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