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The trip was planned, details fine-tuned, bikes ready and participants mentally prepared. Then the French went on strike. The lorries backed up from Calais giving the residents of Sangatte a few more chances to masking tape themselves to the fuel tanks. Op Stack kicked in over here and the M20 was shut as the backlog of traffic for the continent parked along the hard shoulder waiting for the Tunnel to open. Why this week of all weeks ?!!
So, at the eleventh hour, Martin re-booked us on the 00:50 crossing from Dover and the start time was delayed until 17:30 - the middle of rush hour. This was just the start of an eventful trip and as Alex, Simon and I wandered towards Alex's flat in W2 we found our way was blocked by a police cordon which, it turned out, completely encircled Alex's flat (and several others) after a nearby gas explosion. Two hours before we are due to set off and we have nowhere to meet and nowhere to change. The van duly arrived and we parked in a random residential parking space and changed behind a hedge. A good start.
The three of us set off for the London Eye to meet the others with the van in hot pursuit. We circumnavigated the cordon, arrived safe, met the van, had lunch, waited for the others and were ready with seven minutes to spare.
Martin, Simon, Johnny, Scott, Alex and Simpson, ready to pedal. 17:29.
It was rush-hour but despite the traffic, red lights, being overtaken by a Brompton, being burnt off at the lights by a man running Sturmey Archer gears and wearing flip flops and a mile-long queue onto Blackheath common, we soon join the A20 running south-east and manage to get into some sort of rhythm before swinging south again to duck under the M25 and then east towards Brands Hatch.
We had decided that the A20 should be the back-bone of the route as we could keep up a good pace without killing ourselves and, apart from the last bit, would give us a direct run to Dover. Brands, West Malling, Maidstone and Ashford came and went, darkness loomed and the lights were on.
After a rather unnecessary slog up the Old Dover Road from Folkestone, we ran down into the port of Dover with plenty of spare time to book in, clean up with the wet wipes and change into lounge wear for the crossing.
80 miles in a shade over six hours, including red lights, traffic and scheduled re-fuelling stops. Average moving speed 16.0 mph. Good start.
Most of us have never crossed like this before, but we had our own lane and Martin led the charge onto the boat, up the ramp and ahead of all the vehicles. Another KOM gained and, perhaps, one he might keep for more than a few days?
Martin, Johnny, Simon, Alex, Scott and Simpson. Lane 185 and ready for the off.
It was dark when we got on and, even after more delays, it was still dark when we got off. We changed under another streetlight and attempted to get the legs moving. The climb out of Calais sorted that one out ..
... and Martin crests the hill with me and Scott in tow.
By the time we got into some sort of rhythm, dawn had broken and we continued down the coast towards Boulogne sur Mer and on-wards towards Abbeville.
We were still making reasonable time, despite a few comedy diversions when the Garmin tried to tell us that a faint track across some fields was a road ! We diverted, Abe couldn't follow, but he found us a few miles further on.
As lunchtime approached, the final morning mist disappeared to reveal a glorious clear sky and the temperature started to ramp up. We didn't know quite how hot it was at the time, but bottles started to be consumed every 10 miles instead of 15. As we get back on track after the next Garmin detour, we notice some melting tarmac as we re-join the newly surfaced 'main' road. Mmmm, might be getting even hotter then ?
The next navigational faux-pas came as we skirted Abbeville and had a couple of issues with a one-way, no way, the wrong way road. We ignored it (sort of) and left Abe to sort it out and catch us up. By now he was getting quite good at this.
We pedal, we drink, we eat, we drink more, we share the lead, we watch the clock and check the stats and we are still there or there-abouts on schedule as we approach the penultimate obstacle - Beauvais. Mmmm, this is where the first wheel comes off. The tarmac on the ground appears to bear no relation to the version we have on the Garmin and we meet a one way section (going the wrong way), followed by a closed road (gas works) and then a couple of wrong turns in quick succession that lead us into the cobbled shopping precinct - from which we have to pedal up a hill, back to the route and the wrong way up another one-way street. Bugger. We leave Abe and he has to find us. Bugger. We lose more time. Bollocks.
We exit Beauvais after wasting another twenty minutes or so and start a long, long, climb up a tree-lined, wind-less, furnace of a road that winds up the hillside, across the Autoroute and on towards Pontoise, our entry portal to Paris. At the top we take stock, mull over the options and realize that we are going to miss the deadline. We have used / lost / wasted all the 'slack' time.
In the balmy afternoon heat of July 3rd 2015 at approximately 16:00, four dead bikes and three terminally fatigued riders gasp for breath at the roadside. Carnage it was. The other terminally fatigued riders are out of shot.
We will miss it but we can't not do it, so we drag ourselves up and get back in the saddle. The rest is history, we reach Paris in worse shape than we hoped and we were late, 14 miles late, but we got there.
We book into the hotel, we shower, we look after our bikes, then we fit in one beer and one steak each and we go to bed - I woke up in the same position ten hours later. We squeeze in a visit to the tower to take a few photographs that we couldn't be bothered to do yesterday !
Scott, Martin, Simon, Alex, Abe, Johnny and Simpson.
Reflections
Did we really fail ?
Well, probably not, we just weren't quite good enough to overcome the problems that came our way, despite some pretty meticulous planning. One could argue that if we had all been 5% fitter we would have made it but it is never as simple as that. We had lost two hours before set foot in France, partly because we could have set off from London half an hour later (as it happened) and partly due to the ferry delay and being last off ! Having said that, if we had left London later we may have had seven punctures and missed the ferry; then it would have been game over with 160 miles to go instead of 14.
The route needed some fine-tuning but is is hard to know how this can be done without a recce on the ground. Plus, you can never legislate for road works that spring up at a moments notice. Garmin isn't necessarily up-to-date and neither is Googley maps, so you can check all you want but without someone on the ground to have a look, something will catch you out.
We couldn't legislate for the heat. We are English and proud of it. We operate best when it is damp and about 8 degrees. We are not built to pedal indefinitely when it is 41 degrees and despite consuming most of the 150 litres of water we carried, laced with various Hi Five or SIS tablets and powders, we ran out of steam essentially.
The De-Vinci Code ?
So we were 14 miles short in 41 degrees of heat. That may be a coded message. Four plus one is five, so perhaps if we had a team of five and I had stayed at home and not slowed the others up .....
Epilogue
We shared a farewell beer with the others before Alex, Abe and myself set-off in the van to drive home. A speedy exit from Paris had us on the Autoroute within an hour and we are heading north to Calais.
We cruise past a Renault estate, who then undertakes us a little further up the hill as we inexplicably slow down. Houston we have a problem. Power is lost, engine response is nil and we freewheel to a stop on the hard shoulder exactly 82 miles from Dover (41 x 2, it's getting scary now). Bollocks.
The RAC cannot recover on the Autoroute so they (eventually) dispatch Le Chuckle Brothers to load us up and take us to their lockup. We push the dead Transit into a space, midway between a 78 Orange Dodge pickup used to store straw and an old horse box propped up on breeze blocks that the geese sleep in. Yes, this is all true.
Alex is busy remonstrating with the RAC on the mobile as junior Chuckle brother beckons him into the office to tell us that they shut in five minutes and we need to leave. Er, van ? bikes ? kit ? home ? Bollocks. Open tomorrow ? Non. Lundi ? Oui. Bon (great).
Three English refugees alone in a small French town with five pieces of luggage stagger towards the local Tabac. We sit down, order beer and wait for the call. Simon sends us a picture of the rest of them enjoying lunch in Paris. Nice touch guys.
Two beers later, the taxi arrives and we are off to the station in Amiens. We have a two hour wait, a train ride to Calais, another half an hour wait, a taxi to the ferry port and some stern negotiations with the ticket-office man before we are in the waiting room. Five minutes turn to ten and ten becomes 45 before ticket-office man appears and asks why we are still there because the ferry has gone. You couldn't make this up.
It transpires that the waiting room was checked and 'they' didn't see the three of us, so assumed there were no foot passengers and didn't send a bus. Not to worry, there was another one in half an hour. Bon.
Back in Dover and the cab that was arranged had gone and not returned. Alex shouted at the RAC again. We waited for another cab and eventually arrived at Europcar to find a most splendid fellow who had decided not to travel home and wait for our call, but had waited for us instead. All's well that ends well then ?
We arrive home at 02:00 on Sunday morning.
The RAC generally take up to three weeks to get broken vehicles back to the UK because they wait until they have enough to fill a transporter before they pick up. We learn that the Van is an exception to this and it is worth so little, they will not pick it up at all ! So fast-forward to Monday morning and Simon and Abe set off in Alex's Range Rover with a hired trailer to recover the vehicle. We RV at the shop at 23:15 and, an hour later, we are finally reunited with the broken van, bikes, kit, a mountain of rubbish and three rather smelly leftover chilli-chicken wraps. Scott has lost a glove.
Stats
Collected for the Meningitis Research Foundation - about £5500 we think. Thank you to everyone that contributed.
Awake for 40 hours.
Total Event Time : 24h 59m with moving average of 15.1mph
Total Distance (miles) :
248.7 for Alex, Simon & Fred who rode from the RV to the start. Hardcore
247.7 for Johnny and Scott who rode from the station to the start. Average.
245.7 for Martin as he took the tube to the start. Lightweight.
Climbed almost 10,000 feet
One puncture
No accidents
Conclusion
I can categorically tell you that it is faster to ride from Calais to Paris on a bike, than try to get from Paris to Calais by van, recovery truck, taxi and train. It is also a lot more fun. Thanks for taking me along guys, it was a blast and wouldn't have missed it for the world !
Top job Abe. We hope we can return the favour one day and look after you while you enjoy yourself.
The caption reads :
'an annual, physical, motivational and navigational challenge; a group ride to experience, endure and savour the diverse geography, history, weather of the country ... every minute of the year's longest day on two wheels'
Essentially, Olly Moore had the great idea of filling up a complete day with a doable monster of a ride from coast to coast. Set off as the sun rises in the east and arrive before it sets in the west. Simple.
It took Olly three attempts to crack it, but now it is one of the classic under-the-radar events with no entrance fee, no free tee shirt, no support and no prizes. All you get is your name on the website and asked for a donation at the end to help fund next year.
There be a few harmless trolls on the cycle forum's who say that he could have picked a better route. They may have a point but I think they have missed THE point. THE point is that it was Olly's original idea (and not many of us have them), and I believe that it starts at the geographical boundary where the English Channel ends and North Sea starts and finishes at another boundary - between the Bristol Channel and the Atlantic. Originality and meaning. Nice.
I like prep - although I have never prep'd quite as many supplies for one ride !
That is our three feet long cold box and it doesn't include the stuff that was in my pockets already.
We arrive on the Isle of Sheppey at 20:00, miss the briefing, eat an average meal, drink two beers and then have three and a half hours sleep before assembling at the sea front to check bikes and sign in at 04:20.
It is already light, but it's not sun-up (which we don't actually see thanks to the cloud) and so we shuffle about waiting for the official start time. And .... at 04:44 we are off, 300 riders in dribs and drabs. Two of our group are up the road, leaving the other five. One of the five gets a puncture and two others stop with him, unknown to the rest. So, just a mile in we are already in three groups, but we know where we are going and will all re-group soon.
Martin and I approach the bridge off the Island and on towards the Medway towns.
Or first planned stop is at Costa coffee in Bromley as it opens at 07:00 - by which time we are all in a nice group and I enjoy a latte and toasted mozzarella, tomato and basil panini in the morning sunshine. 07:17.
The trip from Bromley, through South London is thankfully uneventful but it is hard to keep the momentum going as we hit, what appears to be, every red light for miles. Uneventful, that is, until we get on a short section of the A3 running south towards Richmond Park. We approach a set of lights and Martin and I drift to the outside lane having checked traffic (and the other guys in the team) over one shoulder. Unfortunately we checked over opposite shoulders and the bikes converge slightly, my front wheel catches his back one and over the bars I go. Pilot error. Sore elbow, sore knee and broken handlebars now held together by the bar tape. No worries - only 148 miles to go.
Through Richmond Park, Kingston and Hampton Court and then along the river on quieter roads. I grab a couple of under-the-armpit shots of the guys as I push the pace westwards whilst I know that I still can.
Martin, followed by Johnny, who appears to be indicating that I am No 1.
We head south West around Bracknell and then off towards Newbury and Bramley (the official half-way, sign-in point) and the mild headwind, that was forecast, picks up a bit. Not really what we need.
We sign in but don't stop as it is busy and we don't want to waste time getting stuck with the other riders and support vehicles. Our safety vehicle is fifteen miles down the road at a quieter spot and so we are off. As we leave the car park and turn right, this is now my longest-ever ride. Despite best efforts over the last six months, Alex and I have never found the time to fit it anything longer than about a hundred miles, so we pedal off into no-man's land.
We leave the leafy lanes of Berkshire and drift off towards the area north of Salisbury Plain and the sky opens up, the sun comes out and the wind feels just a bit stronger. A couple of the longer hills feels harder than they should do with the wind in your face and to compound matters I get the first attack of crampy-legs at about 140 miles. Alternating between 'in' and 'out' of the saddle keeps me going forward but I am unable to do my fair share at the front for a while. I give myself a stern talking to, pull a face, and am back in the game after ten minutes or so.
We are through Devizes sometime during the late afternoon. Actually I have no idea when it was but we have been pedalling for freakin' hours. We are rocking towards the last quarter now and two more bouts of the leg cramps come and go as we head for a small but spiteful climb at 173. All those hours on the single-speed pay off and we are up it after a few minutes. It's slow and it's not pretty but it's behind us and we are all up it in good order !
A long, long, gentle-ish, mildly boring, headwind climb to Cheddar Gorge follows and I put some time in at the front again. As soon as the tarmac points downwards, however, I am at the back as the rest of the team pedal off. I am a few seconds behind them at the bottom and we re-group. I still can't see the point of pedalling down hill ?
And that was it in a nutshell. We have about twenty miles to go but we know we will finish before sun-down, so there is a relaxed atmosphere in the peleton. More head-wind to contend with but we get the first glimpse of the sea and mentally it is all down-hill.
As we spin into Burnham on Sea, my Garmin runs out of power 250 metres from the finish and we freewheel down the jetty for the obligatory finish-line shot.
Martin, Alex, Simon, Johnny and Simpson. 21:03 on the Longest Day, 2015.
Personal Stats - 207 miles, about 15:15 ride time I guess, max speed 40 mph, average 12.53 (incl stops - so a bit faster average ride-speed), Calories expended 14856 (according to Garmin), Calories consumed must have been 15000 as I was the same weight the following day. I had 16 x 750cl bottles of various re-hydrants (new word and I like it), three chilli chicken wraps, six raisin granola bars, three bananas, one panini, one latte, two cinnamon and raisin bagels and two chunks of flapjack that I was still chewing the following Tuesday (thanks Martin). No gels, no drugs, no pre-packed sugar-rush booster blocks and no Cliff bars. I am a clean athlete.
Sore legs, sore arse (especially) and a sore elbow and knee (the ones I damaged on the A3 but didn't feel them until I was in the pub). Broken handle bars, battered wheels (built for someone less substantial I'll wager) and one lost water bottle. Apart from all that it was just another great day on a bike with good friends going from A to B for the sake of it.
Now, don't think these things are easy, if they were anybody could do it ! You do need to train but you also need to plan, and Chase the Sun is an exercise in being organised. Not just the build up and training, but the pacing, the feeding, the hydration, the rest stops and the support arrangements. Thank you to all my team mates who helped along the way with advice and encouragement and got me through my first event of this type and massive thanks to Graham and Lee who supported us, without whom we may not have done it. Even more massive thanks to Molly who allows me to participate.
Would I do it again ? Not sure as there are many other things to fit in. The Crossing or the Fred Whitton ? Who knows ...
Chapeau Olly !
After a hectic week, Molly and I make our way to Cardiff on our own to ride in the inaugural Welsh Velothon. The rest of the guys had ridden the Dragon Ride the previous week, a 140 mile monster of a climbathon that take in most of the hills in South Wales just for fun.
The Velothon may look like 'just a big ride' but it is one of the few occasions where we normal cyclists can enjoy a closed-road event and act like a pro for the day, cutting off corners, going either way round the roundabouts and throwing empty water bottles at spectators. Brilliant.
Molly had signed up for the 50 and I was in for the 140 (km), so both should be easily manageable and a good training run.
About 15,000 people took part, dispatched in waves of 750 or so from half a dozen pens located around Cardiff the city centre. We were up early for the three mile cycle to the start line ready for Molly's group to leave at 07:03 ! At this point she didn't look too impressed ...
I had a relaxed latte in Starbucks before my start at 08:00.
Both routes were pretty benign for the first few miles and the shared route meandered across the relatively flat coastal plain before splitting at about the 8 mile point. Molly's route got slowly lumpier until the sting in tail at Caerphilly Castle. This isn't a long climb but the mile or so slog up to a gradient of 17% is a bit of a bastard. Luckily, thereafter,the route is pretty good back to the City and Molly finished strong to the cheers of the adoring crowd and overtaking a couple on the finishing straight according to the video.
The longer route took to the outskirts of Newport, across the M4 and then along the quiet lanes of Gwent and wound slowly north to Abergavenny. The route was really good with no massive climbs and I by-passed the first feed station. All was well until about the 50km point, when tacks were discovered on the road ahead and several hundred people were forced to carry their bikes for ten minutes until we were sure we had passed the danger.
Our first real climb was the Tumble, a rather famous hill that is shoe-horned into every event in the area. It's a classic climb, not too hard, but about 5.5 k m long - so it goes on about as much as Jeremy Clarkson. Guess where the photographer was ...
A reasonably quick top-up at the feed station and we we were then heading down. During the fast descent, Mr Garmin was up to nearly 50 mph on the straighter bits. We snaked through a few small towns with the locals cheering, waving flags and swilling beer. What a great atmosphere.
As our route approached Caerphilly, we had a long grinding climb up one side of a dual carriageway that was 5-7 km long. I selected an appropriate gear to simulate the cadence I am used to on the single speed and overtook all the aero-bar'd roadies who had overtaken me coming down the previous hill. Why pedal down a hill ? Odd.
Caerphilly Hill ? Mmmmm. Bastard. I was never going to fail, but between 25-30% of all the others around me ended up pushing. The final food station at the top was paid a quick visit for more liquid and a few welsh cakes and the sprint to the finish was on. All was well until 2 km out when the rear tyre exploded. The tube was knackered and the two inch split needed my magic 'old-toothpaste-tube tyre-boot' treatment before I could carry on. The repair appeared to take forever and thank you to the spectators who offered assistance and then applauded as I got back on and shuffled off to the finish.
Molly was sitting in the sun with her new found riding buddies as I finished. Two over-priced burgers and a latte later, we cycled back to the digs to clean up. What a great day.
Molly came home in a creditable 2:32 and I recorded 5:26. In fairness I knew I could spin round in under six with little trouble but has hoped to be much closer to five. I suppose that taking into consideration the tacks, the crowded feed stations and the puncture it wasn't a bad effort. My Garmin had the average speed as 15.9 mph. Pleased with that as I deliberately didn't draft anybody for the whole ride so it was a true solo effort.
The Velothon was the final training run for next week's event when I may, however, be doing some drafting ...
