Cycle Europe 2008

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.