose time than to make up time.” Here I am making precisely that error. It’s way too early, I’ve not gone far enough but I’ve had it. I am drained of all energy and sense. I find the hotel and order a beer and the cross the dual carriageway to a shopping park and find a restaurant and shop. I buy breakfast and wedge it into the hotel room minibar. Plug in the di2. Set an early alarm. Slump on the bed.

    The next morning I realise I really did make a stupid error. Fuck you stupid tired brain! The roads to the north of Belgrade are nothing like those into the city yesterday. They are well surfaced, wider, traffic gives me more space. I knock out the kilometres quickly. I’m so annoyed with myself, I should have kept riding last night. Another 80km was possible and that would have got me to 250 for the day. Still not quite enough but a move back in the right direction after the first couple of day and maybe the start of stringing together a few good days. I stop for a second breakfast in Novi Sad but I could have got here last night. I should have been able to get across Serbia in two days or less, now it’s going to take two and a half.

    Crossing the Danube into Croatia a couple of hours later I feel a weight lifted from my shoulders.

    …to be continued.

  • Somme Friendly

    Somme Friendly

    After one of the recent Normandie trips Claire mentioned she was interested in riding over there sometime. A few minutes later a weekend was pencilled in and an email sent out to some of the usual suspects to see if we could get a little social weekender sorted. Cal and Josh were both up for it as well as Dan. Most of them knew each other and I had at some point ridden with all of them. On paper it seemed like a nice little group. Josh and I are both doing Transcontinental no.7 in a few weeks with support from Reilly Cycleworks, and Dan knew Beccy who is also TCR’ing on a Reilly so asked if he could invite her along. Yep, no probs. That made six, a good number for a group ride, plus evened up the male/female ratio a tad. Hopefully the group dynamics still work but seeing as I’m no longer the common denominator and that’s now Dan I can blame him if it all goes tits up.

    Friday evening all of us except Josh roll along the top of the cliffs towards Newhaven for the midnight ferry. Josh said he’ll meet us there. Still no sign of him when we check in. As we’re stacking our bikes against the metal wall of the car deck he turns up having sprinted from work the other side of Sussex via his mum’s for dinner. We find seats upstairs where Claire and Beccy being sensible settle down to try and get some kip. The rest of us go to the bar. At some point Dan and Cal also crash out in the reclining seats. Me and Josh order another pint and natter about TCR. Eventually we get our heads down for 30 mins before we dock in Dieppe.

    A few kilometres out of Dieppe Beccy comments on how nice the route is already. This bodes well as I know this is just the functional road out of Dieppe to get us to the pretty stuff. The speed is already the quick end of social pace but it’ll probably slow down once we’re on the smaller wiggly lanes. It doesn’t. I should have known better. Everyone is younger than me (by the time we line up in Bulgaria Josh and Beccy’s combined ages will equal mine) and lighter and faster. We’ll see how things go but I may have to be ride Dad later and pull rank and tell the kids to knock the speed on the head or they don’t get pastries and Orangina.

    The sky is hazy-grey but sunshine and blue sky can be seen in the distance, eventually we should reach it. Climbing over the first valley ridge of the day there are some smudges of rain above the horizon ahead and there is a whiff of damp in the air. We manage to avoid the rain and eventually slide out from under the grey into the blue. Our little peloton is shuffling around, everyone is chatting with everyone else, there’s a lot of laughter, everyone is getting on. Seems it’s going to be a good day.

    We make it to the first stop at Saint-Saens at 40km earlier than I expected. I need to slow these eager young scamps. Pastries are bought from one bakery and disappointment expressed that the only café has closed down (one downside of relying on Google Maps and Streetview when planning a route, it’s not always up to date). Second pastries are purchased from the other bakery along the street and tucked in pockets for later. From here on all the way to Amiens it’s new to me as well as the others apart from some roads around Forges-les-Eaux. Somewhere beyond that we must also overlap with my Normandicat route.

    Seeing as we’re clicking down the kilometres quickly and the fact the proposed first café was no longer there, I suggest rather than bypass Forges-les-Eaux we deviate from the planned route slightly to stop for a coffee. I know there is a bar there and I’m well aware that Dan will start to malfunction if we don’t get a coffee into his system soon. Agreement all round. We’ve knocked out more than a third of today’s distance and it’s not even 9.30am. Hopping the curb and unclipping outside the bar other bikes we recognise from the ferry are leaning against the railings. Forges-les-Eaux is on the Avenue Verte and the first obvious café stop for anyone riding London to Paris. Well that’s what I’ve been told, I’ve never actually ridden the Avenue Verte except for a short section near Dieppe. A round of coffees is ordered and the daft conversations continue along with smiles and laughter. Then another round of coffees seeing as we have less than 100km to go and there really is no rush.

    A gradual climb away from Forges-les-Eaux gets us up onto a vast agricultural plateau crossing the border from Normandie into Picardie and the department of Somme. Except Picardie is no longer Picardie having been combined with Nord-Pas de Calais a couple of years ago to become a new larger region called Hauts-de-France. Which is a shame as Picardie had a nice ring to it. The day is warming nicely, layers are being removed and jerseys unzipped. The planned second stop of the day at Formerie becomes the third stop of the morning – it’s still only late morning and we’ve covered half distance. We grab second breakfasts and cold drinks. Twenty kilometres later we’ve stopped at Grandvilliers for lunch. Plus a refreshing cold beer. My usual routine for covering distance efficiently of steady-away pace with short stops has been reversed to short quick rides between long snack stops. Well I think it’s fast, the youngsters are probably thinking “C’mon granddad, keep up!”

    After lunch we drop into a quiet wooded valley before turning onto a slighter harder than I want it to be hill. It’s clearly not so much of an issue for the others as they disappear into the distance. Pesky kids. I eventually catch them at a cemetery they’ve stopped at for a water refill – I have taught them the way of the audaxer well. We drop over the other side of the hill into the valley of La Selle, a small river that runs into the Somme. Not far to Amiens now and no more hills as we’ll follow the river all the way. Somewhere along the way we hide in the shade of a kebab shop awning necking cans of Orangina and Ice Tea. Within half and hour we’re sat outside a bar by Amiens Cathedral ordering end of ride beers.

    On the way to the campsite we stop off at a supermarket and musettes are stuffed with food, bottles of wine shoved into jersey pockets, and baguettes tucked under bibs. We follow the Somme to the edge of the city.

    “Goat cheese down!”

    It has bounced out of my musette and Claire has ridden over it. Still looks edible so someone sticks it in a pocket and we carry on.

    “That’s the most middle class thing I’ve ever heard.”

    We pitch up at the quiet far end of the campsite; one tarp, five bivi bags and a tent inner,

    “It’s not supposed to rain is it?”

    Soon after a picnic dinner there are repeated queries as to whether it’s too early to go to sleep. It’s been a long hot day after a night of not much sleep. We are all unconscious by 10pm.

    Somehow in the middle of the night I managed to poke myself in the eye with the zip of my hoodie I used as a pillow. This has resulted in my eyelid ballooning to the size of a golf ball. It looks like I’ve been punched in the face. Despite the grey skies I’ll be wearing sunnies all day with my cap peak pulled down low. Josh gives me some Ibuprofen which hopefully will ease the swelling.

    We pack up quickly and spin into the city in fine drizzle to grab a supermarket breakfast before heading back along the river for ten kilometres or so. Turning away from the Somme to climb out of the valley we stop for a first coffee in Picquigny. The drizzle has eased off. Re-caffeinated we climb out of town onto the gently undulating plateau to the west of the river and head back towards Dieppe. This morning’s roads aren’t familiar to me but the landscape is. I’ve ridden through this area on other roads to the south and north of where we are. Big fields, big sky, lots of wind turbines. Now and again I recognise place names on signposts. An open bar is spotted.

    “Coffee?”

    Soon after we’re speeding down a descent into another river valley at Blangy-sur-Bresle. Sandwiches are eaten under cover whilst there is a brief rain shower. Perfectly timed lunch stop. It’s been grey all morning and occasionally a bit drizzly but not enough to make anyone grumpy. Not outwardly anyway, today had been all chat and giggles the same as yesterday. Post-shower it remains grey but it’s a brighter grey than we’ve seen so far.

    I could probably ride to Dieppe blindfolded from here. I know a few ways to go but the D149 from Rieux to Fresnoy-Folny through the Forêt d’Eu is a favourite road of mine, a steady climb into the forest and a lovely sweeping descent into Grandcourt before another gentle climb to Fresnoy. We stay high on the Pays de Caux from Fresnoy and aim for the coast. Heads down but still nattering away we cover the distance quickly without fuss, the sea coming into view soon after Saint-Martin-en-Campagne. One last little lump of a hill before Dieppe and a view of the port. The ferry is in but it’s an hour or so until we need to check in. Time to find a bar for second day end of ride beers.

    Thanks to Dan at Breakaway Digital for the colour photos. B&W photos are mine.

    Saturday’s route

    Sunday’s route

  • Monts et Rivieres

    Monts et Rivieres

    Turn left out of the drive and start climbing. Ten kilometres of up. Not steep but constant. Compared to home these hills are mountains, up through the trees to the grass plateau, real mountains jagged against the skyline ahead forty miles distant. The sticky hum of tyres on sun molten tarmac. A snack on a rock overlooking the gorge anticipating the next ascent. Slide back down into forest, sweeping curves and tight switchbacks, dropping out of the sunlight, into the depths, down to the river. Height lost quickly with more ease than it was gained. Across the bridge and straight into the climbing again, steeper than last time, more height in less distance, a squiggle of a road carved into the rock. Dappled sunlight, dazzleship patterns. Tunnels of dark green lead to a portal back into the scorching light. Lizards skitter across the tarmac, crickets’ chirps fill the air, butterflies float by. Stop for a cemetery tap, the Garmin is reading 34 degrees in the sunlight. On the ridge I turn right onto the D3, the road I’ve ridden most around here, a lovely climb, a better descent. Eighteen kilometres of mostly downhill. Big ring, little sprocket, hands in the crooks of the drops, long straights and soft corners, pedal all the way… woah, tightening! Forgot about this one corner, shift the weight back, lean, relax shoulders, lean more, breath… slowly… back on it, hop the speed bumps in Glanes, head down through the walnut orchards and vinyards, back to the river’s edge. Sit up, spin home.

    Turn right at the bottom of the road today towards the hills to the west. Not the volcanic rock of the Massif Central and the River Cère of yesterday but the limestone Causse and the Dordogne. Out past the castle the short climb up to the plateau, once on top the road rises gently some more. The highest point marked by the monument to where the American Air Force dropped ammunition to the French Resistance. You find a lot of crosses at junctions of roads in these parts, memorials to where the Nazis executed members of the Resistance. Dry stone walls slowly crumbling under moss and lichen. Butterflies float between constellations of wild flowers, white, yellow, lilac. Fast swooping roads to the sacred city built under the cliffs. Layers of vermillion hills and purple shadows. Two cold cans of iced tea in the shade of a tree, the digital display outside the pharmacy in that last village said 39 degrees. Descend into the rocks, the road cut into the hillsides down to where the river Dordogne has carved it’s way through the soft rock over millenia. Across the river climb some more before losing all that height in a handful of minutes. Glimpses of the view snatched between the trees flashing by. Riding under cliffs, in the shadows, back across the river, back up the other side, then down under more cliffs, so tall it feels as though they are toppling down on you. Out on to the flood plains, back into the sunlight, long long straight roads. Eighty kilometres done and ten to go, a drag of a climb, I feel my shoulders tense, my arms stiffen, oh crap here goes… the hammer donks me on the head, that’s you done matey… no, but, but i just need to get to that castle over there, it’s not far… nope you’re done. Ten to eight and a pharmacy sign shows 35 degrees still. A swig of warm water. Yuk. Just 8km to go. Tap to a lower gear.

    A large shadow drifts across my path I look up and a huge bird of prey is gliding just ahead of me out across the field tucked in the nook of the hairpin. Doesn’t have the silhouette of a buzzard and definitely not the tail of a kite and too big for either, maybe an eagle? I cross the Jordanne river and turn up the valley, the start of the climb, the first part is easy, the proper climbing doesn’t start until I get to the campsite at Mandailles-Saint-Julien and the first Col marker appears. Eleven kilometres to the summit, average gradient of 5.4 for this first kilometre. It’s been a while since I’ve ridden here but from memory it doesn’t get steeper until the middle section and the last kilometre is pretty much flat across the shoulder of the mountains. Cowbells clang in the valley below. Flowers crowd the verges, foxgloves, giant daisies, buttercups, cow parsley, purple and blue ones I don’t recognise. The yellow of gorse flowers smears up the mountainside. The bank above the road is full of exposed silver birch roots. Clouds gather over the mountain but still my jersey is unzipped as I climb in and out of the saddle to maintain as even a cadence as possible. A coffee at the cafe at Col de Pas de Peyrol overlooking the view to the north. I need to ride the roads that way sometime. Pull my jacket on for the steep descent. Through a fug of burning clutch and onto the stretch with bends you can see all the way through so the fast line can be taken safely. A short sharp incline to Col de Neronne. The long curving road around the valley side is ten kilometres of soft pedalling at speed into the village of Salers. A quick spin around the narrow cobbled streets looking for some food but nothing doing except the restaurant at the fancy hotel. Rummage in pocket and find the last of the cereal bars. Hairpins out of the village into a quiet valley, a chapel carved into a rock rising from the valley floor. Follow the river and the climbing starts again through woodland. Small farms and tiny hamlets. Hairpins and steepening gradient, a sign for a col I didn’t spot of the map, damn that means I’m probably going to lose height again and I thought I only had about 200 metres left to climb. Drop gently into another shallow valley, hairpin and climb again. Col de Legal. Speedy descent down to a familiar crossroads, been here already today, and a couple of time before. Pull into the cafe for a coffee and Orangina before the final fifteen kilometres back to Aurillac.

  • Normandicat

    Normandicat

    As soon as I start pedalling I relax. I know what I’m doing now. Riding bikes. Done loads of it. Cheered off by the organisers and volunteers we all turn left up the street from the Salle des Fetes just after 10pm. Most people continue straight across the roundabout at the top of the road. I turn right. I’ve decided to ride between the control points in an anti-clockwise direction. It seems not many others have. There are three riders ahead but as they cross the next junction back into Bayeux I remember them saying they were heading back to their B&B for a kip before setting off in the early hours of tomorrow morning. I and one other turn down the hill. At the next set of lights I take a left into town wishing the Dutch guy on the Surly good luck, say see you at the finish. His reply is “Maybe”.

    Bayeux is quiet as I slip through its streets in the quick fading light, dampness in the air. It has rained most of the evening but it seems to have eased off a bit. Out the other side of town I join a main road heading west. It is long and straight and gently rises and falls like only long and straight French roads can. Behind me I can see another bicycle headlight, maybe the Dutch fella but a few kilometres later a French rider called Pierre passes me saying “Hi”. I hang just behind him for another handful of kilometres, careful not to be so close as to draft. There are no trackers so no one will know but rules are rules. His red rear light blips just a way ahead for quite a while, eventually disappearing into the distance as I slow to turn onto some smaller roads that in turn become narrow lanes through woodland and sleeping villages. The last of the twilight drains from the sky. Silhouettes of trees recede into the darkness. On these narrower roads the way twists and undulates a bit more. I’m all alone in a bubble of light floating through the French countryside. It starts to rain again. I don’t care. I feel at home out here.

    I hug the edge of a motorway before dipping under it and tracking the other side. Back on a long straight road. In the pitch black drizzle all sense of scale has gone. The only way I know the road I’m on is long is because the car headlights coming towards me are taking a very long time to get to me. Behind me I can still see a bike light. Glancing right at a road sign I make a rough calculation from the road sign on last bend from where the light appeared and guess they are a kilometer behind me. It takes about 30 minutes for them to catch me two towns later. It’s Pierre. “Hi again”. He follows the road left, I continue straight on, back into narrow lanes through woodland. I next bump into Pierre and the Dutch guy (sorry, I forgot to ask your name) at the first Control Point on the west coast at Portbail. We have a quick chat and then they ride off whilst I unzip the framebag to find some food. I take a time-stamped photo of the bike in front of the church and WhatsApp it to Xavier, the organizer.

    I ride back out of town and turning south at a roundabout I’m on another long straight main road so settle into the aerobars and watch the rain flicker through my headlight beam. A podcast in my right ear as listening in on someone else’s chat is likely to be more entertaining than any conversation I’ll have with my own psyche in the depths of the night.

    * * *

    I spent the last couple of days riding from Dieppe to Bayeux through some strong headwinds praying the wind would die down before the start of Normandicat. Today I’d mostly relaxed. After breakfast I strolled into town to see the Bayeux Tapestry and grab a coffee. Then I went back to the hotel for a snooze for a couple of hours, stockpiling some sleep before riding through the night. From mid-afternoon I was starting to get twitchy, just wanting to get on with it. All the waiting around lets the mind meander and it tends to wander off towards the dark corners where the doubts lurk. I tried to distract myself, watched some telly, had a shower, watched more telly, had some bread and cheese, packed my stuff onto the bike, checked and rechecked everything. Four o’clock, too early for registration but I needed to move. I rode into town, found a bar, ordered an Orangina and a coffee. Half past four. Still too early but I decided to ride to the registration venue and try to relax some more. There was a guy tweaking a Surly on the rack of a VW camper with Dutch plates. We had a quick chat before I sat against the wall and dozed. Riders started to accumulate. The atmosphere was pretty relaxed. Had a chat with Felix and Tom, the latter a veteran on two Transcons and had ridden All Points North the weekend before, I’d been following his progress on Instagram, and both riding TCRno7. More riders arrived. There was a mix of bikes from carbon frames and deep section rims with minimal luggage, steel bikes in full bikepacking set up, old touring rigs with panniers, and even a French trio on cargo bikes including a box of groceries. It started to rain. Registration was delayed due to a keep fit class in Salle des Fetes. I just wanted to get going. I wandered off to find some food and when I got back registration was open. I signed on and waited some more.

    * * *

    “Un grand café s’il vous plait”

    It’s quarter to ten in the morning and I’m sitting outside a café opposite the castle in Fougeres, CP3. I’ve done 225km since 10pm last night and it rained pretty much continually since leaving Portbail. The last CP was about 60km back in Villedieu-des-Poelles where I shivered in a cash machine alcove wringing water out of my gloves and working out if I had any more layers I could wear. The ride through the night is a bit of a blur. I passed signs for Mont St. Michel and there were some long climbs away from the coast. The descents were slow because of fogging up glasses and standing water on the roads. Somewhere I think I was chased by a dog. I definitely heard claws scratching tarmac behind me and they sped up as I got out of the saddle and sprinted. There was a really really really long straight section where it took at least two minutes for the car lights ahead of me to actually reach me. I’ve eaten half a bag of cashew nuts, some jellies, half a lump of cheese, and I found a bakery open an hour or so back so grabbed a small quiche. My socks squelch in my shoes. A coffee is much needed.

    I stuff my musette with food from a small supermarket on my way out of town. It’s Ascension Day and a lot of places may be shut today so I need to carry food just in case. It’s good to carry food at all times anyway. The rain stopped an hour or so ago and the clouds seem to be breaking. The next control is about 100km away in Carrouges and the profile of my route tells me I’ll be doing a lot of climbing. However I’m using relatively large roads for efficiency and easy navigation so most of the ascent is gained in lengthy not-quite-draggy big ring climbs. As I climb a dark lump of wooded larger hills appears in the distance. I know the highest point of my ride is over 400 metres in a national park so I guess that is what I’m looking at. In the next village I creak open the gate to the cemetery and fill my bidons from the tap.

    The roads start to rise and fall with a little more interest as I get close to Carrouges and it’s getting hot. I ride straight past the castle because I’ve convinced myself the control is a chapel in the town. Half way up the hill into town I start to doubt myself and expect that the castle was the control. Why wouldn’t it be the only glaringly obvious landmark for miles around!? A lap of the town and finding nothing else other than signs back towards the castle I decide that must have been it. I lean the bike against a sign and take a photo as proof of passage. I’m low on water again. Hopefully I’ll pass another cemetery soon as nothing is open in Carrouges. Except the castle, which may have a cafe, but it’s back down the hill in the wrong direction.

    Over the biggest hill of the day on one of the straightest roads in a the day of straight roads. The descent is just as arrow straight and hilariously fast and flings me out into relative flat country. Progress is quick and I soon transfer to the next set of hills. I do some sums and work out it’s about 25km to the next control at La Chapelle-Montligeon. The tall skinny guy from the start in toned down kit with deep section carbon rims passes me coming the other way. Fucking hell! That means he must have already done 500km riding clockwise. I spot an open shop in the next village so grab more food and can of Ice Tea from the fridge. Food in bag, neck the drink. A time-stamped photo of Sanctuaire Notre-Dame de Montligeon. 400km pretty much on the nose. Twenty one hours. One climb through a forest later I’m ringing the doorbell of a gite in the town of Longny-au-Perche.

    All along I had planned to ride through the night and cover 400+ kilometres in the first 20 to 22 hours and then stop at a hotel for a proper rest. For a three day event like Normandicat I could easily manage with a couple of short overnight bivi stops and catch up on proper sleep after the event. For the Transcontinental in the summer though I want to use hotels every couple of nights so this is an experiment to see how it affects my body and head to properly stop and rest between big days. It may be that everything goes into recovery mode and refuses to get going again the next day. On the plus side a shower, a proper sleep in a bed, and fresh kit in the morning can be a massive psychological boost.

    Often bikepacking I’ll opt for cheap chain hotels as you can just up and leave early in the morning, get back on the road, crack on. I’m immediately aware that I’ve selected somewhere very nice with friendly owners accustomed to guests using it as a base rather than a pitstop. This becomes apparent with the sharp intake of breath when asked what time I would like breakfast I respond with “Seven?”. Ideally I’d like to be back on the road by six but I’m not going to complain about an extra couple of hours kip. Anyway this isn’t a race, this is trying stuff out, prepping for the Transcon. Also there weren’t many options in the area. The shower is possibly the best shower I’ve ever had and it’s lovely to be out of cycling kit. I sit in the garden and work my way through the food in my musette.

    * * *

    I first wanted to do Normandicat a couple of years ago, the first edition, but it didn’t fit with TCRno5 plans. Last year I wasn’t in the mood for anything daft, just some touring about. However this year it does fit in with plans and is a perfect prep ride for TCRno7. Essentially it is an endurance alleycat – nine control points and it’s up to you how you get between them, anti-clockwise, clockwise, figure of eight, zigzag, whatever. Roughly 900km in distance and 9000 metres of climbing. Its appeal is two-fold. Like the Transcontinental it’s a free route and I enjoy the process of researching and plotting a ride. The decisions different riders make can make big differences on the road. Secondly I travel to northern Normandy a few times a year to ride and this event means I get to explore deeper into the region, down into Basse Normandie.

    * * *

    My alarm goes off at six thirty and I get out of bed. Well, maybe not immediately. I’m still sleepy but I need to get on with my day. Having asked for an early breakfast I had also better be sat at that table by seven. I quietly consume breakfast then pack my stuff before wheeling my bike though the gates of the gite. Back on the road, at home again. Today I ride into territory I know, up towards the coast at Treport, another control point but first I have to get to the next CP at Gisors. In a pretty medieval village I stop for a second breakfast of strawberry tart and shove a ham and cheese loaf into my musette. I’ll find shops open today but I’ve learned to always carry food as rural France can be very empty. Clip back in, start pedaling again. Vast skies, wheat and barley ripple in the gentle wind, a sea of green. Soft hills and big gears.

    I cross the Seine in a mess of big roads in a large sprawling town. Spotting a bar I stop for a coffee. An unnecessarily steep climb out the back of the bar, a shortcut but probably no quicker than using the easier gradients of the two roads I’m cutting between. I get off and walk 50 metres, it’s as quick as grinding the pedals round and kinder on the knees. Through some roadworks. A long climb through fields. The lyrics to REM’s Losing My Religion induce some tears of tiredness. It’s weird how lyrics to songs that have passed through your brain a hundred times before suddenly trip a switch for no apparent reason. At the summit of the hill the road lies like a ribbon draped across the hillside into the distance. Onto the drops, have a little giggle and sing along to XTC’s Senses Working Overtime. Ah, the ups and downs of the long ride, it’s been a while. Welcome back.

    I follow a valley road and then cyclepath all the way to Gisors. A photograph of the castle. A kebab shop plat du jour of fried egg on a burger with chips and salad, Orangina, petit café. Across the road for a ham baguette for the musette. The girl behind the counter asks where I’m riding. I simply say Dieppe as there’s not time to explain. From here I’ve plotted two routes to the coast, one uses a fast valley road, the other over the hills, both through places I’ve been many times before. I opt for the faster route as I’m a bit behind the schedule I set myself. Over some hills I ease into the familiarity of the known. Three hours pass and I recognize the shapes of hills. I also realise I’ve forgotten to eat for the last 75km even though I’m carrying food. I’m still wearing all the layers I put on this morning despite the fact it’s five p.m. and the last pharmacie’s digital display told me it was 28 degrees. I’ve slowed. The engine is overheating and it needs fuel. Seven p.m., time for dinner.

    Blangny-sur-Bresle. Been here loads of times, never this tired. I ride from one bakery to kebab shop to restaurant to little shop to the other bakery. The indecision of tiredness. I sit on a bench in front of the church, an apple tart and a can of Ice Tea in front of me. A little sigh. Not really the dinner I want but I don’t actually know what I want but I know I need to eat and this was what I’ve bought so this is what I’m going to eat. I rummage in the musette and find the ham baguette. I could have done this two hours ago before the engine lights started to flash. Idiot.

    I hit the edge of land at Treport and find the funicular station, the next control point. I stare at it blankly pondering “Am I allowed to use this to get to the top of the cliffs?” whilst simultaneously thinking it’s 9pm and it’s probably not running again until morning. Just as I’m turning to ride away I hear a door slide open and turn back. There’s an empty cabin in the station. Shit, is it cheating to use it? I delve into my memory to try and remember what the website said.

    On vous a aussi préparé une belle surprise avec le funiculaire du Tréport qu’il faudra prendre… avec son vélo ! (gratuit – ne fonctionne pas la nuit).

    I’m interpreting that as yes I can use it. I wheel my bike inside.

    From the clifftop I can see all the way along to coast to Dieppe. The Newhaven ferry is heading for port. Forty kilometres and I could trundle onto it, fall asleep and be home by morning. I dig out my gilet, clip back in and push off down the hill towards the next coastal town, the sun sets as I ride past the beach. Over hills past signposts with place names I recognise. A sign at a T-junction points right to Dieppe and that ferry home. I turn left along the valley back into the hills. I know these hills. I’ve daytripped in these parts many times before. Arques-le-Bataille. I was here just a week and a half ago.

    As the day slides into darkness tiredness falls over me like a blanket. I feel like I’m getting slow, not sure I actually am but it feels like it. I know these roads, ridden them multiple times, and this doesn’t feel like the usual rate of progress round these parts. Set off dog bark tag through a darkened village. Clip a speed bump out of that village, jerks me awake, internal voice “Don’t do that again you fucking idiot!” Do exactly the same entering the next village. OK, I’m making daft mistakes because I’m tired but not so exhausted that I don’t recognise that fact. I need to find somewhere to sleep. I know there’s a town within 5km and a few bus shelters on the way (I hid from the wind and rain in one of them last year) but then I spot a church to my left, set away from the road, huge porch. A perfect audax hotel. Pull the dynamo cables out of the back of my light and walk across the gravel drive. Sshhh! Bloody hell gravel is noisy when you’re trying to be discreet. I unroll my bivi kit and set my alarm for 04:30. An hour later I wake up cold having fallen asleep on top of my stuff. I crawl into my sleeping bag liner and fall asleep again.

    * * *

    I like maps and I like working out how to get between places. On long events route choice can make or break a ride. Do you use main roads or narrow lanes? Is the shortest line really the fastest route? Larger roads can get boring. Small roads put you nearer the landscape and wildlife. However they tend to also link small villages where finding supplies can be hit or miss. Main roads go from one town to another, places where bars and cafes can be found, supermarkets and toilets. Narrow lanes may shorten the distance between A and B but that advantage can be negated by more junctions to negotiate, sharper little climbs, worse road surfaces. These ways can be the old ways, from a quieter, less busy world. The roads built for cars are designed for efficiency, roundabouts not T-junctions, they iron out the hills a bit. Sometimes you just want to get your head down and chunk out a load of kilometres. Also sections you’re likely to ride at night can be easier on main roads when they are quiet, fewer junctions to navigate in the dark or when tired. A mix of both works well, get the distance covered efficiently when needed, but keep the mind occupied and interested at others, keep away from the traffic, see the pretty stuff. What’s the point of a journey if you don’t look around and take it in?

    * * *

    The dawn chorus fills the lightening sky as I head towards Rouen. I’ve routed myself through Rouen because it negated the possibility of missing a last ferry across the Seine elsewhere had I hit this point of the ride during the night and food options should be plenty. However I have managed to route myself through suburban streets full of junctions and traffic lights. Get stuck behind a bin lorry. It takes forever and nowhere is open for food, not even either of the Maccy D’s I ride past. Eventually I find an open patisserie on the far side of the city. I stop to eat and de-layer. It’s going to be another hot day and I really don’t need to make the same overheating mistake as yesterday.

    A few big roads and a few big hills later I turn onto a narrow road towards the next CP at Le Bec-Hellouin. Freewheeling down to the abbey I pass Pierre sat outside a café and wave hello. Photo taken I spin back to the cafe where we chat over coffee. I’ve not seen him since CP1 and quite honestly didn’t expect to see him again as he was clearly riding faster than me. Turns out he missed the last ferry across the Seine last night so was forced to stop and wait until this morning. My decision to re-route myself through Rouen appears to have played out well. I set off before Pierre but stop in the very next village when I see an open bakery for proper breakfast. He whizzes past as I’m sitting on a windowsill eating. Yeah, he’s definitely riding faster than me.

    More woodland, more hills. Under a hundred kilometres to go. A little happy cry (oh come on, I’m tired, there’s all kinds of chemical imbalances going on internally and thoughts bouncing around my head) with the realisation I’m going to finish. Short of a major mechanical this is in the bag. Five commutes and it is done. An ice cream in the shade. Somewhere I run out of road and stare ahead at a gravel bridleway that disappears into a tunnel of trees. Punch the Garmin a couple of times, zoom out. There should be a road about a kilometre ahead. Do I go back and around. Sod it. I ride on. Then climb off and push the bike up a rubble-strewn track. It levels out and becomes a grass track. Hop back on, straight ahead ducking under branches, splash through a puddle, pop out on a road. Make a mental note to double check and triple check the Transcon route for surprises.

    Place names I recognize from my ride down to Bayeux from Dieppe a few days ago. Twenty kilometres on a very busy road, head down, aerobars, big gear, smash it out as quickly as possible. Right knee niggles, click to an easier gear. Another town, another pastry, another cold drink. Flood plains towards the coast. Same roads as Tuesday but less headwind thankfully. Pegasus Bridge. I stop for an ice cream, yes another one, and Pierre flies past with a wave. How the hell did I get in front of him again? Oh crap, this means it’s a sprint finish. A thirty kilometer sprint finish.

    I roll into the car park at the Salle des Fetes a few minutes after Pierre. We smile and congratulate each other on finishing. I push my bike inside, grab a cold can of Coke, wander back outside, take off my shoes, sit on the grass in the sun. 897km in 64 hours and 47 minutes. I don’t want to but I know I could ride another hundred kilometres today if I needed to.

    Which is just as well as I have to ride home tomorrow.

    * * *

    Prior to this there have been niggling fears that no matter how much I want to be able to do these things maybe I’m not cut out for it, not made of the right stuff. Wanting to do something is not the same as being able to do it. I did a lot of bikepacking last year but those were relatively short days and with long lunch breaks and the comfort of hotels every night. I failed* to finish TCRno5. It took a couple of efforts to complete a 600km audax. I dislike 400km audaxes, find them really bloody hard. However at no point during Normandicat did I have any doubts about being able to complete it. Physically and mentally I was within my comfort zone throughout. There was stuff left in the tank. The first 400km were completed more than 4 hours quicker than I’ve finished any 400km audax. I wasn’t particularly fast, just efficient when I stopped (except that evening in Blangny when I was spectacularly inefficient) and I tried not to stop often. Even though my rough schedule slipped I knew I could still finish well within the time limit. The hotel stop on Thursday night was longer than it could have been. Time could have been saved there. I could have ridden for another couple of hours, still managed six hours sleep and been on my way by sunrise. It’s potentially dangerous to extrapolate from a 900km lumpy ride around friendly Normandy to a 4000km race across vast tracts of Europe unknown to me with mountains and gravel sectors. They aren’t the same thing but considering how this went and still factoring in those mountains and gravel bits plus accumulating tiredness then completing TCRno7 feels definitely within my capabilities. Many TCRno5 demons have been laid to rest. A quiet confidence with just enough trepidation… and tempered by experience – as I well know, anything can happen.

    Bring it on.

    * Fail is maybe not the right word if I consider Mike Hall’s words about The Transcontinental and endurance racing “If we treat things as a pass-or-fail test, we can torture ourselves over the outcome. But if we consider it more as an experiment with an uncertain outcome from the start, then we always at least get an answer.”

  • Bristol to London(ish)

    Bristol to London(ish)

    Having volunteered at one of the London Wales London audax controls last year I had decided to help out at the arrivée in Chalfont St. Peter for this year’s LWL. Unfortunately I then discovered it clashed with Bespoked so for the first time in five years it looked like I was going to miss Bespoked. I made plans to ride to LWL arrivée from Brighton on Saturday, help out overnight, and ride home on Sunday. Then I heard my new Transcon bike would be on display at Bespoked and I thought it would be nice to catch up with a few friends down in Bristol. I found a cheap train ticket for Friday afternoon and my original plans needed rejiggering. A quick message to see if I could crash over at friend’s and then scrapped the Brighton routes and plotted Bristol to Chalfont St. Peter instead…

    – – – – –

    My alarm goes off at 4am. Up and out early. El, Liam, and a friend of theirs are riding the 400km Brevet Cymru today and have to be 25km up the road in Chepstow by six. Hugs and handshakes in cold rain in the dark, they head north, I head east up the hill with a Radio 4 podcast in my ears. The same roads as when I rode back from here in February but colder, darker, wetter. I make sure I don’t miss the turnings I did back in February. Sunrise over Hinton Hill and familiar roads to Leigh Delamere services for Hailsham 600 flashbacks (Chippenham Pitstop a few miles further on would be my preference but it doesn’t open for another hour and a half). A more than disappointing coffee and sausage sarnie from Gregg’s is the only option at ten past six in the morning. The usual sideways looks as people try to work out how a bike got in here from the M4. I should get back outside and carry on but it’s warm in here and I’ve got all day to get to Chalfont. I stay until I get the feeling back in my feet and the piped pop music finally gets too much. I plug my ears into an audio book and wander outside.

    The sky is clearing as the sun climbs higher, there’s hope the temperature may rise but for now it’s still cold, all the layers stay zipped up. I’m heading into places new to me but pass signposts for places I know; Malmesbury, Royal Wootton Bassett, Swindon. I can see the Wessex Downs to my right beyond the M4 which I’m vaguely tracing eastwards. Somewhere I skim the edge of Swindon, all new housing estates and traffic calming measures plus a couple of lumpy hills. Passing a coffee shop I stop for a third breakfast of coffee and cake. It’s still only 9am and I’ve covered more than a third of the distance.

    In and out of a corner of Oxfordshire and back into Wiltshire where I cross the Thames as I skim the edge of Gloucestershire before once more across a county line and the land flattens into Oxfordshire. Every town and village for the last few miles has sold itself as the Gateway to the Cotswolds. The next few hours will be spent crossing the county until I hit the Chilterns. I don’t really know this part of southern England, I’ve ridden across parts of it on audaxes (LWL, Wander Wye, Gently Bentley) but it’s not familiar enough to recognise the landscape. I’ve routed myself this way to Chalfont via Oxford as on the map it was clear there’s a gap between the Cotswolds and Wessex Downs. Near Royal Wootton Bassett I could have picked up the London Wales London route all the way back but that way lay more hills. Somewhere I must overlap with the LWL routesheet (Brinkworth to Callow Hill, when I check later). I like this, the point to point ride with intent, A to B through new places.

    I’m generally following the Thames on its flood plains but with no protection from hills the northerly wind makes its presence felt. The sun is shining but the air is still cool. With the wind and the straight roads I’m glad I stuck the aero bars back on for a bit of practice and to see how flexible I am. I need to do more pilates (I already knew this).  I pass a bakery and glance at the time. Elevenses. Brazilian Apple Tart and a fruit juice.

    More straight flat lanes follow but these turn to busier faster roads the closer I get to Oxford. The Swinford toll bridge (free for bikes) over the Thames and soon I’m on the outskirts of the city using bus lanes and some sketchy cycle lanes. I planned to stop here for lunch but it’s still not quite midday plus it’s busy and noisy. I crack on through and start to look for a nice looking pub once I’m back out in the countryside.

    It’s hillier this side of Oxford, I can tell I’m approaching the Chilterns. Rolling in and out of little valleys and through quaint villages I spot a pub in Little Milton. A pint of ale and a cheese ploughman’s lunch (i.e., proper cycle tourist lunch).

    “Any dessert?”

    “No, thanks”

    I’ve already had two slices of cake today.

    The roads start to roll a little bit more as the ridge of the Chilterns gets closer. I stop at a petrol station to buy a bag of Jelly Babies as it’s not a proper DIY audax without a petrol station stop for Jelly Babies. I start to spot red kites all over the place, skidding about the air just over houses and farmyards, right next to roads, they seem oblivious to people. Their agility is bewitching, the speed, the flicks of tails, darting back and forth.

    Out of Chinnor the first of three proper climbs. This first one not so bad, up onto a ridge with a long fast ever so slightly downhill section before plummeting into a valley and steeply crawling back out the other side. That one was cheekily steep. The pattern repeats; another false flat road following a ridge then in and out of a valley. The Garmin battery is running low so I stop to charge it on a village green (I’ve knackered the USB port so charging on the go is a bit iffy). Looking eastwards I see dark clouds rolling in. I reckon about 18km to go, I’m not going to outrun them but I can try…

    Five minutes down the road it gets dark and starts to tip it down but as quick as it starts it’s over, blue sky follows the cloud. The smell of damp woodland and bluebells hits my nostrils as steam rises from lanes heated by the sun all day until now. The rear tyres slips a little around a corner as the brake locks up on slippery tarmac. The roads tip downwards out of the hills towards the outer edge of London. Under the M25 and into the suburbs.

    A few hours later I’ve had a shower, a short kip and got changed and ready to man the London-Wales-London arrivee. It’s going to be a long night but at least I’m not having to ride through it.

    – – – – –

    It turned out to be a great night seeing many old and new friends all trying to qualify for Paris-Brest-Paris. Tired smiles, stories, thousand yard stares, and couple of hugs. Many cups of tea were brewed and instant coffee tolerated, a huge pan of Dahl emptied, and every variation of toast, ham, beans, and cheese combined. By 9am Sunday morning I was shattered but it had been worth it. I gave up any thoughts of riding home or even into London for a train, and caught a train from a mile or so down the road.

    I slept for 15 hours when I got home Sunday afternoon.

  • Amesbury Amble

    Amesbury Amble

    The second Kingston Wheelers audax of the season and the 300km one in their Paris-Brest-Paris qualifier series. Due to the early start we went up the night before to sleep over on the scout hut floor, same as for Wander Wye last year. As with the WW I was riding with Simon.

    It’s cold when we set off, really cold. In fact I’m not sure I can feel my toes for the first two hours. The initial part of the route follows the end of last month’s Gentley Bentley ride; Esher, Ripley, Send, then through Normandy to Aldershot and Farnham. Teenage roadie roads, past a mate’s parents’ house, the pub where I saw Fleet legends Jim Jiminee play with The Sunday‘s drummer (think he was the brother of the Jim’s bass player), roads where I passed my motorcycle test, past the pub where the scooter club met. Rather than wait for the official first control at Lasham we stop in Farnham for coffee and breakfast. A very long queue outside the record shop up the street for Record Store Day. A joke about obsessive people doing ridiculous things.

    From here it’s steadily uphill all the way to Lasham to collect a stamp at the garden centre. As I pass a someone on a steeper part of the climb I hear “Oh, it’s you, you’re the man from icon.” It’s Niki and Mike who rode to Belgium last month inspired by the Omloop post. We chat as far as Lasham where Simon and I get a stamp but carry straight on having already eaten in Farnham.

    The lanes to Bighton are generally downhill and very, very pretty, parts of it reminding me of the Meon Valley. We spin along quickly chatting away. Spotting an orange Rapha jacket and a carradice ahead, I guess it’s Marcus and ease up for a chat for a few minutes. From Bighton I’m on familiar roads from many rides to Bristol. It occurs to me that the info control is probably the pub where Jo and I had lunch when I rode my Reilly to Bespoked two years ago. It is and the next few kilometres through the Itchen Valley are familiar too. Past the big house with the fishing lake and cattle grids across it’s estate, then Kings Worthy and north of Winchester before dropping into the Test Valley.

    The last time I rode this way was a couple of months back on the way to the Orielles gig. Even though that was just seven weeks ago there is a noticeable difference between then and now, late winter and spring. The sun is higher, the fields greener, the trees covered in buds and blossom. Counter intuitively it’s a whole load colder though. The familiar draggy climb to the Winterslows, across Porton Down (secret stuff, eyes ahead, no photos, there are probably snipers out there) and as far as the River Avon at Upper Woodford. Somewhere along the way the silhouette of the spire of Salisbury Cathedral points to heaven.

    This is as far West as we go. We follow the Avon north to the half way control and lunch in Amesbury. After lunch the pace slows for a while, partly as I always get a bit sluggish after a meal stop but also because Salisbury Plain is secretly hilly. It doesn’t look particularly hilly but try telling your legs that. It’s also wide open and the wind is whipping across it, right at us. A fluorescent orange wind sock can be seen from some distance, waggling about, pointing at us, taunting us. Tank crossings at regular intervals. Gravel roads disappear off across the plain in every direction. I check the numbers, despite slowing we’re still on schedule (20kph with stops, five hour hundreds, all part of a masterplan), in fact we gain 10 minutes by Whitchurch, the next control.

    Then there’s another long slog over the bottom right corner of the Wessex Downs. However there’s a pay off in the form of a lovely descent to Bramley. Back on teenage roadie roads. A signpost for Heckfield. I’m sure there was a local ten near there, up and down the A33. Probably still is. Some roads I recognise from more recently but I’m not sure from when*. Simon is starting to struggle, his pace is dropping right off, and he’s feeling cold. It’s still some way to the next control at Ascot and I’ve already been thinking I’m going to need food before then. It’s 10 past 6 and lunch was over four hours ago. I know we skirt Wokingham and Bracknell on the way, towns that’ll have places to stop, we mention Maccy D moments before spotting a MacDonalds bag in the grass verge like some kind of scummy subliminal advertising. How much Maccy D packaging ends up on roadsides? It seems to be the one constant on any ride. They should tag the stuff so it can be seen how far it gets distributed. That would make a depressing map.

    At a crossroads there’s a pub. We make an impromptu stop for coffee and crisps so Simon can warm up a bit. Logging into the pub wi-fi I check Google Maps for what might be available in Wokingham in about 15km. There’s a Burger King on the route so we decide to stop there for dinner, then we’ll bash on for the finish with just a quick cash machine receipt stop in Ascot.

    The next section between Wokingham and Ascot via Bracknell is a bit rubbishy, all roundabouts and main roads. Daylight fades quickly. We grab a cash machine receipt and head towards Virginia Water. It’s fully dark as we roll along the edge of Windsor Great Park and Virginia Water lake. I spot the restaurant that was the first info control from last month so I know we’ll be following the first bit of Gentley Bentley backwards. In my head I tick off places, over the M3 by Thorpe Park, Chertsey, Sunbury, Hampton, Kingston, done.

    Due to tech issues I’m the only one with a map so I’m on the front and my legs still feel strong after 280km, we proceed at a decent whack. An occasional glance over my shoulder to check Simon’s still there. I forgot that Sunbury seems to be about 8 miles wide. The road goes on and on and on… Where’s that junction with the Hampton road? Ah, here we go. Head down, click up. Hampton Court Palace, Bushy Park, over Kingston Bridge, sketchy bit around the one way system, back on suburban streets. Garmin battery down to 8%, crank the speed up a notch to make sure we can find the way back before it dies. Raynes Park on a signpost. One last little climb, over the A3. Hop a curb, cyclepath, scout hut. Shake of hands, “Well done mate”. 312km, 15 hours 49 minutes. A tad over schedule but not by much, we’ve made up a chunk of time since Ascot.

    A change of clothes, some food, and a cup of tea before the (slow) dash to East Croydon for the late train home.

    Route ridden: http://www.strava.com/activities/2287967002

     

    Thanks to Kingston Wheelers for another great audax, a beautiful route (except for the bit around Bracknell but that’s not their fault, all the roads round there are shit) and friendly arrivee with good food.

    *a bit of digging in the archives and found it was riding back from helping at at the control on last year’s LWL

  • Seven Tractors

    Seven Tractors

    Almost-silence hangs in the mist. The only sounds are bird song and the gentle whirring of block and chain. The valley sides are obscured by layers of tracing paper haze. Silhouettes of trees and church spires look one and the same. Follow La Béthune for an hour before turning onto the clay hills. Rollercoaster bends through the Forêt d’Eawy and down to Vallée de la Varenne, the river that divides Pays de Caux and Pays de Bray. Sit and eat a pastry on a bench in front of the church in Saint-Saëns. I follow the Varenne back towards the sea for a few kilometres then climb west onto the limestone plateau. The rest of the day will be spent meandering on roads new to me up here.

    Horizons are as lonely as they are wide, broken only now and again by rows of trees, telegraph poles, or the occasional wind turbine. Quiet roads drift across agricultural land, the gentle curves of the road mirroring the slight rise and fall of the landscape. I drop in and out of shallow valleys where rivers flow north to the Channel; La Scie, La Saâne, La Vienne, La Durdent. I’ve not seen a car for hours. It’s so peaceful I can hear a bee in a field. A skylark disguises itself in song. Electricity cables fizz in the air above, pylons marching south across the fields. Birds scatter into the air from a bend in the road. Small villages with huge churches. A route that double backs on itself, almost crossing itself but not quite touching, the same place names repeated on signposts hours apart. Doudeville appears many times, I must be circling it. No hedgerow to break the flatness, grass becomes road becomes ploughed earth. A field of rape just turning yellow. Unclip a foot and let the tractor pass, returning a nod and wave to the farmer.

    Another slight hill and I sweep down to a junction. Turn left and I’ll be back in Dieppe in half an hour. Turn right and I can follow the rivers for a little longer. I’ve hours left before the ferry home so I turn inland following La Scie back towards an earlier patisserie stop. Up onto the ridge between the Varenne and Scie I turn north one last time, towards the sea like the rivers I’ve had for company all day. A road I’ve ridden a few times before, the D100. Previously I’ve ridden this road at sunrise on legs only just warmed up. Now it’s late afternoon and they have 185km in them, the road feels very different, looks different. I don’t remember it rolling quite this much. The other way round and the other end of the day this has been a favourite, I’m not so sure now. The last of the cashew nuts from that little shop that was unexpectedly open mid-afternoon. The road tips downwards to where the Béthune and Varenne combine with L’Eaulne to form L’Arques which flows the last few kilometres to the harbour at Dieppe. One last river to follow.

    I retrieve the D-lock I left attached to a railing in the harbour this morning and head for a favoured brasserie to see if they are serving food yet.

    “La cuisine, ouvert?”

    “Non, six heures et demi.”

    Glance at the clock. Forty five minutes.

    “D’accord. Une café, s’il voux plait…une Leffe aussi, merci.”