Cycle Europe 2008

The last time I blogged Marco and I were back home…well to my home at least in Brighton on the south coast of England. Of course Cycle Europe 2008 wasn’t over but the fact we were back early meant we had 13 days to re-adjust to ‘normal’ life.

As I write this early in October and look back I should have known that the first few days would be weird and slightly difficult. Upon returning I thought I’d just re-adjust instantly to life back home where as in fact it wasn’t that easy. Whilst some things were welcome such as a comfy bed, home cooked food and time with Chloe, some things weren’t so easy. Even now only a few weeks on I can’t quite put my finger on what goes on when you come back from 3 months away but what ever it is I coped by going to the pub a lot!

Waking after only a few hours sleep on Thursday 4th September was strange. What was I supposed to feel? When would it sink in that I was home? Would it sink in that I was home?! Who should I call? Did the final event need any planning? etc etc… I decided to put the questions aside and just hibernate for a few days and try to spend time with Chloe as well as myself. Firstly Marco was heading back to Glasgow for a few days to see his family so after breakfast we walked with him to Aldrington station and saw him off to London. In just a few days he’d incredibly be heading back to France as he worked for a company organising charity bike rides….I had no idea where he’d get the energy from.

As we walked back home Chloe and I decided to do something that we’d not had the chance to do for months. We’d tried to but always got interrupted.I’d been anticipating it for weeks, dreamed about it when alone in my tent and talked about it on the phone to her late at night. When she’d come to Frankfurt we’d  tried to do it but either both been tired or just couldn’t find the time and in Switzerland things had been too busy too so as we neared the flat anticipation rose. My breath quickened as I turned the key into the flat and Chloe disappeared into the bedroom. Soon she shouted to me that she was ready and returned triumphantly holding the AMEX card………..we were going to the supermarket!

(Unfortunately this plan was rather delayed due to the fact that the car battery was dead as ’someone who will remain nameless’ had left the lights on for 11 weeks. But once £10 later once sorted we continued!)

Now Marco and I had of course shopped in a supermarket almost daily since leaving 11 weeks before but the ability to buy more than what one can generally carry on the back of a bike was incredible. I chose luxuries that I’d never bought before and probably never will again such as ready grated cheese, real Kelloggs ‘Fruit and Fibre’ and extra soft toilet paper. We spent a fortune and I caused a health & safety issue as the results of my uncontrollable salivation caused old ladies to slip over in isle 10.

Although the experience in Sainsburys was great the drive there had exposed me to the worst type of British person. As we neared the supermarket huge black clouds gathered and it was obvious it was about to pour with rain. As we sat at red traffic lights I spotted a young girl running to the bus stop to catch the stationary bus on the other side of the road. She missed it by seconds and it now stood a few meters away from the stop stuck at the same red traffic lights which had halted our progress. She approached the doors and expected them to open but no the jobsworth driver refused to make eye contact an simply shook his head slowly. This wasn’t life or death, oh no, just a simple case of a man hopefully using a little bit of his brain to open a door to help a young girl catch a bus into town and by the looks of it prevent her getting soaked - could he do this?? Of course not - he was a Brighton bus driver - the same kind who had delight in running me off the road when training and claiming it was my fault. I was fuming and as the drops began to fall onto our windscreen I shouted at him to let her on. Of course this was pointless as a) he couldn’t see or hear me b) he had so little authority in his life he felt the need to use the little bit he had to cause grief to others and nothing was going to stop him having his 5 seconds of power. The little s**t. As expected it began to pour and I had to do something. Something told me that this girl wasn’t English. She was getting on the bus in an area where families often took foreign students in as they learned English at a local school and after the warmth and generosity given to Marco and I in the last 3 months I wasn’t going to have this girl telling her friends back home how British people were so rude. I sped on to the next roundabout the rain so hard that the quickest windscreen wiper setting couldn’t keep the screen clear, screeching around the roundabout we returned to the bus stop where Chloe opened her window and tried to make herself heard above the pounding rain and wind. The girl was Turkish and had only arrived here 4 days before and was leaving in 6 more - God knows what she must have thought of our country. We took her into town where she was already late for a meeting with her friends who were heading for a day out in London. We gave her our number and, although she never called, hope she at least will believe that it is the minority of people here who have the mentality of the bus driver.

Even only 4 weeks on, the first few days after returning are a blur. I know sleeping and the pub played a big part but I can’t tell you in what order and exactly when. I resisted telling many people I was back until early the next week and even then didn’t feel like meeting many. By Tuesday 9th I felt ready to meet with Ray the Chairman of IMEX for a coffee and enjoyed discussing the ride as well as the fortunes of Brighton & Hove Albion Football Club and later in the week my colleague Heather who updated me on the latest office events. Logging on to send emails meant of course I had to read a few of the hundreds that had come in over the summer and slowly I caught up with the occasional piece of  work information. I was in limbo, not yet working but no longer riding - so I went to the pub. The consumption of drink has been a regular feature in the last few months and it has only recently been something I’ve tried to tally up. We were on the road for 79 days and drank at 79 bars (to be verified with official Drink Europe referee - Marco!). Now there were a few places where we only had a 1 drink but in Albenga alone we consumed about 5 litres of beer each in one night and that alone counts for about an average of an extra beer each night. In short we drunk a huge amount over the summer and although I lost weight and came back more lean and muscular than for many years (it is going quickly!) we probably didn’t do our livers much good. A conservative estimate is an average of 2.5 drinks each night and one day I’ll sit down with Marco and work it out but it HAS to be at least this much. Anyway my point is that I think I got used to it as ever since I’ve been back if there is nothing to do I go to the pub and drink huge amounts. Unfortunately I’m not doing the physical part (cycling!) so unless I get out on the bike soon, (which is not very tempting with winter approaching), I’ll soon be sporting a nice beer belly and a broken liver…….

Sunday 14th was a slightly worrying day as having stripped the bike down I wanted to take it for a spin. It looked so much better now without not only panniers and pannier racks too. And my God was it lighter. I’d ridden for 3 months with up to 25kg on the back so now when I rode it felt as if I was almost being pushed along! However after only 1 or 2 miles my injury reappeared and I pathetically headed back home after less than 4 miles. How could this be after riding for over 700 miles since the accident? I think the answer lies in the head. As we rode back we had a goal. It was so specific and focused the pain was ignored and deleted from the mind. Now on a damp Sunday, without a real reason other than to see how I felt after a few miles, I found myself totally uninterested in riding and unsurprisingly wasn’t able to delete the pain of the torn adductor in my right leg. I think I just slept all afternoon in an effort to ignore the possibility of me struggling to complete the ride in 4 days time. I even questioned whether I’d want to ride the final leg. Cycle Europe 2008 had become a project that had given me so many highs as well as so many lows and if I’m honest at this point I just wanted to forget the whole thing, get a flight with Chloe to the Caribbean and return next March……

On Wednesday 17th I received a text from Marco telling me that he was heading back to Brighton. I was already in town coincidentally in the bike shop making arrangements for the bike I was initially expecting to ride on Cycle Europe 2008 - a carbon fibre Specialized Roubaix - to be repaired. It was odd to think that I’d be back riding that after so many miles on the Marin - maybe swapping would be harder that I anticipated. Marco was in good form and we spent much of the day walking round the North Laine area of Brighton, popping into the occasional shop and walked back along the sea front. It was a similar day to the one we spent when he first came down here in March when I really only started to get to know him - so much had happened since. The fact that the day before the final ride back I still hadn’t planned the route to London for the next day says a lot about how I was actually enjoying not having to worry about the ride too much. With a last minute change of plan Chloe, Marco and I headed to Wisborough Green to see Clare and Steve. We eventually agreed to meet Steve about 1/3 of the way to London as we were leaving at 7.30 am and getting out of Brighton is pretty hilly and we had some concerns about getting to London on time. With an OS map spread out on Steve’s coffee table we looked at the route and basically agreed to do the route of the famous London - Brighton bike ride in reverse. Tens of 1000’s of people rode this each year so I guessed it was worth following.

Thursday 18th September dawned with a spectacular sunrise which marked the start of a momentous day. Whilst I knew that a sunny, windless Autumn day would be the perfect finale to the ride of course I couldn’t pick one but at 6.30am as I walked onto the roof terrace I saw distant trees still with not a breath of wind leaning into them and the first fingers of direct sunlight light up nearby buildings with that familiar orange haze. I knew I was about to be lucky again - it was a truly wonderful day for riding.

Marco was riding with one of my panniers and we went about filling it with all things edible as well as the remainder of his belongings that he needed to take back to Glasgow. It didn’t weigh a huge amount compared to what we carried throughout the ride but the fact it was unevenly distributed made it more difficult to ride with…something that would have its painful consequences.

Soon a chap called Tim - a friend of Clare & Steve’s who had wanted to get involved -was on the phone saying that he was just around the corner. I’d not met Tim before but liked him instantly and he was a great companion for us on the ride with his infectious smile and quick humour. Derry, who became the only person apart from Steve to ride both the first and last leg was soon also with us. Derry remember is a fireman and he is the one I have to thank for me wearing my helmet when I crashed. Jenny a friend of Marco’s was also soon out side number 28 and as the sun rose the last leg of Cycle Europe 2008 was ready to go.

An hour and  quarter later we were only just outside Brighton and I began to think we’d never make it. We were at Ditchling Beacon which, as over 270m, would be the highest point of the trip. Seeing as I live 300m from the sea meant that the first 8 - 9 miles that had got us there were to be the toughest of the whole ride but it didn’t make it any easier when looking north toward London as far as the eye could see one could only see the superb Sussex countryside. The rush hour traffic had not been too bad through Brighton, we were slightly too early for the school run so soon were powering up Preston Drove, the steep long climb that would see us escape the urbanisation and head out of town.

Through a variety of reasons for much of the ride Marco has been in front of me. His natural riding pace was faster and on hills he would just disappear as his better power to weight ratio - as well as fitness - would see him devour the tarmac. Today however things were different. I wanted to push everyone on so, at the expense of chatting to everyone as we rode, I headed on hoping that my concerns about making in to London were clear - we would have to ride hard.

One of the clearest memories I have of the day just a few weeks ago is the warm sun on my back as I rode out of Brighton and towards the Beacon. Looking down into the bowl in which Brighton sits nestled on the sea side of the South Downs the mist was gently clearing, being burnt off by the ever more powerful sun. The roofs of schools, church spires and chimneys  poked out above the blanket of mist as if trying to desperately gasp gulps of clean air from the smog below. Brighton is an incredible city of history, culture, fashion, media and art and it has never looked as good to me as it did as I stared down at it fondly waiting for the others to catch up. It had been my home for 17 years and for all my talking of its rude bus drivers and the amazing time we had on the Continent I knew I as stared down at it that whether I lived here or not it would always feel like home.

A quick photo on Ditchling Beacon and we headed on down the route of many a pre-ride training session. You may remember me talk about Ditching Beacon with reverence earlier in the blog as the Tour De France had once passed up it - although the riders would barely have noticed. It had been a place for me to fear but throughout the last year I had built the confidence and fitness to tackle it with more and more frequency until, one one of my most enjoyable and fulfilling days training, I scaled it 7 times in less that 2 hours simply riding up it and then after shooting down and resting for 3 minutes before repeating the process. Today the downhill was to be slightly more memorable!

For all of the ride I have had to hold my breath on the downhills as Marco shoots ahead. From Austria to Italy, Slovenia to France we have had huge downhills to enjoy usually after suffering a tortuous and lengthy uphill immediately before. His ability to throw caution to the wind and dare himself to hardly touch the brakes comes with a) being 23 b) being mad. I think he reached over 40mph on the hill coming down into Genova weeks before and today as we headed down the north side of the Beacon there was a time I thought the last day may be remembered for all the wrong reasons. The decent of Ditchling Beacon is a steep series of curves and as we headed down unsurprisingly Marco was in front. As I came round one of the first main corners I saw Marco lose balance and head into the bank of earth to the left. A winch inducing crunch followed along with the scrape of metal. As I hit the brakes and shouted a warning to the others a huge cloud of dust was thrown up and from it Marco and his bike, which were separated by this point, tumbled out from it back into the road and the oncoming traffic. The last movement was the rather ungainly one of Marco, legs pointing up hill rolling onto his back, legs high in the air. Fortunately, although he stopped right in the middle of the thin road, there were no cars speeding down and there was a break in the traffic coming up so he had time to get his bearing and get him and the bike out of the road.

Apart from a bruised finger and pride Marco was OK but it could have been so much worse. He estimated he was travelling at over 25 - 30mph when we came off so he was lucky not to break anything. After a few minutes recovering he was fine although when he started asking where the girl in the yellow bikini was I was concerned the bump to his head had had done more serious damage. Again a helmet had proved essential, it was 1-1 in crashes now and neither of us wanted to take the lead.

The northern route took us through some wonderful countryside but unfortunately not on especially quiet roads. Lorries and cars rushed by, so different to the calm German and French equivalent. Tim told me that he had heard that in the UK (or England at least) there was now officially more people per square mile than in Holland - the previous record holder. One may be forgiven for thinking this must be wrong when you see the majestic green countryside stretching in all directions but on the road at least it seemed everyone had heard that we were riding and wanted to drive by. 

At Turners Hill we met my parents Peter & Liz who had bought Steve and his bike to join us us for the last 30 miles or so. Steve’s presence gave us renewed energy and the stop for lunch having crossed under the M25 motorway circling London seemed to come around in no time. It was a perfect setting with as all drinking coffee and eating sandwiches on a perfect early autumn day and will stay with my, as will the whole day, for a very long time. Very special days that we never forget seem to come along all too infrequently but today was one of them.

Surprisingly as Marco and I chatted as we rode he admitted to not feeling ‘up for it’. I’m not surprised as whilst I had been sleeping, drinking and eating for the last 2 weeks he had been back to Scotland and then back to France where he had had all kinds of problems with mobile phones in minibuses the details of which I will not elaborate on but generally he’d not been getting much shut eye. He must have been shattered and although pleased to be finishing had not perhaps the time to reflect on what we had done and just what a momentous day it was.

I love London but I don’t think I could live there and having mentioned how wonderful the drivers where when we left I am afraid they treated us much worse today. The centre of London was not the problem but the suburbs were full of stressed drivers, rushing to get …….well generally to the next red traffic light. Derry and I both saw the red mist when, as a red light turned to amber a woman hooted at Steve who had yet to begin pedalling. With the weight off the bike I felt I could have chased and caught a Ferrari and unsurprisingly caught up with the small minded BMW driver at the next junction. Her mistake was leaving her window open a few cm and her surprise and shock as I unleashed decibels of abuse was gratifying. Yes, I know a calm reasoned approach would have in many ways been far better but as soon as she told me that Steve “shouldn’t be on the road” I served a barrage of verbal anger in a way that happens very rarely. Why should a man who already can’t talk and walk as he once did also be deprived of the one activity that he can do normally for the sake of a stuck up, arrogant ********. I’m getting angry writing it even now. No sooner as I had finished Derry stormed up to her left and started afresh. Was she scared? I don’t know and honestly I don’t care. I hope she wet herself and that the stain on her front seat will be a constant reminder to her of her pathetic attitude to those less fortunate than she is. The less jumped up, self righteous people there are like her in the world the better place it would be and make no apologies for acting as I did.

As the adrenaline subsided and we made our way through Carshalton, Mitcham and skirted Streatham I began to try and remember that this were the dying embers of the ride. The huge bank of memories that I had would not be being added to after this and then those memories that I did have would begin to fade as time moved on. Appreciating the experience had not always been easy but I was determined to as we rode those last few miles through sunlit London.

With signs for Chelsea Bridge upon us and it only being 2.30pm I knew the timing had been spot on. As far as places go for relieving yourself 40m above the Thames cannot be the best option but as we stopped for a photo Steve insisted he needed to go ‘NOW’ so as Derry and I stood nonchalantly beside him Steve he relieved himself into the Thames. A vaguely amusing story yes but also one that shows the issues with having had a stoke. Derry or I would have run to the bushes but this wasn’t an option for Steve.

A quick beer would have been theoretically possible but we decided against it and as we reached Knightsbridge got changed into the black branded tops that we had tried to wear at any public event and slowly headed for the craziest place to ride a bike in London (never mind 6) - Hyde Park Corner. To be fair we didn’t have any problems here, the drivers seemed to see we were part of a group and as you can see from the photos at one point there is not a car in sight! We circulated twice for the benefit of the photographers (Clare, my dad and a professional magazine photographer kindly sent by a trade magazine).

So we were home! Marco and I rode up to the very point where we had left 13 weeks before. Stood in the same spot for a similar photo and for me at least suddenly it felt that it had all been a dream. The InterContinental Hotel could not have been more accommodating and generous. Their Cook Book Cafe was ours and with the bikes allowed in, slowly friends, family and industry colleagues gathered and the champagne flowed.

Chloe had said that there would be a chance to say a few words so I had stayed up until 4am working on putting together a few slides with a selection of photos from each country.  So, after the very important part of thanking the major sponsors IMEX, IHG, MCI, Visit London and The Tin, as well as IHG’s Denise MacDonald who had payed for the food and drink and Michael Green and Esther Williamson from the hotel itself, I tried to give the 50 or so people a flavour of just what Marco and I had been lucky enough to experience. 35min later and having then thanked Chloe and Marco personally I was done and just wanted a drink! For the next hour people chatted animatedly about things, maybe what they heard, maybe about the bikes, maybe just about the weather but I senced the same warm feel good factor that I talked about at the Slovenian event.

The rest of the day seemed to then slip away out of my grasp. I wanted it to go on forever but after the raffle people had to go and before long we were saying goodbye to people, collecting the bikes and heading into the sun lit metropolis of London. It was not quite the end for a few of us though. A number of Marco’s friends, Marco himself, me, Chloe, Tim and the wonderful Mark from Hove who had organised the pub quiz that had raised so much all descended on a pub near Victoria and joined the suited ranks of office workers enjoying the barmy weather. We’d been away for 79 days, ridden nearly 3400 miles, been to 9 countries, drunk litres of beer, laughed until we cried, been upset, angry, confused, missed loved ones, cursed the weather, met Prime Ministers and yet if I had to keep one particular memory locked up in a bottle the taste of which I was able to sample once in a while it would be right at this point, standing amongst office workers near Victoria station. In itself it was not thatamazing but for that 2 hours the memories of the whole summer combines to create a kaleidoscope of emotions that mixed together created made 2008 a vintage year. For those 2 hours with Mark, Chloe, Sarah, Marco, Tim and friends I was glowing with happiness (as well of course with a sense of relief!) As the drink flowed I couldn’t stop smiling and every now and again withdrew from the conversation to look around and take it all in. The very tops of the buildings were bathed in the same orange light that had greeted us some 13 hours earlier in Brighton. Now however the light that had earlier grown stronger each minute as the sun had risen now grew weaker and weaker as one by one each tentacle of light that clung to the highest points of the west facing buildings fell into the pool of ever increasing twilight.

It was time for goodbyes. Whilst Chloe, Mark, Tim and I were heading home Marco, Sarah, Jo & Richie where heading out for a night on the town. I had already consumed enough alcohol and but had reached the point of no return and the drinking had not yet stopped. First however it was a goodbye to the man I’d shared the summer with, I knew I’d see him soon but it was still weird to know that I may not be seeing him until 3 months had passed - the very time we had just spend in each others pockets. Whilst I needed a bit of time alone I’d miss Marco tremendously although at least I wouldn’t be looking at his backside again for a while as I’d been doing for most of the summer.

As a rule I am not a fan of drinking on the train but at Tim’s insistence once we were aboard the 20.17 to Hove the cans came out and Chloe and I sat and talked about the days events. I remembered Marco & I on our trip to London the day before the ride started and remembered how clean the bikes were, gleaming in white paint and stainless steel. My bike now looked so different not only due to the fact that the panniers and rack were gone but 3 months of riding had taken their toll and it looked a little on the dirty side. Yes the steel wasn’t gleaming, Ok the white paint was faded and chipped but in a way it was now a real bike, not clean as if newly picked up from the showroom but showing the scars of battle.

In the buzz of chat and excitement the normally tedious journey rushed by and soon we were getting off at Hove and heading to the pub for a  long night of sausage and mash and a few more beers. Cycle Europe’s final day was nearly over although laughter and excited chatter could be heard from the small table of friends well into the early hours. THE END

Note: I hope you’ve enjoyed the blogs. I know they became increasingly infrequent as enthusiasm and time both dwindled but they have been thoroughly enjoyable to write and if nothing else will provide me with a memory of the summer. Of course I hope that they have served another purpose and that through the summer you have felt part of the incredible journey and been with us throughout the highs and lows that have made up Cycle Europe 2008.  Take care, Jon 13/10/2008

Day 75: 1st September. St. Dizier - Dormans. 87 miles

Day 76: 2nd Septmeber. Dormans - Beauvais. 97 miles

Day 77: 3rd September. Beauvais - Dieppe, 67 miles & Newhaven - Brighton, 12 miles

Welcome to the penultimate blog. We’re safely home and last week, we completed the final 56 miles from Brighton to Central London. I’ll cover the amazing sun drenched day in the final blog but for now I’ll bring you up to date with the last few days in France, the ferry journey back to Brighton and the much enjoyed reacquaintance with my bed.

The final blog will be put up on October 5th!! 

Enjoy the blog. Cheers, Jon.

Day 75: 1st September. St. Dizier - Dormans. 87 miles

My Ipod favourite, Neil Diamond, famously sung about a September Morn and today was our first one. Unfortunately, after the breakfast problems of yesterday we chose to spend 30 minutes of it outside a Carrefour supermarket waiting for it to open rather than gamble on pushing on and hoping to find one later. Our keen 7am start had been a bit hasty as the supermarket didn’t open until 8.30am but it gave us a nice story…. 

At about 8am, Marco and I realised that we were too early and sat in the car park. It was a pretty bleak picture with the temperature several degrees colder than we had become used to. Ominous rainclouds gathered and were blown towards us by an ever stronger breeze.  The only positive was that strawberry Yop was half price but having consumed a swimming pool full in the last few weeks, even that didn’t improve our spirits although we were keen to indulge again. To top it all, a man who decided to practice his English on us warned of the approaching weather: “It vill rain verry ‘ard” he prophesised although for me he said it a little too smugly clutching his umbrella whilst surveying us in our flimsy clothes. It was a miserable wait so as the rain began to fall we sought shelter just inside as yet unopened supermarket. To our surprise, about 30 people already waited behind a red tape that stopped shoppers entering the store. It was only 8.20am still a full 10 minutes before opening and yet a wonderful array of characters stood in line with their trolleys akin to the grid of a Formula 1 race. The front row of about 8 people was soon 4 deep and already many was jostling for position, catching their trolleys on the ankles of those in front causing much french swearing. Marco and I looked on in humorous disbelief as the anger grew and the supermarket sweep countdown began. As the clock ticked to 25 past, staff had to control the front row as they pushed the tape to breaking point. The stupidity was that the huge supermarket was empty and just a few minutes later these people would be walking calmly down deserted aisles. At 8.30am and 10 seconds anarchy reigned as the irate shoppers who had been callously prevented from their legal entitlement to shop for a full 10 seconds broke ranks and theatrically pulled the tape up pointing furiously at the clock and in turn stampeding the bewildered member of staff who was about to move the tape anyway. The madness of it however was soon understood a few minutes later when the entire front row of characters pushed their trolleys towards the tills each full to the brim of Yop. Unbeknown to us, the population of St Dizier were Yop addicts and the half price offer had been too much for them. There was none left for us; it was our first Yop free day for weeks!

The threatening rain never quite materialised although we saw the start of the strong westerly wind which would be our companion every minute until the front door of my house. Initially, having followed a peaceful canal we eventually found deserted roads more by luck than by judgement continuing to head north by north west. Navigating by the sun was now impossible as it was so cloudy and we were now a very different spectacle than for the last 2 months. Our dry tanned bare flesh was now hidden under jackets whilst waterproof covers protected the panniers just in case our friend at the supermarket proved to be right.

I’ve talked before about luck and it had not quite run out on us yet. It was about 2.30pm and we found ourselves in the Champagne region riding through a spectacular valley covered in vines at which point the sun even made an appearance for a bit cheering us both up. As we rushed through one of the many beautiful villages, on our left I happened to glance up and see a big sign announcing the headquarters of Laurent-Perrier, one of the worlds premier producers of the regions famous sparkling wine. The low buildings were beautifully laid out in a square surrounding a courtyard and initially seemed quite small. I saw a lady crossing the courtyard and decided this was a once in a lifetime chance not to be missed. I asked her if there was a museum we could look at or perhaps look around a little more. I sensed her initial scepticism but she promised she would ask although they only accepted pre-booked parties and even this was very unusual. As Marco and I stood in the luxurious reception area I questioned my decision. We still had 20 miles to a campsite we weren’t even sure existed and didn’t have long. This beautifully appointed room felt like a suite of a 5 Star hotel and Marco and I stood rather uncomfortably in our sweaty riding gear not wanting to sit on the beautiful sofas and instead we were studying photos of the Queen, Prince Charles and various world leaders who had visited and sampled the legendary drink.

A few minutes later a lady appeared who said she’d be happy to show us around but that she only had 15 minutes. Again, I sensed slight scepticism but she proceeded to take us down to the amazing underground world that lay beneath the building. Her name was Nicole Snozzi and she was Director of PR and for the next hour was generous enough to give us a quite fantastic tour of the cellars. The smell that greeted us as we entered the underground cavern was so powerful and quite unexpected. It forced its way into my nostrils, its sweet and pungent aroma giving me illusions of the sun, summer meadows and the great outdoors. In the dim light and heavy constant 12 degree air 1000’s upon 1000’s of bottles lay in storage as Nicole explained the process of making champagne; how the villages who grow grapes are scored and how the extremely complicated process of assuring quality is completed correctly. We gazed up at 10 metre high storage vats learning that the contents of up to 50 would create some of their champagne whilst discovering what Brut meant and why the bottles were twisted 90 degrees in storage daily for years and years. The fascinating tour ended with an invitation to share a glass so Marco and I found ourselves with our wonderful guide Nicole in one of their drawing rooms being served a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. Nicole insisted she only have one glass as she was driving leaving Marco and I to polish off the rest. I’m sure one doesn’t “polish” off Laurent-Perrier but anyway… We listened intently and heard about Nicole’s father who’d suffered a stroke and discussed the experiences of the trip so far as the champagne gave us that warm, fuzzy feeling. Soon it was 5pm and we needed to get back on the road. Nicole had been so generous with her time and yet kindly agreed to pose for a photo in the courtyard and insisted we take yet another bottle to have when we got home. So with the bottle safely stowed within Marco’s sleeping bag we left with yet another wonderful memory from the trip. With the goodbyes complete, our first mile of cycling was slightly erratic (wobbly) forcing us to stop, eat the sandwiches we were carrying and try to sober up. We were high on excitement, chatting like school kids discussing what an amazing experience we’d just had. I made up and sang a football style chant based on how amazing Laurent-Perrier was which I repeated about 50 times unable to stop smiling as we swept the now sun drenched valley truly high on life. What an experience!

The hills gave us no trouble as the energy of the afternoon powered through us and even when we learned that the campsite was even further away than we thought we smiled, sang and headed on undaunted.

It was 8pm by the time we arrived in Dormans. The campsite sat next to a bridge spanning a wide river and was lit by the weak light of the fast setting sun. We didn’t know it at the time but it was to be our last night of camping but had we’d known it, it may have made the unpacking of the soaking wet and smelly tents slightly easier. After over 36 hours of being tightly packed since the damp morning in Jussey, my tent would have felt drier if I’d thrown it in a swimming pool and with the sun set, we knew that things wouldn’t dry out in the 2 hours we’d take to have dinner. When we returned later after a huge Turkish meal we both endured one of the wettest night of the trip as every part of the tent was saturated due not to rain but to 2 day old condensation. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant night!

Day 76: 2nd September Dormans - Beauvais. 97 miles

When a day consists only of sleeping, eating and riding generally there isn’t much to talk about. We opted for a later start after yesterdays unexpected afternoon drinking session but still managed a commendable 97 miles seeing as we weren’t on the road until 10am.

After breakfast in Champions supermarket we bode farewell to the champagne valley and headed directly north and a series undulating hills. We both struggled as the excess of yesterday kicked in. We even managed 2 beers at the Turkish restaurant last night so we really had no one else to blame. By lunchtime we discovered that we were back on the smaller scale map and that we could conceivably get on the ferry at 6pm tomorrow. Those small movements on the huge scale French map had added up and we had made great progress.

Having committed to getting to Dieppe and catching the ferry tomorrow by booking tickets online we had to deal with the wind which continued to blow fiercely from the west. For much of the time we were riding, Marco and I were on a 15degree tilt into the wind. This in itself didn’t cause too many issues but when an HGV went by the wall of wind was suddenly whisked away and we temporarily would sucked left not only by the lack of wind but by the slipstream of the lorry itself. For a split second I felt as if I’d fall untill suddenly the lorry passed and the wind blew me back up to the semi-safe riding position.

We rode and rode and rode knowing that Beauvais had a Formula 1 motel and we would at least we guaranteed a warm shower used previously by 100 sweaty hairy truck drivers. It was the former of these two images that kept us going when the most atrocious weather of the trip so far hit us. At about 4pm the wind that swept in from the left suddenly bought with it low cloud and biting torrential rain.  I felt a bit safer in my thin but bright yellow rainwear but as I peered through the cloud and spray thrown up by the cars and lorries that rushed by I could hardly make Marco out as the lorries passed within a few feet of him and I wondered if they actually saw him at all. Rain ran like an open tap from my chin, elbows and feet. My shoes looked unusually clean as the dust and grime of 8 countries were washed off in a few minutes as bathloads of water were seemingly poured over me. The mind training from weeks of keeping myself going kicked in as I visualised the shower, felt the warmth of the water on my back and the soft pillow on my face. I knew this wet gale that blew around me would be short-lived and soon I’d be out of the rain and in the comfort of the hotel.

An hour later this was the case as we skirted Beuvais and as soon as we saw the huge out of town McDonalds, hypermarket and countless outlet stores selling beds and other household furniture we knew we couldn’t be far from the Formula 1 hotel whose low prices were reflected by the fact that they weren’t normally situated in the smartest parts of town. The receptionist did a double take as two colourful, soaked apparitions stood in her doorway. With our helmets off our wet hair stood up on end outlining the contours of the helmets themselves and with rosy cheeks from the wind and everything else dripping I’m not sure she wanted to even let us stay.

Having stayed at a Formula 1 already we knew what to expect but at €31 it was fantastic value. After camping for so long the clean, simple accommodation felt like 5 star luxury to us and the shower was just as good as I had hoped and soon the memories of the monsoon we’d endured faded from my memory.

I’ve referred to our diet regularly but tonight we probably had the more calories in one go that at any other point on the trip. With reckless abandon we blew €35 on a family pack from the local take away pizza company comprising of two HUGE family sized pizza, 4 brownies and 2 litres of Coke…..I know…..but we were near the end! The pizzas were each supposed to be able to feed 4 but an hour later their empty boxes lay strewn on the floor with us having consumed in excess of 2500 calories each. We did at least save 2 brownies for the morning! Oh - the joys of cycling - you can eat and drink what ever you fancy and still lose weight!

Day 77: 3rd September. Beuvais - Dieppe 67 Miles & Newhaven - Brighton 12 miles

I don’t know if I was smiling before I awoke or whether my grin formed as I opened my eyes and realised that I’d be back in my own bed later that night but either way for the first few minutes of the day my cheeks ached from smiling. Also something in my head changed as I realised that the epic journey was nearly over. This fact in itself would not be enough to make me smile as I already knew I’d miss so many aspects of life on the road but the fact that we’d soon have achieved the goal of completing the route and raising money was enough.

 After the rain of yesterday we were relieved to see higher clouds and also enjoyed eating 2 breakfasts as we combined the Formula 1 one with our own regular Muesli and banana combination. I was shattered but if I couldn’t get motivated for the penultimate days ride then when could I? My energy however was going to have to force itself through a deep mental and physical fatigue that I had been trying to ignore for several days. Deep inside me  I knew it was all coming to an end and rather like when you get a cold just as you are about to go on holiday my body sensed that a break was imminent.

Northern France looked beautiful although the wind still howled at the times when we lost protection from the trees and I began to worry whether the ferry would even be sailing. I noticed already how the shadows were longer as the sun was lower in the sky even in the middle of the day. The long shadows meant that parts of the puddled road we rode on would not see direct sunlight again until late May 2009 when the earth’s tilt towards the sun would be sufficient for the sun to be directly overhead and its beams of light seek out the most hidden of places.

 As we drank our last Yop and ate our last damp sandwiches in a supermarket a few miles outside Dieppe I am sure we both had a tear in our eye. Eating in supermarket car parks had become second nature and we both knew it was the end of a summer long tradition. I did my best to improve the surrounding by eating within a display of home furniture representing a French lounge. As I relaxed on the sofa in the foyer of the supermarket with a nice coffee table in front and plants surrounding me I felt quite at home. The manager of the supermarket was however not quite as taken with my desire to eat in style as I was politely told that the display was to show the goods off and not for sweaty bike riders to sit in. The huge map of France on the wall of the supermarket helped us take in what we had achieved. Marseille was so far away and yet we’d gone from south to north coast in less that 3 weeks AND managed 9 days off.

The final few miles were spent reminiscing although the future did come up every now and again. We thought about the journey, the characters we’d met, the best and worst parts, the different countries and the different weather. Thought turned to the future and what would it be like to be back after 1/4 year; Would we keep cycling?; What it would be like to be apart? I’ll look back on the sunny final few hours on the continent with fond memories and remember the huge storm cloud hanging over Dieppe as we approached.

The ferry left at 6pm so we had a few hours to kill. A beer and coke was followed by a slow tour of Dieppe centre on the bikes and then onto the ferry. As we pulled out of the port the horn sounded and I found myself alone as Marco slept inside. The sun was out, the wind blew and I got nostalgic as we pulled slowly away from the dockside. I sat alone buffeted by the winds looking west as the seagulls danced their mid air jig. Behind me the familiar sight of the wake of the ferry stretched out towards the ever smaller harbour and I remembered the photo I’d taken with Marco on the way to Holland. Whilst the photo was similar I had changed. As well as lighter, slimmer and browner I had a new more positive perception of Europe and I knew that in many ways I’d find aspects of Britain hard to adapt to. I’d been surprised by the cultured manners of so many of the people we’d met and although we’d dashed around Europe the pace of life of the people who lived there seemed much slower. This perception was strengthened when I went downstairs to eat dinner. A TV blared in the corner but the awful reception meant that only 1 word in 3 was audible as the picture flickered constantly. Satisfied that no one was even looking at it I turned it off. Suddenly a British middle aged lorry driver informed me that he had been watching it. I politely pointed out that it was impossible to see or hear but he insisted that he could understand it. As I reluctantly turned it back on I received a stream of verbal abuse about him being a better person than me and that he’d look out for me on my bike and aim his lorry at me when we departed. My main emotion was sympathy for this sad man but I wasn’t going to let him get away with that so told him how sorry I felt for a man whose only enjoyment was to threaten someone with a 10 ton lorry. I admit slightly more personal comments were made as the anger welled inside of me as someone did their best to spoil this special day but he was left in no doubt that he’d end up overboard if I he opened his mouth again. I heard nothing more from him.

Once Marco had woken he ate and we sat with our bottle of Laurent-Perrier and 400g of Cadburys Milk Tray chocolate that Marco had got with the last of our money. Do we or don’t we open it? The decision took just a few seconds and having grabbed a couple of wine glasses from the bar the sound of the cork popping filled the lounge and we proceeded to drink the whole bottle of this top quality champagne. I was on a high as we again talked about the ride and people asked us about the event. To underline my perception of the culture of France I saw a employee walk slowly past us staring carefully. A few minuted later he returned with two proper champagne glasses and said that we couldn’t possibly drink that quality of champagne out of the glasses that we had. As I write this this man is probably mid channel and has no idea what memory this gave me. It sums up the French for me as he had no reason to do this but wanted quality wine drunk from a quality glass - and this was just on a ferry! Vive la France!

The last few days had been full of riding and perhaps that was why when I spotted the orange lights of Peacehaven, Telscome Cliffs and Seaford nothing happened emotionally. Most probably I was looking at the rain and wind and wondering how on earth we’d get back but I was surprised that I wasn’t more emotional to see Britain. In times of reflection on the ride I’d imagined a huge sense of patriotic pride overwhelming me as we approached home where as in fact I just felt focused on getting back home safely and covering the last 12 miles without getting blown backwards.

We’d had some awful weather on the trip but the last 12 miles were unbelievable. The downpour of the day before was probably the worst combination of wind and rain but without question the wind that blew from the south west and directly into our faces as we headed west from Newhaven to Brighton was the strongest I’ve ever ridden in never mind the strongest of the trip. As we exited the bowl that Newhaven sits in we were protected from it but as we climbed and climbed suddenly we were so high we could see Brighton but the wind was immense. As we rode on the coast road or cycle path the wind tried to blow us back as if it also didn’t want our journey to end. It screamed around us so strongly that Marco and I couldn’t even hear each other as we shouted at top voice just a meter fom each other. On several occasions we literally couldn’t ride on as the wind froze us mid revolution. We screamed with laughter and fright as we tried to start again or as we were blown towards the road or worst still the cliff edge. My ears stung although thankfully the clouds gave way to stars so we avoided a soaking.

Nearly 2 hours later my hometown was upon us and having passed the marina we hit the seafront. Again I felt nothing special as we passed a temporary beach volleyball arena with over 500 seats. Advertising announced a leg of the world championships would take place - I felt for the competitors. Out of the saddle we inched past the famous pier and decided to turn inland to try and seek some protection for the last 2 miles.

Church Rd became New Church Rd which then became Rutland Gardens and then Lawrence Rd. I was home. It was 12.45am when I rang the doorbell and Chloe welcomed two shattered rosy cheeked men along with bikes and luggage in.

Of course this was not the end. The trip was not over as in 2 weeks time we had the last leg to London to complete but the early return gave Marco a chance to earn some money and me a chance to work with Chloe on the last event although after a shower and a bite to eat I only had one thing on my mind…sleep!

Day 72: 29th August. Neuchatel - St Hippolyte. 68miles

Day 73: 30th August. St Hippolyte - Jussey. 83 miles

Day 74: 31st August. Jussey - St Dezier 93 miles

Hello from Brighton! We’re back in Britain but not quite finished yet, the final event takes place this Thursday 18th September with the 52 mile ride back to London which will complete the anticipated 3400miles. The last few days of the ride on the continent were a blur of fast food, ferocious pedaling and fine drinking. This blog covers the days until just before the ferry crossing took us back to Britain, the next one will get us home and then I plan a final one after the final event where I’ll try and sum up the whole experience. Enjoy the blog, cheers, Jon

Day 72: 29th August. Neuchatel - St Hippolyte. 68 miles

I woke this morning with a much more focused mindset than the previous few days. With the MCI event behind us and my dad, Chloe and Steve heading home, Marco and I had an open road home. No distractions, no events and with a fair wind we reckoned we could get back 6 or 7 days early giving Marco the chance to do some work that he had been offered. So with the map spread out in front of us as we planned our route it really felt as if the last chapter of Cycle Europe 2008 had begun.

With the goodbyes complete we were on the road by 9am before everyone left for their long drive home and again headed northeast along the cycle path next to the placid Lac de Neuchatel. I felt a huge sense of relief to have such a specific goal again; I’m someone who needs targets and of course, although riding a bike for 3000 miles is a target, it has to be broken down into smaller chunks and for me the last 600 miles were a challenge within a challenge which I was relishing as it was just us, the bikes, a map and a target - the kind of situation I thrive in.

The morning passed slowly and we discussed the events of the last few days as the sun beat down. We’d decided to head for Biel on the north coast of the lake and, rather than head for Basel, take a gamble on a shorter route but one with far more climbs and head north, push through the mountains and cross north eastern France.

Biel is a relatively unassuming town on the lake but for us it marked an important point in the ride. I tried to eat more than I normally would as I mentally prepared for what looked on paper to be a steep and lengthy climb. Through the various physical challenges I’ve attempted I’ve experienced first hand the fact that these climbs, or indeed any tough physical challenge, are as much conquered in the mind than via physical exertion. From the day we’d started to toy with the idea of not riding all the way to Basel I’d been getting geared up mentally for today and as we sat loading up with the odd combination of caffeine and stir fry, I remembered that the pain and discomfort I’d endure would be temporary and far outweighed by the outside chance we had of arriving in France later that evening.

We arrived at the fork in the road, heading straight on would take us to the flat but longer route to Basel and the river route that eventually would lead to Strasbourg whilst turning left guaranteed a rendezvous with the imposing Jura mountain range that would slow us down considerably but ultimately take several 100km off the route. The red traffic light at the junction forced us to stop and consider further this huge strategic decision especially as we could see the first few 100m of the route into the hills and it did not look pleasant. Brief eye contact and a smile between us was enough to confirm the earlier decision - we were heading for the hills…….

Through a combination of our more northerly position and the late summer date the sun that beat down on us had lost much of its previous strength. The sun’s ferocious power both in the early days of the ride in Germany (from which Marco and I still bear scars) as well as the furnace of Italy seemed long ago and the hills seemed far less torturous in the relatively cool 25 degree humid-less heat. We climbed and climbed Marco selflessly holding back and staying at my speed as I continually fought the pain in my hip and backside which I couldn’t seem to shake off whether I rode in or out of the saddle.

In the next 6 hours we estimate we climbed nearly 2000m huge winding roads on which the cycle path seemed a minor afterthought gave way to smaller roads and breathtaking views as we road through high mountain valleys. The exhilaration of descents that lasted a full 5 minutes were spoilt with ascents of 60 and it was as we arrived at the French border at about 4.30pm that we found ourselves in the middle of both. As we stopped to check the map at the River Doubs that marks the border instead of the huge grins and checks of Marco’s speedometer to see how fast we gone downhill that were the norm we just stared in disbelief at the size of the hill in-front of us. We had hoped to be at a campsite by 5pm but it was obvious that this wasn’t going to happen. The choices? There were none. After watching a few lorries hand their paperwork in and get waved into or out of Switzerland by the uniformed custom officer we bade farewell disappointed that we’d not eaten a gram of Toblerone here! On we pedalled heads down, legs pumping like pistons carrying us another 20miles. Marco did, and I almost, missed the small sign that meant so much to us. As we headed down a huge hill into a small village called St Hippolyte a camping sign flashed by and I let out an involuntary shout. It was late by now and we both already had discussed the need for a cyclists staple diet of pizza and beer.

The site was situated next to one of the 100 of impeccable football pitches we have seen in France. (Have I mentioned the standard of even the smallest villages football pitch? The names of all the local businesses proudly sit on the advertising hoardings and the immaculate dugouts and changing rooms sit graffiti free throughout the country. I don’t know how the French football model works but they’re doing something right.) At 9€ it was a bargain and we celebrated a good days ride by walking down into the village eating a huge pizza each, two cans of Sprite and after many unsuccessful attempts ordered and consumed a ‘Giraffe’ of beer from the pub on the lovely village square. I’m not sure how the barman misunderstood us. The poster advertised a ‘Giraffe’ of beer for 12€. Giraffe in French cannot sound that different but the price had almost gone up by the time he registered what we were asking for and produced a meter high contraption with a self pour level at the bottom which was filled with 2 litres of beer. It was consumed within 25 min and not long after we were sleeping ready for another long day in the saddle.

Day 73: 30th August. St Hippolyte - Jussey. 83 miles

The 6.45 am alarm woke me from a deep sleep but I immediately wanted to get up. The goal of reaching Dieppe had become a bit of a challenge and now Marco and I were constantly speculating on exactly how quickly we could get back. It was Saturday and our goal was to get Marco back for Tuesday 9th September - over 10 days away. The fact that we were now using a map of the whole of France to navigate with didn’t help but with our scientific method of seeing how many of my hand widths we’d covered on the map and how many there were to go, we estimated we could actually be in Dieppe but Saturday 6th September.

More urgent matters such as food occupied our minds. Our early start meant that we were too early for the local supermarket so we rode 14 miles removing layers of clothing regularly as the sun slowly burnt away the miserable clean fog that greeted us.

By mid-morning caffeine and a following wind had helped us achieve a decent distance but then a fascinating insight into how the mind helps and hinders in such situations developed. As we rode, Marco said something which, although I’m not sure if entirely true, blew my positive mental state apart like a box of dynamite. We were riding up a 300 metre peak when he casually remarked that all we had left to do was in effect cover the distance between London and his hometown of Glasgow. WHAT!!?? After a few seconds of silence I realised that he couldn’t be too far off in his estimations and one of the most interesting psychological lessons of the trip occurred: imagine now that you are going to have to ride / run / pogo-stick  or even hop 3000 miles. It’s almost too big to comprehend, isn’t it? It’s a HUGE distance, but you know what? Ever since those long winter nights planning the route, I haven’t been worried about completing it. It’s size was so difficult to comprehend that I just broke it down into individual days of 50-70 miles, and to be honest, for the vast majority of the ride, I’ve found it unnecessary to even do that such has been the enjoyment factor. I didn’t care about how far we had to go as each day was a new experience and I managed to keep a positive mindset throughout. However unwittingly, Marco had just tested this attitude by suddenly putting what we had left to do into some kind of perspective. Just think - we were getting excited that the end was in sight and yet we had over 600 miles to go! I visualised being in London and setting off for Glasgow, people would say “what a challenge” and call us mad and yet that distance was still ahead of us! The ever shrinking distance to our goal was in fact working against me as instead of it being an impossibly huge target, it was now something more comprehendible. In many ways it was going to be harder to cover the last 600 miles than the first 2800.

Let me explain a further factor that we both found frustrating. As I’ve mentioned we had reverted from smaller scale local maps to a huge 2.000.000 : 1 of the whole country. On the smaller maps which we’d used in every other country, our progress was marked with huge movements across the more detailed terrain. In an hour you could move a few cm’s. However, now on the huge French map, our progress was barely noticeable as the whole route to Dieppe was barely 15 cm’s long. This was really tough mentally as when we stopped to check our position, we had barely moved a few mm’s adding to the feeling that we were going no where fast.

I fought with the new perception for a while until the experiences learnt on Kilimanjaro and Everest helped me out and by 3 pm I didn’t care whether we were only half way through the ride. I’d always learnt to control the controlables and I could do nothing about the remaining distance other than to ride and that is exactly what I did.

The campsite sign as we approached Jussey came as a bit of a surprise although that would have been the case for a sign in any town as our map showed no campsites either. The small site looked deserted but a note stuck to an old, well preserved caravan informed us that the site didn’t shut until tomorrow and that the owners would come by each night to collect the fees. Having pitched the tents, the Dutch owners Bert and Wilma, turned up and having paid the 7.50 € fee, we helped them finish the remaining stock of beer and listened to how they’d purchased the site for only a few thousand Euros from the state. They ran it as a hobby having purchased a local house with a back garden that by the sound of it stretched to Dieppe itself and now enjoyed an idyllic life living here in the summer and returning to Holland for the winter. As the sun sank, the beers had their desired effect and I decided that I’d move out here and do the same thing.

We searched the high-street unsuccessfully 3 times for the fantastic Italian Bert had recommended so it was a Turkish take away that supplied dinner. It was most enjoyable apart from the constant buzzing of 25cc mopeds that had been fitted with odd exhausts making them sound like mosquitoes on speed. A few local Valentino Rossi wannabes flew past ignoring the speed bumps much to the annoyance of locals and British cyclists. We were told that the slightly tatty town had a 70% unemployment rate but I still saw the civic pride that was evident in so many of the towns we passed through. I’ve always been a fan of France and the French and this trip has enhanced that view. Some would argue it is sometimes misplaced but the French are a proud lot. Their villages and towns are generally very well kept, their manners impeccable, their drivers courteous, their patisseries saliva inducing and their football pitches wonderful. Bert had told us about the crazy public sector and recently had 14 individual inspectors at the campsite before it was granted a permit and even then it took several attempts as issues such as the grass being too long and the paint not the right colour held things up. I’m overlooking this and will leave with fond memories of the land and it’s people….and yet unbeknown to us the best was yet to come.

Day 74: 31st August. Jussey - St. Dizier. 93 miles

I’m not sure who said that an army marches on its stomach but I can assure you that Marco and I ride on ours. Never was this more evident than with our decision to ride an extra 8 miles to get to a town with a supermarket. Sundays are always a pain with many shops being shut and after riding without food for 30 minutes we chose to cut our losses and head off route to guarantee sustenance in a bid to get a full days riding in.

It was some time after lunch that it happened. You may remember I lost my gadget that told me how far I’d ridden and although Marco’s had broken in Austria, at 2.30 pm his replacement one informed us that we’d done it -  we’d ridden 3000 miles exactly. I’d like to say that fireworks burst above us and champagne flowed but the truth is the milestone was reached in a non descript field full of corn just as I was about to relieve myself. Having achieved our stated goal, we both had the same thought - call a taxi to the next railway station, get a train to Paris and the Eurostar home. Of course we quickly dismissed the idea, not through any sense of duty however but simply because we couldn’t afford it.

We had an official ceremony at about 4 pm as the huge cloud that had been gathering to the west finally moved in obliterating the sun. We sensed the change in weather and said goodbye to our solar friend and foe that had cosily warmed us as well as broiled our skin over the last few months. The line of cloud was straight and thick and the second the sun had gone, I think we both quickened our pace as we both headed north west and the gap between Paris and Reims that would lead us to Dieppe.

Joinville had been our goal as we set off 8 hours earlier but to our dismay upon arrival we were told that there were no campsites in the area so we pressed on to St Dizier. By now it was late and after a rather too enjoyable McDonalds we found a Formula 1 hotel which at 34€ was great value. I’d never stayed at one before and their keycode entrance and bunk bed set up will not be to everyone’s taste but for us it was perfect. The only negative were the 3 menacing men who appeared as I was on the public phone in reception. Their glance at me was icy and the screams of pain and terror that emanated from the ground floor room they forcefully entered forced me to cut my call short and retreat upstairs. 20 minutes later the men had screeched off in their Mercedez and police and ambulance personnel had arrived. It seemed that some kind of revenge beating had occurred and by the look of the two chaps taken away the beating had been quite severe.

Day 69: 26th August. Rest Day - Geneva 0 miles cycled

Day 70: 27th August. Geneva   - Lausanne 40 miles

Day 71: 28th August. Lausanne - Neuchatel 46 miles

Hello from France (again!) I hope there are still a few of you following this recently rather irregular blog. Marco & I both feel that we are in the last part of the ride which has its positives and negatives. It has been so difficult not to wind down mentally as we keep having to remind ourselves that there are still up to 700 miles to go. For the last few days we have been frustratingly looking at the map and seeing London get no closer as the route takes us north east towards Basel from where we intend to cut through the mountains and head north west towards Dieppe. Switzerland has been wonderful but we are both ready to get back now and with my injury recovering we hope to make good time in the coming days. Enjoy the blog, Cheers, Jon

Day 69: 26th August:. Rest Day - Geneva

Morning gave Chloe, my dad and I the chance to have breakfast together in Geneva city centre. I now understand why Switzerland has such a good economy and infrastructure as everyone seemed to have eaten and headed to work by 8am. Nowhere had any croissants left as the office types had already devoured them and scuttled to work ready to build the world’s best watches or whatever it is that they do. As the sun shone and my dad talked about family stuff, home and generally the UK I felt so far removed from it all. Suddenly, it dawned on me that the rather monotonous, repetitive and boring schedule of riding, sleeping and eating that Marco and I had had over the last 10 weeks had shielded me from most of the news and current affairs. Yes I’d heard Britain had done well in the Olympics but that was about it and I’d actually enjoyed the media isolation. On return to The InterContinental I’d gone to Steve and Marco’s room only to see BBC Breakfast news on TV and wish I hadn’t. It reminded me that as much as I had hurt and had cursed, especially in the last few days since my accident, I’d in fact coped much better with the absence of some things that we often unconsciously tap into which create the daily structure of our lives and it was going to be a shame to return to it all soon.

Tonight was the penultimate official event of the trip with one of the key sponsors - MCI - welcoming us to their staff summer drinks reception on the shore of Lake Geneva. In preparation for this Chloe and I met with Vanessa, Charlotte and David from the MCI Geneva office who kindly took us for lunch as we discussed details of the nights event. MCI is committed to a policy of CSR (Corporate Social Responsibility) throughout its global network and their willingness not only to sponsor Cycle Europe 2008 but also to move their gathering to fit into our time table was greatly appreciated.

Later in the afternoon we welcomed 4 friends from Slovenia who attended our event in Ljubljana and who had driven the several hundred km from Slovenia to attend. Jernej joined Steve, Marco and I on our bikes outside the hotel early in the evening in preparation to ride down to the event just a few km away. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect but a big banner welcomed us to Geneva and we enjoyed a lovely evening with Sebastian Tondeur and about 50 MCI employees. Everyone was so welcoming but I must give a special mention to Rebekah whose husband Bobby suffered a stroke just a few months after Steve’s. It was great to see Bobby there and although he insisted his doctor told him he only has 60% of his previous physical abilities to me he was exactly as funny and entertaining as he was when I shared a jeep with him and Rebekah wadi bashing in Dubai 26 months ago. Congratulations!

The only concern heading home was the fact that Steve temporarily forgot he was in Switzerland and as we pulled into the road on the bikes to my horror he headed to the left hand side of the junction ready to ride into the oncoming traffic. In typical Steve fashion with a grin and a skillful swerve he was back with us as we made our way up dimply lit streets. We resembled a snake with Christmas lights on as we headed back to the hotel with our lights fore and aft blinking silently in the fast cooling night.

Day 70: 27th August. Geneva - Lausanne 40 miles

The ride had up to now been the story of the two heads of state and this morning we made it three. To add to US President George Bush who swept by the morning we left London and the Slovenian Prime Minister Janez Jansa who we met in Ljubljana today, just as we finished photos in front of the hotel, the President of Uruguay swept in with a police escort.

With John heading back to London to prepare for representing GB in Triathlon next week Marco, Steve and I headed back down to the site of last night’s do before turning left and following the northern edge of the Lake Geneva towards Lausanne.

As trains shot by to our left I couldn’t help but imagine what I’ll see when I return. I am due to get the train from Geneva to Montreux in December and made a mental note to get a seat on the right hand side so I could see our route and the surrounding landscape 2 seasons on. Would the trees still be as majestic? The waters of the lake so still? The wind as light? The sun a powerful? Of course I know the answers but it occurred to me that by exploring much of Europe in the summer I may have only seen one small aspect of it. Suddenly I had vision of us in December leaving London to complete the same 3000 mile route through the sleet of southern England and the grey, windswept, flat landscape of Holland and Belgium. I stopped there - summer was the time to cycle 3000 miles; if I want to see Europe in another season either I’ll drive or just go skiing.

Again the Swiss drivers paid the trio of slow cyclists the utmost respect with one HGV driver hooting his support as we neared the top of one particularly steep hill. However, Steve’s injury got the better of him as with just 5 miles to go he decided not to ruin his chances of riding tomorrow and opted to get a lift to Lausanne with my dad. Steve has nothing to prove to anyone and I think his decision shows this. Many people in his situation would feel that they had failed unless they completed every mile but Steve has already amazed so many people and in fact, contrary to the generous comments left by friends to me following my relatively small accident, Steve is in fact the hero - he’d be back tomorrow fitter than ever.

Day 71: 28th August. Lausanne - Neuchatel 46 miles

Breakfast was punctuated by a good friend Marisa dropping in to wish us all the best. Marisa and I first met 9 years ago and she helped hugely with the route design. In fact, let’s be honest, she basically told me what the route should be from Italy to Dieppe! Having been busy in Zurich for a few days it was great to see her and we discussed further route alterations as Marco and I were beginning to wonder whether, with my improving physical state (and my worsening mental one :|), we could cut north before Basel and trade a shorter route for higher mountain climbs….

Today’s ride took Marco and I back to the cycle paths of Germany that cut a sway through crop fields. Soon we found the elusive route 22 and we rode with Steve 3 abreast through sun drenched fields, deserted villages and dense forest. It is worth mentioning the crops: having started in June we have seen the various varieties steadily grow and change through the countries. The most obvious to change in the corn which was less that 0.5m tall when we first spotted it in Germany. As headed south and the weeks went by, it grew stronger although I am unsure as to whether this was due to geography or simply the passing of time. The crops in Italy seemed stronger still, the stems thicker and by the time we started to head north a couple of weeks ago from Marseille huge corns had appeared on the 2m high crops. The crops have been a constant companion indicating the passing of time rather like an organic hour glass as well as acting as an small but reassuring constant in the never ending days of change. Today the corn was at its best, as strong and as tall as it will reach and as yet unweathered by the scalding sun. This contrasts with the sun flowers that have never quite seemed to have reached their best as the relatively poor European summer has curtailed their potential magnificence and they now bowed as one as if already surrendered to their awaiting fate.

My friend Simon and his girlfriend Sandi had flown out to be with us but unfortunately Sandi didn’t get to ride today. Simon met us at lunch today as we enjoyed pasta in the quaint cobbled square of Yverdon -des-Bains having ridden around Lac de Neuchatel and had already covered 48 miles. He had however, rather carelessly in my opinion, lost Sandi. Having no phone with her he had hoped she would find a public box but as we continued after lunch he opted to stay put in-case she appeared. Some time later when he caught Marco, Steve and I up he had yet to hear from her and it was nearly 7 pm, (some 8 hours after having last seen her), that she appeared having suffered a puncture and had walked the 30 miles back.

I’ve talked about the good and bad times and tonight was especially difficult for me and I only mention it in an attempt to convey how the constant riding has finally got to me. Brewing discontent with various people - and frustration with myself as much as anyone -got the better of me and at one point I decided that I couldn’t even face going out. Seeing that a) it was my dad’s birthday b) he, Chloe and Steve would be heading home tomorrow c) Simon and Sandi had invited us out, it shows the extent of my feelings. I’ve not had enough time alone and as a person who craves private time I began to think that the trip was a month too long. In the end I went and I am glad I did but I couldn’t hide the mounting frustrations with life in the saddle and having given dad his present and tried (unsuccessfully) to be sociable, the hour alone next to the lake that I had on my return amongst the most relaxing of the trip. Suddenly I was as keen to get back as ever.

Day 66: 23rd August. Tencin - Duingt. 64 miles

Day 67: 24th August. Rest day - Duingt.

Day 68: 25th August. Duingt - Geneva. 41 miles.

Hello from Switzerland! I’m sorry that this is getting behind. It has been more and more difficult to find time to write as the recent schedule has been pretty hectic. I’ll catch up on a few days now but it may be a few days until the next entry.

Day 66: 23rd August. Tencin - Duingt. 64 miles

The Bradshaw family tree is not particularly distinguished relatively speaking (excuse the pun). I think there was a John Bradshaw that conspired against Henry VIII with Oliver Cromwell in Canterbury early in the last millennium and subsequently got hung, drawn and quarted and, having rather reluctantly agreed to go and see it with my girlfriend, I believe there is a Carrie Bradshaw in the film “Sexy in the City centre”. As I am failing miserably at both trying to overthrow the King of England and acting in a film about procreation in urbanised areas, I had hoped that any offspring I had would, apart from the obvious traits of super intelligence, looks and leathery backsides, be able to amount to something special. As I rode the first few kilometres from Tencin this morning, I doubted whether there’d be any offspring - ever. My delicate areas are still discoloured as is most of my upper left leg. I rode as if I was carrying a beach ball between my knees in an attempt to reduce the pressure. In addition my burst bursar on my left hip continues to feel very odd, rather like a bag of water sitting there wobbling. What made things worst for the first few km’s were the crutches strapped to the bike. I didn’t want the french NHS to be out of pocket and did my best to give them back. Having found a chemist they didn’t seem too interested in taking them and after John kindly called the one we had got them from, I discovered I’d in fact bought them and not hired them. To our surprise the chemist still didn’t want them but they weren’t going back on my bike, that was for sure. So if you see an abandoned pair of blue crutches near Tencin, feel free to use them as officially they’re still mine.

I was surprised that I managed 64 miles today. There was a strong headwind but when we arrived in Chambery where we expected to stop, it was only lunchtime so we decided to get the anticipated 2 day ride done in a day. Apart from a coffee, the only pause was to watch some of the 100’s of paragliders land having flown like birds through the mountains.

Soon we were on the southern tip of lake Annecy and after a while riding up the western side, found a perfect campsite in Duingt a few 100 metres from the lakeside. John, Marco and I treated ourselves to dinner next to the lake in a cafe and we were all in our tents by 10pm. After 5 days off, riding over 60 miles in one day was obviously a bit too much!

Day 67: 24th August. Rest day - Duingt.

The pictures I took as the sun gave notice of its intention to rise behind the huge mountains to the East, will be amongst the best of the trip. Beams of light like lasers shone in all directions from behind the summit until finally the sun appeared in time to start to dry the 3 dew soaked tents. Today my dad Peter with Steve (my brother in law whose stroke 2 years ago inspired the whole project) along with Chloe, my girlfriend. They are staying for 5 days in total with Steve intending to ride on his adapted bike for 2 or 3 days.

After a coffee in the sun and an hour with the Ipod they arrived. It was good to see everyone although I have to admit that I didn’t handle the distraction and extra personnel well and in the next few days found the pressure of mixing private life with my work life very difficult at times causing some people closest to me some real disappointment.

Soon John, Steve and Marco were off on the bikes to Annecy and as my dad took the chance to swim in the lake, Chloe and I had our first bit of time together since early July. We joined my dad for a swim late in the afternoon in the clean waters as the sun slipped down towards the majestic mountains opposite.

Steve kindly paid for dinner and then it was the comparative luxury of the 2 man tent Chloe had bought with her, although my single mat along with the single blow up airbed she’d bought meant she slept about 10cm’s higher than me (and there was no room for my blow up doll).

Day 68: 25th August. Annecy - Geneva. 41 miles

Today was a special day. For the first time since day 1 on June 19th, Steve would be joining the ride. My dad and Chloe were able to pack the last bits away meaning John, Steve, Marco and I could get off a bit early. As John’s flight back to London left later that afternoon, I enjoyed an hour chatting to him as we rode. His presence had done Marco and I a lot of good and was especially useful to Marco when I was laid up in Tencin and he wanted to go out riding. The clarity of the waters in lake Annecy need to be seen to be believed, it is truly a stunnig place and it was a shame that we only got to ride through it briefly.

The 41 miles to Geneva took a lot longer than normal but about what we had expected. Steve’s 3 wheeler bike is about the same speed on the flat but today was a particularly hilly route and on the hills it is much slower. Steve told me that he has about 40% strength in his right leg. Add to this the fact he is sitting low to the ground and you can see why cycling for him is so much harder. In addition, a few days before coming out here he sprained his ankle and it was causing some real discomfort. Having said that, when we were forced to go under a staired underpass, whilst the rest of us got off and pushed Steve was able to power up each of the steps individually with a fierce push on the pedal with his left leg and he even got some wheel spin!

The InterContinental hotel in Geneva took a while to find and had changed a lot since my last visit in 2000. Chloe was already there and after John had used the shower and headed off to the airport for his flight home, we all went into town to eat before Chloe and I (mainly I) got through a bottle of wine in the room and finally got to have a proper chat.

Day 61: 18th August. Enforced rest day.

Day 62: 19th August. Enforced rest day.

Day 63: 20th August. Enforced rest day.

Day 64: 21st August. Enforced rest day.

Day 65: 22nd August. Enforced rest day.

If you are going to have an accident that means 5 days off then there are worst places in the world than Tencin, a tiny village 19 miles north east of Grenoble to chose. Situated in a beautiful valley guarded by 200m high mountains to the north west and south east, the last 5 days have been a chance for me to recover whilst John and Marco have been able to enjoy the stunning scenery. The schedule forces us to leave for Annecy tomorrow and whether I’m ready or not, I intend to cycle there somehow.

Day 61: 18th August. Rest day - Grenoble hospital.

By 7:30am I was on the phone to AMEX to discuss insurance cover and by 10am I was in a taxi on the way to the local doctor’s surgery. Having worked for a French company many years, John is fluent in the language and today this was worth its weight in gold. A smiling Dr. Orlandy greeted John and I at his surgery in La Terrase and after examining me and asking for full details of the accident from John, he suspected that I’d fractured my pelvis and drew me a small diagram indicating exactly where. A rather alarming swelling had appeared overnight in a slightly delicate area under which the bone was positioned. It was becoming clear that the saddle had in fact done much of the damage as it had been pushed into my lower abdomen and groin in the fall. With the paperwork complete it was a taxi to Grenoble hospital for further examination.

Grenoble hospital is a sprawling mass of buildings but the driver knew exactly where to go and soon after being admitted I was on a bed being rolled to the X-Ray area. Although getting into the right position for the X-Ray was extremely painful, once complete John and I had an hours wait for the results. The wait gave him a chance to tell me about the time when his daughter Alice, who was 7 at the time, had a stone taken out of her hand in A&E. When the nurse arrived with a scalpel, he had passed out coming round only 10 minutes later with Alice shaking him slowly whilst beaming and showing him her treated hand. I think John was close to passing out again when suddenly the doors swung open and a commotion of paramedics, nurses, wires and screams of pain swept in. The man concerned had been in a serious car accident and as he was tilted to the side to let him expel the blood he was coughing up, it made me feel a bit of a fraud. Broken pelvis or not, here I was sitting up and chatting with John whereas this chap had multiple serious injuries and I’m pretty sure had lost his eye.

The head doctor, Madame Catherine Guyot surveyed my X-Ray results. We’d sneaked them out already and our untrained eyes couldn’t choose between 3 possibilities: a) no fracture, b) multiple fractures or c) I must’ve swallowed a tea spoon and action man as a child. There was a rather worrying looking cloudy area on one side which we thought we should ask about. Madame Guyot’s verdict?  - no fracture thank goodness - but further examination needed to determine possible internal bleeding or other internal injury. As to the cloudy area, the serious stern face Doctor let a hint of a smile appear as she announced, a little louder than in my opinion was entirely necessary: “the area you are worried about is your testicle”. We didn’t ask any more questions but I’ve booked an appointment with my doctor back in the UK when I get back as I’m sure there should be two!

The ”further examination” was in fact an ultrasound scan which, from what I could tell, was exactly the same as pregnant women are given. As the jelly was applied, the lights were turned down and I had the strangest experience of the ride so far. There I was lying in a darkened room, pants around my knees, John one side, doctor the other with what looked like a barcode scanner being rubbed all over my “lower abs”. Whilst I resisted the urge to ask whether it was a boy or a girl, I’m sure the doctor resisted telling John that he must be very proud. To me the small TV screen showed us images of that famous ‘photo’ of the Loch Ness monster deep under water. The doctor however, gave us a running commentary outlining the lower bowel, spleen, kidney and even commented that he had been given the same 1977 action man.

To cut a long story short, the damage was not as serious as first thought and limited to internal tissue and muscle damage. I was given pills, rather sexy knee high compression socks, a set of crutches and told to rest for 3 weeks. Some 7 hours after arriving, we wearily returned to the campsite. At any other part of the trip the inability to cycle for a  few days could’ve spelt the end of Cycle Europe 2008 but we’d manage to get ahead of ourselves on the route and having calculated that we could leave on Saturday and still hit all the deadlines, I returned painfully to the tent in the knowledge that as long as I could ride on Saturday I’d be OK.

Day 62 / Day 63 / Day 64 / Day 65. 19th - 22nd August

I woke after a restless nights sleep feeling 101 years old. The damp air and dew seemed to reach into my bones and I felt there was no way I’d be sitting on a bike in a few days never mind riding one. It was not the time however to start guessing how long recovery would take. The ‘Would I / Wouldn’t I be ready?’ guessing game just wasted energy and was pure speculation. With the decision to sit on the bike on Thursday to see how things felt it was time to try to relax and enjoy the area, after all we had just done 240 miles in 3 days.

John and Marco returned to Grenoble on the bus on the Tuesday and I hobbled around not doing anything much. By lunch time I’d only just finished having a shower and airing the sleeping bag on the washing line which shows what snails pace I was operating at. Putting shorts on required real strategy so imagine the hassle in putting on the compression socks. Sandals and knee high socks - I’m surprised I wasn’t asked to enter Tencin’s 2008 ‘Homme de la Mode’ competition. The camp site was next to a lake and people staying got free entry to the beach area that had been created so after lunch I lay in the sun staring jealously at the clear water as people swam, dived and enjoyed the facilities. John had bought a novel out so in fact I got stuck into a good book for the first time in ages which helped pass the time. The lads returned later than expected and we ate a take away pizza as John and Marco planned a ride into the mountains the next day.

Wednesday followed a similar pattern with speedy gonzalez here taking most of the morning to walk to the showers and back. John and Marco left on what turned out to be a 5 hour ride. I could say I longed to go with them but even if I were at full fitness I doubt whether I’d have joined them. I’ve just cycled 2700 miles and had a day off, why on earth would I want to ride a bike, never mind up a 1700m hill? Instead I sat on the beach enjoying the screams of 50 school children on a day out. I must have thrown the football back to the two 8 year olds playing near me 30 times today each time the ball hitting my left thigh just as I was about to drop off causing me to jump up in a half scream half gasp of pain and then smile. Each time I managed a ’non problem petit hommes’ where as in my head I was vollying them both to the other side of the lake quicker then it takes for a French forehead to reach an Italian chest. Oh well the book was good and I was actually enjoying having some time alone. As the weeks have gone by my time alone has become more and more important. In the UK I make sure I get time to think, read the paper, write or develop my business. Most of these have been impossible with the riding schedule and I have been beginning to feel the negative impact of this. Whilst I’ve not missed home particularly it is the things that the framework of work / home / social life gives you that I miss. It’s things like the Sunday papers, football training, walking on the beach and for me most of all the radio that I miss. The football season has started and Radio 5 Live has been my companion for hours every day since it’s launch in 1994. Each night I got the radio out hoping that we’ll be far enough north to get a faint signal. There has been no luck so far but it won’t be long before I’ll hear Alan Greene commentate on a premier league game and I can’t wait.

John and I sunbathed on the Thursday (August 21st) as Marco went for another ride. I was able to walk in the water and spent 45 minutes walking waste deep back and forth in the water trying to test the extent of the injuries. After a few hours of being bought up to date on the Olympics (I apparently must withdraw my comment about us only being good at rowing as we seem to have done quite well) and various social and political events in Blightly I felt a bit more rounded and we all enjoyed a homemade meal of Tortilla wraps in the evening. There we all were peeling, cutting and simmering various ingredients just like true 21st Century men complete with our bra and suspender aprons on in a weird Rocky Horror meets Masterchef combination. The food was good though and made a change from what we’ve become accustomed to.

Soon after it was time to try the bike. The few minutes that I spent gingerly pedalling up and down the gravelled surface outside the tent  will remain as some of the best on the whole trip. Yes it hurt and yes I had bruise the size of a plate on my left thigh (and ones I can’t describe in places that I though impossible to get bruises!) but I could ride slowly and it was only Thursday so I was confident that by Saturday morning I’d be able to ride the 40 miles we’d set ourselves. I’d been concerned that Cycle Europe 2008 may become Cycle Europe 2008 / 9 as I returned to Tencin next summer for the 600 mile dash home but no, I’d be there on Saturday…it was time for a beer.

Friday was memorable for the length of time we spent in the pub. It dawned cloudy and we agreed to visit a small cafe / bar on the way to pick up breakfast supplies. The first visit was a non alcholic trip of croissant and coffee but the second stint as the rain fell between 11am - 4pm consisted of a variety of drinks as we watched the French handball team beat the Croatia in the Olympic semi final as well as the British BMX lady crash out to her French opponent much to the delight of the man who’d been drinking in there since opening. The sun breaking through at about 4pm gave us the chance to get back to the lake ‘beach’ for some final rays and then the third and final visit to the bar came through John buying Marco and I a wonderful dinner.

Tomorrow was Saturday and we had given ourselves 2 days to get to Annecy where we’d meet  my brother in law Steve, my dad Peter and Chloe my girlfriend as well as attend an event in Geneva with one of the main sponsors MCI. Cycle Europe 2008 would be back on the road…..

Day 58: 15th August. Marseille - Aubignan. 82 miles

Day 59: 16th August. Aubignan - Valence. 72 miles

Day 60: 17th August. Valence - Tencin. 84 miles

Hello from Tencin, a tiny village about 19 miles north of Grenoble. In only 3 days, we’d managed to ride over 230 miles but our final days ride was curtailed by a nasty accident I suffered, hence the delay in the blog. The doctor’s suspected prognosis of a fractured pelvis luckily proved wrong but with severe brusing and internal muscle damage, I’ve been laid up for 4 days now and although the advice has been to rest for 3 weeks, I hope to ride to Geneva on schedule on Monday. Time will tell!

Enjoy the blog, even though it is slightly flat due to the events of the last few days. Cheers, Jon.

Day 58: 15th August. Marseille - Aubignan. 82 miles

With my friend John Skivington having joined us, it was very strange to leave the IBIS hotel as a trio. It was the first time, since Carsten and Mark joined us in Germany, that we’d had anyone with us but John is great company and I knew we’d benefit from him being around.

John looks exactly the same as us with his bike and panniers. I’ve ridden with him before many times but he has always been on his racing bike so it was odd to see him with as much luggage as we have. The only difference was the cleanliness, it all looked as if it had just been bought!

Marseille is obviously at sea level but by lunchtime I knew it was also surrounded by hills. About 20 minutes into the ride I was a bit surprised by the gusty breeze as we climbed through a northern Marseille suburb but as time went by it seemed to increase, heading directly into our faces. We seemed to climb and climb until the urbanisation stopped and we found ourselves on a pig of a road running adjacent to a motorway. The headwind was obviously here to stay, making the poplar trees that surrounded bow subserviently. I was so annoyed that of all days, the mistral (the wind) had appeared today. Marco and I are used to chatting when we ride and yet with this wind (the gusts of which regularly reached 45mph over the next 2 days) talking was impossible as we were mainly out of the saddle straining against the mistral as it swept down from the Alps. Marco is about 5ft 7; (1,69m) and with John about 5ft 4; (1,63m) and both under 75 kg, they are made for riding. I’m the leanest I’ve been and feel the fittest for riding too but I’m still carrying about 12 kg more through my body weight and throughout the day they were a few minutes ahead of me, slightly more on hills. In the afternoon, this allowed me to get the Ipod out and use music to get me over hills and drive my legs against the invisble natural hurdel that had been put in our way.

With John now adding to our daily kitty, the 38€ for 6 sandwiches and 6 drinks for lunch at the only cafe open was just affordable. The weary day continued and at about 6pm, I felt as if we’d ridden to Dieppe already. A huge but awful pizza had to suffice for dinner and then, having found our first choice of campsite full we eventually rode a further 5km to Aubignan where we had to do a double take when told the cost was 12€ - for all 3 of us! Campsite Aubignan - you get the vote as possibly the best value for money so far. Free showers, fair price AND the lady at reception pretended to understand my French

Day 59: 16th August. Aubignan - Valence. 72 miles.

Introducing John to the al fresco eating that is ‘petit dejeuner’ on supermarket car parks was interesting. He seemed to pick it up very quickly and was soon dodging the spit and verbal insults from the french shoppers. (Nothing could be further from the truth as the reaction is often a cheery “bon appetit”).

The road to Valance was a long one and unfortunately the powerful mistral again returned battling against it for the second day running.

Having John along has bought a new element to the ride. From the first minute I began to see things from his perspective. For Marco and I many things have become over familiar. The heat in Marseille was the first thing John mentioned. Obviously he had enjoyed the humid rush of warm air that envelops you as you reach the entrance to the plane having arrived in a hot climate. I’d forgotten it was hot and humid and when I looked through John’s eyes it must’ve been great to be riding to the IBIS on the first night at 8pm in 26 degree heat surrounded by palm trees having left the wet and cool UK a few hours earlier.

On the ride today John was constantly pointing out the mountains , the views and the vegetation which we’d become a bit accustomed to. It was useful to have this reminder as soon I’d be flying through the night on a plane somewhere and would miss this hugely and shouldn’t take it for granted. I did have to smile though as John called for a stop. He dismounted and wandered camera in hand into a field only to return triumphantly a few minutes later proclaiming he had taken a photo of “the perfect vine”. It did look green, I agree, and yes it had green grapes on it but to me it looked like the other 2 million we ridden by that day.

Valence was a welcome relief and we were so lucky to see a sign to a campsite as the map I had didn’t have any marked. At 22€ it was fine, although a bit deserted. Increasingly, I’m getting a sense of the end of the season here. Apparently, inclement weather in the north of France is forcing people down here but today the site was quiet and a few early autumn leaves fell around our three tents. A local supermarket cafe supplied dinner and after a hard ride, bed came early.

Day 60: 17th August. Valence - Tencin. 84 miles

The first the thing I did as my eyes opened was listen. Was the mistral to appear for the third day in a row? The answer was no. The leaves at the very top of the trees surrounding our plot fluttered but nothing else stirred. However, there was another issue - rain. By the time we had returned to the previous nights cafe for breakfast, it had started to pour down in buckets. The enforced extra croissant was welcome but we wanted to reach Grenoble and that was a further 80 miles away so regardless of the rain we set off.

Apart from meeting a slightly mad cyclist whilst having lunch on the pavement, it was a largely uneventful day - until Grenoble that is. We’d been unsuccessful in finding a campsite to the south so anticipated riding through the town in hope of finding one on the north side. I was about 20 metres ahead of John and Marco and was on the down slope of a bridge that crossed a river in the centre of town. I was on the road pedalling fast, somewhere between 15 and 20 mph. I’d seen the cycle path earlier and there it was again to the right, running about 2 metres parallel to the road and an exit from the road on to it coming up. I made a decision in a split second - unfortunately it was the wrong one. I was going too fast and didn’t have sufficient time to turn into the exit. I hit the small curb at too acute an angle and was already off balance, 20 kg of pannier weight tipping the bike and me to the left. Marco later said that the last picture he remembers of me, was me sitting on the bike as normal but parallel to road about a meter off the ground. To me it was a blur of noise, scrapes, pain and lightening thoughts of “this helmet has just taken a huge hit” as well as “it was going to happen at some point and now it’s out of the way” both before I’d even stopped scraping along the tarmac.

I opened my eyes to find John above me and as I was on my knees holding my stomach. As I hobbled to the side of the road to recover, something deep inside me didn’t feel right. No bones were sticking out of me which was a good thing and it quickly became obvious what had taken the brunt of the impact. I had landed square on the left hand side of me and the bike which meant 3 things had taken the force of the impact: firstly my left thigh, secondly the rear left pannier and finally the left hand side of my helemt. When John handed it back to me I got quite emotional bearing in mind the reason we are here. The carbon fibre helmet was smashed, severely dented and split in 4 places, held together only by the internal skeleton of wires that the top of the range brands do. I sat there dazed, breathing hard and unconciously repeating “oh my God, oh my God”. Who knows what the outcome would’ve been without the helmet? The way it slammed onto the road with my weight, the bike’s and the luggage leaves me with no doubt that I’d at least have suffered a serious facial and head injury and I don’t think I need to say too much about what the worst case scenario could’ve been. I’d promised my fireman friend Derry that I’d wear the helmet after an emotional description of a cycling accident he’d attended earlier in the year. This is a promise I may well owe my life to.

I now had to assess the injuries I did have. Surprisingly, there was relatively little grazing. My shoulder, knee and elbow didn’t look too good and I simply couldn’t feel any of my left buttock and thigh but it was deep inside my groin that I was more worried about. 20 minutes later I got back in the saddle. It was mid afternoon and we had to find a campsite. Mounting the bike was agony as was riding and for the next 19 miles, I didn’t exceed 5 mph as I winced in various states of pain heading northwards as John and Marco patiently slowed. Soon I was hurting in my left lower stomach and a quick inspection revealed a rather odd looking swelling which was painful to touch.

When I saw Marco raise his hand and punch the air later that evening to signal a sign for a campsite a huge surge of emotion went through me. I’d not had time to have a proper look at my injuries and everything was hurting. We booked into a campsite in Tencin nestled between a river and a lake and I finally dismounted. Walking 50 metres to the shower was both painful and painfully slow and I decided there and then to call my insurance company in the morning and see a doctor. My tent was put up for me, we ate and then I took 20 minutes to undress and get into the tent swearing too loudly everytime a bolt of pain went through me. I wasn’t in a good way and I was worried about both my health and completing the ride.

Day 55 12th August Cannes - Les Londes 71 miles

Day 56 13th August Les Londes - Marseille 63 miles

Day 57 14th August Rest Day Marseille

Day 55 12th August Cannes - Les Londes 71 miles

A matin a 2hr e demi je suis dormir en une tranquil state mais le dormir c’est suffer une grand interruption. Trois homme (apres tres much alcohol) returner pour nous tent en tres volume. C’est possible pour ecouter les homes en Paris et je not impressed. ‘Sacre Blue’ je exclaime ‘Les petit merdes, j’ai un grand plan for returnez le inconvenience!!’

A 8hr Marco et moi commence le packing. Je understand je suis tres immature mais c’est neccessaire por moi to sing avec tres volume. Je postionaire myself apres le homes tent at commence singing ‘Paradise By A Dashboard Light’ by Meatloaf. Moi opinion est ‘I’m not bad’ mais le homes not voudrais pas ecouter Meatloaf. ‘C’est res bien n’est pas homes?’ Je suis fumer!!! C’est grand fortune - c’est possible pour moi un tres grand velocitaire dans la velo est c’est impossible pour un homme (sand les garments) pour catch me

C’est un tres chaud jour. La solaire dans un azure sky. Le terraine est tres difficile mais Marco et moi c’est tres fit et c’est non un problem. Le terrain c’est magnifique et la rue ran apres le railway - c’est spectaculaire!

Nous manger en une petit (et chaud) supermarket mais apres midi le energy dissapear! Apres 7 hour dans la saddle nous discover un petit (et une star) campsite near Les Londes. C’est impossible pour imagine mais a la campsite bar Orangine est 2.50€!! En 1982 c’est 3 francs - le Union de la Europe c’est un grand parlez!

Aussi le facilitaires de sanitaire c’est non tres bien. Apres un douche le l’eau run under le door et entres the area pour manger. C’est non tres bien hygene n’est pas?! Nous visitez le supermarche et manger un grand yoghurt drink (frais). Bon Bon!

A 8hr je suis tres fatigue (les petit merdes) et je retirez pour mon tent et regardez les petit blanch sheep.

Day 56: 13th August. Les Londes - Marseille. 63 miles

The same supermarket provided breakfast and then after the purchase of a phone card to try and control the spiralling mobile costs we set off.

There are 2 things a cyclist detests (well a novice like me) - hills and headwinds. Today we had both, the former in the shape of 3 climbs each larger than the last culminating in a 6km hike to about 400m above Marseille. Combine this with the latter element of a powerful headwind the temperature of a hairdryer funnelling through the rocky pass we ascended and it was a tough day, one that only a few weeks ago I would not have been able to complete with a smile and a ‘That was a bit of a bugger, wasn’t it?’

Lunch was a baguette and coke and things seemed OK but Marco was unusually quiet. In fact I’ve been worried about my friend for a few days. It seems to me that the ‘yellow bikini’ incident may have had a bit of a psychological impact. On the last night in San Remo he was a bit odd, ‘Do you think I’d beat George W Bush in a wrestling competition?’ he enquired, followed by the same question replacing the American President with a hippo. What WAS he thinking about? On the trip I’ve been far more able to do nothing than Marco. He needs to be entertained or else he gets fidgety. A while ago there was talk of him drawing which did not materialise. Then I encouraged him to write and maybe prepare for the career decisions that he faces upon return that I’d enjoyed discussing with him regularly. He reminds me of me at that age and although he may not admit it, he actually does have some life altering decisions to make when he gets back which I think he is finding pretty daunting. If there is a potential employer out there who needs a passionate, hard working Scotsman who has chosen to spend £2,000 of his own money to help others then get in touch. He does swear a lot but promises me he hasn’t got Tourette’s Syndrome. Please help as, as we rode this afternoon after being silent for 15 mins, he suddenly exclaimed in total seriousness ‘When I get home I am going to wear flares for a week’ before riding off.

The final ascent bought us to 400m above Marseille and there was an awesome view. Having enjoyed the steep descent into the city we were told that there were no campsites in the area. The quick decision was the IBIS hotel; it wasn’t cheap but you know what you are getting and although we had to share a big bed it was still wonderful to feel a pillow without dried saliva, dirt, dust and sweat on your face. A sandwich and beer was dinner and then bed for the best sleep in weeks.

Day 57: 14th August. Rest Day - Marseille

Today was simply lazy - no riding and a huge siesta. Today we welcomed a friend of mine John Skivington to the ride. John will ride with us until Geneva on 25th August although we expect to get there a few days early if we ride hard and enjoy a couple of days in Annecy. However, John did not arrive until 8pm as he in fact was flying to Nice and getting the train to Marseille as we’d opted not to meet in Nice but to ride ahead and avoid putting too much pressure on ourselves.

Initially we had contemplated trying to find a campsite north of the city and then riding in to meet John but after a long day of travel, I was sure he’d not been ready to ride the 30 miles to the nearest site and anyway it would have meant Marco and I riding 70 miles for no real benefit. The decision to stay in the IBIS and pay a 10€ supplement for a third person was therefore an easy one.

The lazy day consisted of a long siesta and long bath (not at the same time) and the witnessing of apoplectic emotions from the French TV Olympic commentators as France won a bronze in the gymnastics and swimming. There seemed to be about 17 of them commentating and sounded like they’d been drinking litres of Sunny Delight such was the energy level. The euphoric reaction to the 2nd placed Japanese gymnast falling off the parallel bars and thus ensuring the French a medal was equitable to someone winning Euro Millions. The French media must enjoy a far closer relationship with their athletes than the British media do as later a medal winning swimmer was being interviewed and whilst he was quite composed the interviewer was in floods of tears. They must be as unsuccessful at sport as we are and not used to the glory of winning.

We rode to Marseille railway station at 8pm and greeting John with sarcastic shouts of ‘Hello Dad!’. John is 48 but will be competing for Great Britain in an Ironman World Championship in Holland 2 days after returning home, so is probably fitter than either Marco or I. His training schedule is immense and a few years ago he missed only 3 of 250 scheduled training sessions for a competition over a 12 month period. This man is passionate about fitness! Luckily, this didn’t stop him sharing a beer with us before we went to bed. As we talked about the ride and the coming 300 miles, the size and complexity of the project sunk in. John had ridden the first day to Colchester back in June and to him it felt a world away. As we caught up on falling house prices and rising fuel prices, I allowed myself a small sense of pride. Because of the commitment of many people, Cycle Europe 2008 was happening and we were about to head for home. Tomorrow we’d turn north and start the final side of the rough triangle that marks the route. We’ve over 1000 miles to go but with friends and family joining us in Geneva including Steve himself, it will be Basel before Marco and I find ourselves riding together alone again; and although this may seem crazy, for us that sounds almost home.

Day 50: 7th August. Albegna - San Remo 49 miles

Day 51: 8th August. Rest Day - San Remo

Day 52: 9th August. Rest Day - San Remo

Day 53: 10th August. Rest Day - San Remo

Day 54: 11th August. San Remo - Cannes 62 miles

Hello from just outside Cannes, France. Je suis enjoying parlezing avec le locals et mangering le tres tasty cuisine dans le mare. Dans the future je suis contemplate enscribe la complete blog en Francais mais this blog et describe Italy so I shall stick to my first language for now. I’m typing from a campsite just west of Cannes on the south coast of France. We rode here today after 3 full days off near San Remo which was a first. We are considerably ahead of schedule and have been covering so much ground for one of 2 reasons 1) as our stamina has improved as we’ve been on the road so long or 2) our bodies have reacted positively to the reduction in alcohol as we have hit financial issues and the Drink Europe challenge has taken a backseat. Either way, we found ourselves 6 days ahead and with a rendezvous planned in Nice on the 14th with a friend John Skivington, who’ll be riding with us to Geneva, we were forced to hang about for a bit. Oh well, it was the first time we’ve had 3 full days to relax and I think we both feel better for it. We’re homeward bound and feeling good. Enjoy the blog, cheers, Jon

Day 50: 7th August. Albenga - San Remo 49 miles

I was still humming ‘Hey Jude’ as we pedalled the first few painful and slow revolutions away from the musical hotbed of Italy that is Albegna. Although we both were slightly disappointed that a record producer did not fly in over night from Rome to sign us before we left, we were ready to move on. As I have mentioned previously, getting the bike moving from a standing start takes considerable effort. With my (diminished but not inconsiderable) body weight on one leg pushing down, the bike only begrudgingly starts to move until momentum takes over. The first few pedals are always the worst and today was no different.

I can’t believe we covered nearly 50 miles today, it was a privilege to do and not too hard either. It has taken 12 days for the Triglav effects to diminish in my legs and I feel now that they are back to normal. We rushed through one coastal resort after another dodging traffic, racing trucks, breathing fumes along the wonderful SS1 road through cove after cove under the cloudless blue sky. After 15 miles we stopped for a coffee, meters from the thousands of holiday makers sunbathing, snorkeling, swimming or simply oogling at each other. Can I point out, the time Marco and I spent oogling was extremely limited as we had to study the map and anyway, the binos wouldn’t focus.

I could smell the coconut of the sun cream as we sped through the resorts but I honestly wasn’t jealous. I’m happiest riding as we are moving forward piling through the miles, completing our goal and having enjoyed the miles since Genova as much as any on the ride as we are treated to the stunning views of the sun drenched Italian Riviera.

I wanted to mention the standard of driving here. Again, it has been way above what I expected. Marco and I have been treated fairly and any hooting at us has been due to us chatting and riding side by side which is probably illegal anyway. I’ve decided that an Italians’ driving, like any other European citizen, mirrors their national characteristics. Italians wear their heart on their sleeve, are compulsive, compassionate and seemingly spontaneous. It occurred to me that decided in an instant to pull into the side of the road with no warning or indication and whilst doing 40mph is perfectly justifiable to an Italian. He/she made a snap decision and did it immediately. In fact a bit of tyre screeching and even smoke adds to the passion, just like the incredible body language you witness. So, armed with this information, I’ve been able to endure several near misses with “emotional” Italian drivers with a simple internal smile, shake of the head and say “aren’t the Italians a passionate race?” under my breath.

Soon we were 14km from France and had just passed through the elegant resort of San Remo. I spotted a campsite sign posted with a pool, something Marco and I had spoken about. It was a crazy price and meant a total daily budget for food of 22 Euro but we booked in for four nights anyway in the hope that the local supermarket might be reasonably priced. The camping area was very odd as, although it was close to the rocky beach, it was on top of roasting paving stones which emanated the suns heat for hours after sunset. This made for another sleepless, sweaty night but with three full days off ahead, I wasn’t bothered.

Day 51: 8th August. Rest Day, San Remo

Day 52: 9th August. Rest Day, San Remo

Day 53: 10th August. Rest Day, San Remo

The three days at the campsite just outside San Remo were great, albeit a little hot. The panoramic but shadeless camping area gave no protection from the blazing sun so 7:30am starts were normal, if only to walk groggily to the shower greeting those up with a Barry White growl of a good morning through cracked and sunburnt lips. Showers (and loos) were acceptable and the local supermarket a Godsend.

Marco and I frequented the