Bajar to Salamanca was a really nice run. Finally it was really warm, with the temperature sitting around 20 degrees and the scattered cloud gave way to blue skies. I had debated swinging west of Seville, but as I had pushed so hard on the previous couple of days and I had time I decided to have an early lunch. This would then give me plenty of time to stop at Rhonda before winding over the final hills to Gibraltar. With this in mind I was in a great mood. Xavier Rudd was full blast on the IPod, the sun was shining and I was stuffed to bursting point with tasty Spanish food and coffee. Just the last 2 days to go - surely nothing can stop me now.
Oh really... I have genuinely never sworn so many times in my life. Seville was one of those old cities that town planners decided to modernise in a hurry. A really big hurry. Therefore they neglected to think that anyone would want to enter Seville on any other transport apart from in their car or on their motorbike. So they built an enormous ring road round the city and linked up the other nearby towns on this 'superhighway'. The problem is that cycling is prohibited on these roads, so instead of replacing the original roads so cyclists and other traffic can actually go somewhere, cyclists are either penned in Seville, or fenced out.
The answer was to cycle under the ringroad and down an earth track. This then took me past a Roma camp, an unofficial rubbish dump and over the river to the outskirts of town. Not the best entry I had to date. The elongated process of getting in to the city was, in hindsight the easy bit. I had my Lunch and tried to leave. I spent the next 4 hours following signs, the map and asking people for directions but continually had to stop when the road turned into a motorway. I was hot, tired and losing my sense of humour. All I could think about way the prospect of not making it. Defeated, not by the sheer physicality of the challenge but by the Spanish town planning department.
After pausing for a snack and a cold coke, it dawned on me that there was only one way out. It was however the wrong way and would mean some replanning of the final day. I calculated that an extra 30km would enable me to swing south out of the city and then I would have to head west to pick up the route over the national park. Putting my immense frustrations behind me I followed the road south and really pushed on. By now intense fatigue was already sinking in to my legs and I continually topped up with energy gels and carbohydrate drinks. I had a hard afternoon constantly urging myself on, and trying to up the pace. It paid off, and I reached the edge of the National Park just 100km from Gibraltar as the sun set and found my final nights accommodation.
The final day! Dragging myself out of bed for the final pre dawn start was still tough. I wondered over to pick up my kit and in a zombie like haze put it on, ate my cereal bars, filled up my water bottles and left. The first thing I encountered was a taste of what was to come. A 2km long climb into wind. I comforted myself with the knowledge that I only had to cover 100km and every metre was bringing me closer to the finish line. This was great in theory, but theory is often very different in practice. Spanish road maps are certainly not detailed enough to show the sheer amount of switchbacks and endless loops that are required to climb and descend huge peaks so my '100 km' very quickly grew in length. It was after I had cycled 40 kms that I realised on the map I had barley done 21 kms, and I was not yet on the steepest part of the route. This low point really got me. Stopping to eat the remaining food in my panniers and finishing the second of my 3 water bottles of water to reduce weight I reflected on the tough points so far and decided that whatever happened today, it's got to be more enjoyable than Northern Spain. Keeping this thought in my head I slowly used this to drive me forwards.
As I entered the national park the scenery started to get more rugged, and the roads looked more like alpine roads. On every climb I anxiously waited to find out if the road would drop back into the next valley, or handrail the hill. Inevitably the roads followed the paths of least resistance and always seemed to drop into the valleys in short stages meaning that it was hard to use the hills to best effect. As I pushed further in I undertook 2 massive climbs, firstly up to 800m before dropping back down to 300m, and then I had to return to 1,200m. Knowing that these were the toughest sections left meant that I actually enjoyed then, even if the countless false summits were a little wearing. Approaching the final section I pushed into the cloud and felt a million miles from southern Spain. I was cold, wet and could only see 30m at most. I donned my florescent jacket, strapped on my helmet, switched on my bike lights and prepared for the decent. This was what I had waited for. Having climbed all day, and had short bursts of downhill, I finally got to enjoy the hours of sweat and pain. I flew down the hill and piloted the bike round hairpins with sheer drops and over cracked, slippy tarmac. Riding on the limits of a tourer with panniers, I tore past the abandoned huts and road signs, praying that the final stretch to Gibraltar would be more of the same.
The final road to Gibraltar is strange in that as the Spanish don't like to recognise 'Our Rock', they don't put up any signs for it. So I just had to carry on and rely on a bit of guesswork and luck to make it there. The final kms dragged but I was so excited by the prospect of seeing my Father and Jill and having a comfy seat and some food that I could relish and enjoy that it was not too painful. As I got to the last 5km the road turned into another autovida and with the help of some Spanish hoodies, found myself riding next to the beach. It's amazing that I had already taken in the channel, the atlantic and now the Med all under my own steam in such a short period of time. The route took my through a Spanish power station and then finally through La Lina where I saw the first sign for Gibraltar approximately 1km from the boarder that simply asked drivers to take the right hand lane for Gibraltar customs...
I stopped short and rang my Father. It was now 1845 and just dark. Both he and Jill came out to meet me with some really nice Gibraltar customs officers who were amazed by the challenge. We got some pictures and the boarder, and crossed the finish line some 16 days and 1 evening since I left from outside my work in central London on foot. I was completely exhausted and barley able to walk, however the smile on my face told its own story. Despite the terrain, elements and loneliness I had battled on and made it, and I was pretty damn happy about that.
Friday, 17 December 2010
Sunday, 5 December 2010
Salamanca and Bejar
Entering Salamanca was a bit of a disappointment. Why, well I can't really explain it. i had for some inexplicable reason thought that as it was my Company name at Sandhurst and the scene of some famous battles, I would be over awed as I entered into the city through some fortress like stone walls or see it rising from the ground as I approached trembling under it's sheer size and magnificence. Of course had I approached it from the South, this would have happened. From the North, the road runs through stereotypical Spanish city outskirt buildings, such as car showrooms, large garages and new cheap housing. As I continued through, I could sense the spirit of the old Salamanca holding on. The proud bull stood on the roundabout at the edge of the old city limits, and then the old city walls and cobbles appeared on my left with huge thick building vying for supremacy behind. Dismounting from my bike I walked down the cobbled hill stretching off my stiff legs and struggled to stop the laden bike from escaping down the hill into the groups of students, who were without exception dressed for an arctic expedition. I would like to point out that I hate the cold and have used up the vast majority of my 'cold resistance' in the Army whilst on Welsh hills in the winter surrounded by snow/rain/sleet/wind. However these guys made me look like a eskimo who revels in the cold. It was about 11 degrees, sunny and they were togged up for an arctic blizzard! I got my camera ready and did a quick 'cycle by' snapping away at the interesting buildings before stopping for lunch. Improvising hard at the girl behind the mountain of tapas, I managed to secure a menu and order the Menu Del Dia. Hunger must have set it as I unflinchingly ordered a starter of paella and an unknown, but tasty, cut of meat that came with chips. My menu guesswork was starting to pay off.
The exit out of Salamanca was great, and the view to the city from the south far better. I took a final glance at the towering walls and continue on the road to Bejar. After 10 minutes I was back to what seemed like the exact road I had just left. After a fairly punishing afternoon session broken up by power bars and sugary coffee I saw the next set of hills start to approach. They were much higher and more menacing than the others on the central plain. Checking the map and seeing the relative size compared to the others in the area it soon became clear. They were the largest. The main autovida (motorway) that I had been following started to drift off after the next village and according to the map I had to take the old roads round, over and across the hills. Firstly though I had the pleasure of travelling through a village set up exclusively for the production and sale of iberico ham. The smell was divine (except the 2 slaughterhouses on the edge of the village) and I enjoyed seeing all of the shops selling rows and rows of hanging pig legs complete with trotters. I stopped and bought a couple of (very large) slices of iberico before readying myself for the climb ahead. The approach to Bejar was fine. A meandering road that followed the foot of the hill. Ominously the road then dived down to the right of the hill and in the opposite direction. After double checking the map and saying a small prayer, I followed on hoping that I would not have to climb back up... The road quickly became more of a track, and potholes started to appear more frequently. The bike shook violently and I had to stop at 20 minute intervals to tighten and check the various screws holding the panniers and mudguards on. The traffic became non-existent and the only people I did see were pottering about. Strangely they were almost all exclusively old, female and nowhere near either an obvious starting point or an end point as there was literally nothing bar the odd animal for at least 5 kms. Either old Spanish women are mad, have very mean husbands or are among the fittest on the planet. The jury is still out on that one...
The road finally began to climb and I rapidly headed up towards the highest peaks. Looking back I could clearly see the plain that I had just covered. There is nothing more satisfying that looking out and seeing the progress that you have achieved. I then made the mistake of looking forward and understanding the effort required to progress over the coming hills into Bejar. As I climbed the remote villages became more and more medieval. Suddenly there were chickens roaming on the verges and donkeys tied up to 1st floor shutters. The pace of life was clearly a little different from the rest of spain, and I wondered if they actually got round to eating. Given that the 'normal' Spanish don't eat until 9pm when on earth did these guys sit down. Do they start their supper at breakfast time? It was all rather confusing. With these big thoughts in my head I climbed the last of the long winding hills and began the invigorating decent into Bejar.
The exit out of Salamanca was great, and the view to the city from the south far better. I took a final glance at the towering walls and continue on the road to Bejar. After 10 minutes I was back to what seemed like the exact road I had just left. After a fairly punishing afternoon session broken up by power bars and sugary coffee I saw the next set of hills start to approach. They were much higher and more menacing than the others on the central plain. Checking the map and seeing the relative size compared to the others in the area it soon became clear. They were the largest. The main autovida (motorway) that I had been following started to drift off after the next village and according to the map I had to take the old roads round, over and across the hills. Firstly though I had the pleasure of travelling through a village set up exclusively for the production and sale of iberico ham. The smell was divine (except the 2 slaughterhouses on the edge of the village) and I enjoyed seeing all of the shops selling rows and rows of hanging pig legs complete with trotters. I stopped and bought a couple of (very large) slices of iberico before readying myself for the climb ahead. The approach to Bejar was fine. A meandering road that followed the foot of the hill. Ominously the road then dived down to the right of the hill and in the opposite direction. After double checking the map and saying a small prayer, I followed on hoping that I would not have to climb back up... The road quickly became more of a track, and potholes started to appear more frequently. The bike shook violently and I had to stop at 20 minute intervals to tighten and check the various screws holding the panniers and mudguards on. The traffic became non-existent and the only people I did see were pottering about. Strangely they were almost all exclusively old, female and nowhere near either an obvious starting point or an end point as there was literally nothing bar the odd animal for at least 5 kms. Either old Spanish women are mad, have very mean husbands or are among the fittest on the planet. The jury is still out on that one...
The road finally began to climb and I rapidly headed up towards the highest peaks. Looking back I could clearly see the plain that I had just covered. There is nothing more satisfying that looking out and seeing the progress that you have achieved. I then made the mistake of looking forward and understanding the effort required to progress over the coming hills into Bejar. As I climbed the remote villages became more and more medieval. Suddenly there were chickens roaming on the verges and donkeys tied up to 1st floor shutters. The pace of life was clearly a little different from the rest of spain, and I wondered if they actually got round to eating. Given that the 'normal' Spanish don't eat until 9pm when on earth did these guys sit down. Do they start their supper at breakfast time? It was all rather confusing. With these big thoughts in my head I climbed the last of the long winding hills and began the invigorating decent into Bejar.
The road to Salamanca
I kept thinking back to my trip down the west coast with Andrew and remembering how much we ate. It occurred to me that I was falling well short of the required daily calorie consumption. Even with cereal bars first thing, spanish pastries and coffee at 10am, 2 carbohydrate drinks and various energy bars during the day and 3 courses for both lunch and supper I was not consuming enough. My body had been surviving on it's own reserves of fat and muscle to supplement itself and I couldn't keep this up. The question was how could I eat the equivalent of a 5 egg omelette every day when the only places I past were rural bars selling iberico ham and cheese burrios? Deciding to change tactics I ordered a ham and cheese roll and a cafe con leche, poured 3 sugars into the coffee and despatched them in record time and left. This was a little unsettling for the Spanish workmen on their 1 hour morning 'coffee break', but I had a plan. Cereal bars were to be followed by 2 'breakfast' rolls. That was the answer...
My next focus was to traverse the central plain and make it to Salamanca. The impending visit was to be a particular highlight as I undertook my Sandhurst training in 'Salamanca Company' and had never seen the city. I was also looking forward to making it over the heights of Bejar before dropping down to Seville. Looking at the relief on the map and the average temperature of Seville, I stick my finger in the air and decided that as soon as I passed Bejar it would get really warm. This was a fantastic focus, and within 5 minutes I was sure that it must be true. The central plain was unremarkable. It mainly consisted of desert punctuated by the odd field and some very lonely looking trees. A westerly wind blew in gusts. Having started offshore it had picked up the cold temperature of the atlantic off western Portugal before pestering me as it continued to Madrid and beyond. I could visualise the storm battering the coast in the same way that the Atlantic onshores pound the North Devon coast for most of the winter months. Remembering how the wind managed to blow out all of the beaches except the most sheltered semi 'secret' spots along the coast, and cover everything inland in sand. With this in my mind I resigned myself to the fact that there would be little, if any shelter from the wind all day. I was right and for the rest of the day it managed to slow my speed by 3-4 mph leaving me pushing hard to stay at 16-17 mph.
I passed through several small non-descript semi deserted villages before I stumbled on what can only be described as a scene from a horror movie. As I approached the village there was tumbleweed blowing across the ploughed field and skipping across the road. I slowed as I gently climbed a small hill and then freewheeled into a village. Passing abandoned houses on the outskirts the most recent signs of life were decaying objects outside the front of the houses from 20 years ago. The odd property that was occupied stood out a mile off with only 5 years of sun bleached white wash walls and curtains nestling between two other terraced houses with no windows and parts of the external walls missing. As I continued down the single road I continued to look for signs of life and, unrealistically, any kind of shop. Unsuccessful, I turned the corner at the bottom of the street and was confronted by a very strange sight. 50 scarecrows lined the side of the road to my right. The gusting wind brought them alive in a manic urgent manner, as they strained towards me. I passed them before stopping and reaching for my camera inside my pannier. Having taken some pictures, the zoom revealed the lifelike creations in their full weird detail.. I started to question the sheer isolation and particular desolation of the village. Walking back to my bike I kept checking over my shoulder, before speedily throwing my camera in my pannier and leaving at pace.
My next focus was to traverse the central plain and make it to Salamanca. The impending visit was to be a particular highlight as I undertook my Sandhurst training in 'Salamanca Company' and had never seen the city. I was also looking forward to making it over the heights of Bejar before dropping down to Seville. Looking at the relief on the map and the average temperature of Seville, I stick my finger in the air and decided that as soon as I passed Bejar it would get really warm. This was a fantastic focus, and within 5 minutes I was sure that it must be true. The central plain was unremarkable. It mainly consisted of desert punctuated by the odd field and some very lonely looking trees. A westerly wind blew in gusts. Having started offshore it had picked up the cold temperature of the atlantic off western Portugal before pestering me as it continued to Madrid and beyond. I could visualise the storm battering the coast in the same way that the Atlantic onshores pound the North Devon coast for most of the winter months. Remembering how the wind managed to blow out all of the beaches except the most sheltered semi 'secret' spots along the coast, and cover everything inland in sand. With this in my mind I resigned myself to the fact that there would be little, if any shelter from the wind all day. I was right and for the rest of the day it managed to slow my speed by 3-4 mph leaving me pushing hard to stay at 16-17 mph.
I passed through several small non-descript semi deserted villages before I stumbled on what can only be described as a scene from a horror movie. As I approached the village there was tumbleweed blowing across the ploughed field and skipping across the road. I slowed as I gently climbed a small hill and then freewheeled into a village. Passing abandoned houses on the outskirts the most recent signs of life were decaying objects outside the front of the houses from 20 years ago. The odd property that was occupied stood out a mile off with only 5 years of sun bleached white wash walls and curtains nestling between two other terraced houses with no windows and parts of the external walls missing. As I continued down the single road I continued to look for signs of life and, unrealistically, any kind of shop. Unsuccessful, I turned the corner at the bottom of the street and was confronted by a very strange sight. 50 scarecrows lined the side of the road to my right. The gusting wind brought them alive in a manic urgent manner, as they strained towards me. I passed them before stopping and reaching for my camera inside my pannier. Having taken some pictures, the zoom revealed the lifelike creations in their full weird detail.. I started to question the sheer isolation and particular desolation of the village. Walking back to my bike I kept checking over my shoulder, before speedily throwing my camera in my pannier and leaving at pace.
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Northern Spain
Northern Spain
So, Northern Spain. Struggling to find good things to say. I have never been the biggest fan of Northern Spain with the exception of San Sebastian, which is fantastic. Despite being just as industrial as the rest of the area, the old town is stunning full of busy tapas bars where you can hear basque and spanish being spoken side by side.
However...
I left Biarittz somewhat nervous as the wind had been increasing and the rain had been coming down all night! As I approached the Pyrenees I could really feel the wind and see the storm clouds hanging over the mountains. As I approached the boarder the route took me alongside the coast with some steady climbs and stunning views through Hendeye and Irun. Then as soon as I entered Spain it all changed. The nice French single lane N roads changed into a duel carriageway complete with articulated lorries zooming past within feet of the bike. The only exception was when the road suddenly turned into an auovida (motorway) where bikes aren't allowed. The only answer was to head in roughly the same direction by navigating through the small often signless villages. As I meandered through the villages the storm that had threatened all morning finally erupted above me and torrential rain began to lash down. This was clearly a low point. I grabbed a cafe con leche and a couple of weird looking chocolate pastries and then decided to get south. From this moment onwards I decided that I just needed to get south as quick as possible so that I could enjoy the warmer climates and then try and enjoy myself a bit more! Two days of pushing hard and near enough continuous rain saw me get through Vitoria-Gesteiz late on Monday and then push hard to Burgos arriving on Tuesday evening.
So, Northern Spain. Struggling to find good things to say. I have never been the biggest fan of Northern Spain with the exception of San Sebastian, which is fantastic. Despite being just as industrial as the rest of the area, the old town is stunning full of busy tapas bars where you can hear basque and spanish being spoken side by side.
However...
I left Biarittz somewhat nervous as the wind had been increasing and the rain had been coming down all night! As I approached the Pyrenees I could really feel the wind and see the storm clouds hanging over the mountains. As I approached the boarder the route took me alongside the coast with some steady climbs and stunning views through Hendeye and Irun. Then as soon as I entered Spain it all changed. The nice French single lane N roads changed into a duel carriageway complete with articulated lorries zooming past within feet of the bike. The only exception was when the road suddenly turned into an auovida (motorway) where bikes aren't allowed. The only answer was to head in roughly the same direction by navigating through the small often signless villages. As I meandered through the villages the storm that had threatened all morning finally erupted above me and torrential rain began to lash down. This was clearly a low point. I grabbed a cafe con leche and a couple of weird looking chocolate pastries and then decided to get south. From this moment onwards I decided that I just needed to get south as quick as possible so that I could enjoy the warmer climates and then try and enjoy myself a bit more! Two days of pushing hard and near enough continuous rain saw me get through Vitoria-Gesteiz late on Monday and then push hard to Burgos arriving on Tuesday evening.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Le Mans to Biarritz
The past three days have been quick. With the pressing issue of needing to get kms in the bank, i have had to use all the available sunlight and grit to get to Biarritz by today (Sunday). It started well, the same overcast sky followed me south and the drissle continued. I hit Poitier and that is when the fun began. I have a feeling that there may have been a widespread, but little reported sign placer strike in the Vienne, Sevres, Charente and Gironde regions of France. The result is three laps of Poitiers, which is not bad for Poitiers tourism as i am now well aquianted with the historic landmarks and places of interest. The more serious setback was the Gironde bridge that was to wisk me to LaMarke. I arrived at the 'bridge' to find out that it had departed 10 minutes previously and was now floating towards LaMarke, not to return until 4.30. That would normally have been ok if it was not 11.10 on Saturday and the only alternative was to cycle an additional 30 kms back East, and then navigate through Bordeaux without a city map! The final masterstroke was to sign the tiny villages South West of Bordeaux as towns, leaving me to cycle an additional 40 kms in the dark through the national park looking for a bed, which by the way i am told is very beautiful but at night in the fog it looks very similar to lots of places.
However, the route did throw up some spectacular sights. The vines in and around Cognac were turning pink, the Castle at Jonzac was a welcome suprise, and the area near St Jean D'Angély was more reminicent of late summer with people sitting outside drinking and eating until late into the night with no more than a jumper being required.
Today took me down the 'route des lac' past Mimizan, before i hit the very familiar surf spots of Hossegor, Capbreton and of course the beautiful Biarritz. However the surf was onshore, and i heard the words that every surfer has heard a million times, 'you should have been here yesterday it was really firing... etc'. The route was fantastic as it was flat, enabling me to travel at 20 mph for almost the entire day. So hoping that my Spanish route west of Madrid will deliver more of that.
So now i am with my friends Guy and Vanessa and looking forward to supper and ready to take on the challenge that Spain brings, and hoping that someone can email me a summary of the rugby as I didn't have time to watch it!
James
However, the route did throw up some spectacular sights. The vines in and around Cognac were turning pink, the Castle at Jonzac was a welcome suprise, and the area near St Jean D'Angély was more reminicent of late summer with people sitting outside drinking and eating until late into the night with no more than a jumper being required.
Today took me down the 'route des lac' past Mimizan, before i hit the very familiar surf spots of Hossegor, Capbreton and of course the beautiful Biarritz. However the surf was onshore, and i heard the words that every surfer has heard a million times, 'you should have been here yesterday it was really firing... etc'. The route was fantastic as it was flat, enabling me to travel at 20 mph for almost the entire day. So hoping that my Spanish route west of Madrid will deliver more of that.
So now i am with my friends Guy and Vanessa and looking forward to supper and ready to take on the challenge that Spain brings, and hoping that someone can email me a summary of the rugby as I didn't have time to watch it!
James
Thursday, 4 November 2010
London to Dover - the run
DAY 1 - A casual half-marathon after work
My challenge started at 4.45 on Friday when I met a slightly grumpy James outside the Deloitte office on Stonecutter Street, ready for our scheduled 5.15 set-off. We were met there by two of the core support team – Sheila Harrison (aka mummy) and a tanned James Ankerson (aka Shaggy). Both were sporting very fetching luminous numbers embossed with the ‘Running for Veteran’s Aid’ message and Sheila was jangling a quaint homemade collection bucket. A number of James’ Deloitte colleagues also came down to wave us off, which was most appreciated. So with Sheila’s car packed, photos duly taken and branded running tops donned, we set off, heading south across the river...
After a quick bag drop at my flat we were on our way in earnest, running through the lamp-lit streets of London Bridge and Southwark, occasionally checking the map to ensure we were on the right road. Day soon turned to dusk, dusk to dark, and before we knew it we were staring into a black hilly abyss that was Greenwich Park. Hmm, it seemed the running route I plotted was meant to be run in daylight! So, first detour saw us running up a very long, steep hill beside Greenwich Park up to the windy expanse that is Blackheath. So far, so good – after 7 miles of running at a decent pace and chatting away, we were well on our way and both feeling fresh and excited - it felt good to finally be on the move after a hectic few days planning routes, logistics and kit while both busy at work.
The next 7 miles were relatively easy, running at a decent pace on pavements taking in the delights of London suburbia. And it was on this leg that we met our first friend – the A20. We didn’t appreciate it at the time, but this was the start of a long and amorous relationship. 2.5 hours later we cruised through the drizzle into Sidcup, past some bars, restaurants and the odd witch and hobgoblin (that is not a slur against the women of Sidcup...it was Halloween after all). We found the station and got a train back to London Bridge marching back to my flat through the wind via M&S to stock up on steak and pasta. Early night with the intention of getting up at 7 to be in Sidcup by 8.30, ready to crack on from the 14 mile mark where we ended the previous night’s jaunt...
DAY 2 - Entering the Garden of England
Leaving the flat at 7.30am we bumped into our third core supporter, Anil Odedra (aka p1ssed tw@t) who was swaying back and fore in a drunk stupor after a night on the town. The plan was for him to drive and meet us somewhere near Maidstone at 1pm with supplies, dry/warm clothes, hugs, etc. – but at this point I was sceptical whether we would be seeing him or our kit at all that weekend! Still, we were fuelled on porridge and bananas for the morning session and could carry money, a phone, energy bars and maps in our pockets, so were prepared for the 40 mile day that lay ahead.
From Sidcup station we followed the road to Swanley for 4 miles, starting slowly to loosen up stiff legs and ending this first stage at a garage to refuel on powerade and chocolate. Distances seemed further today than the previous evening, which was a bit ominous, and James had woken up with a dodgy knee that he couldn’t shake off. We kept breaks to 10 minutes to avoid seizing up, so were on our way again shortly afterwards, joining up with the A20 again. This stretch was pretty tough – 6 miles of undulating landscape as we entered Kent, which really took it out of tired legs. Other than a coach journey to Dover as a thirteen year-old French exchanger, this was my first look at the self-proclaimed Garden of England. While the autumnal colours and rolling hills in the distance were pleasant, I couldn’t help thinking that Wales has a much, much nicer garden.
Using the map’s mile markers for guidance, we identified West Kingsdown as an appropriate place to stop for sustenance at the 10 mile mark. Staggering into the village with my mouth watering at the prospect of a bacon sarnie and a cup of tea, I quickly learnt that it really is about breaking down the day into manageable(ish) chunks with little rewards. And as if the gods were watching us, as we walked through the cafe door the skies really opened. We sat there smugly eating, drinking tea and reading the papers, buoyed by the fact that we were making decent progress and had lucked out with a perfectly located cafe to refuel and stay dry.
Making deposits in the Running Bank
Soon after the first, the second lesson of the day was learnt: don’t sit still for too long! The next few miles were very hard – plodding along slowly on very stiff legs and a full stomach, we soon caught up with the driving wind and rain that we so gleefully thought we’d evaded. But knowing it was going to be a long day, we toughed it out, head down, legs pumping, gradually upping our pace and adding another 16 miles to the Running bank... a term we came to embrace. The rain was actually refreshing and there was a long downhill taking us to the outskirts of Maidstone. It was here we passed Caerleon, soon followed by Simon’s car from the Inbetweeners...yep, it’s the little things that keep you entertained while running along the same road for hours on end!
Stopping briefly a few times to rest/drink/stretch we made it just past Maidstone for 3pm, exiting Mote Park in search of a pub serving food at the 27 mile mark. My thighs, knees, calves and stomach muscles were really burning and I was definitely ready for a proper rest/collapse. James seemed fine – still not sure whether his legs (or ‘pistons’, as he has started affectionately referring to them) didn’t ache at all, or whether he was keeping up an act of casual bravado to hearten me. Either way, I’m fairly sure I was in worse shape than him...understandable given that in the last 24 hours I had run three times further than I’d ever run before.
Maidstone to Ashford North Holiday Inn, Aha
A hearty portion of roast chicken and chips later, we were soon hobbling back onto the road. A quick review of the map revealed that we ‘only’ had 13 miles to go... now from experience I know that 13 miles is a pretty tough feat...but now I had the prospect of running this with jelly legs, a throbbing left ankle and bleeding toes. “Just a half-marathon to go now little man, that’s nothing compared to what we’ve done today!” James enthused. It was here that a little tear rolled down my cheek as it dawned on me that there is no way we would be walking any of the remaining distance. Damn him with his army training, jovial support manner and unremitting ‘pistons’.
After three extremely tough stop-start hours – the last hour of which was run in pitch darkness on a narrow, stony roadside path (with me, put forward as cannon-fodder by Captain Harrison, leading the way) – we made it to the Holiday Inn in one piece. Never before have the flashing green lights of a budget mote , with the prospect of a shower, food and a bed, looked so inviting. And it was here, in this damp, dark car park where we spotted Anil’s grinning face – impressed yet sheepish, happy yet hungover...but most importantly, bearing bags full of clean clothes and ready to buy us dinner....
DAY 3 - Achy legs and dodgy hips
Oww, oww, oww, oww, oww, oww, oww....that was all I could muster for the first 3 miles on Sunday. Legs shuffling along in an old-man-running-a-marathon kind of way, we plodding on in the hope that our legs would loosen up at some stage. As we entered Ashford the legs were slightly looser but I had gained a shooting pain in my right hip and a painful left ankle, neither of which I could block out. It was at this very painful low where Britain’s town planners really let us down...since when has a roundabout had three exits to the same road?? Damn the A28 – that little tri-exited bugger added 3 miles to our 25 mile Sunday journey, at a time when my legs did not have 3 miles in them, let alone another 25. Bad times. But fair play to us both here for not dwelling on this mistake and running a committed (although rather muted!) 9 miles to Sellindge, ploughing on a few miles at a time, stopping very briefly at villages along the way to load up on Ibruprofen (magic beans as we termed these little wonders), lucazade and energy bars, before getting back on the road almost immediately to avoid the dreaded stiff legs.
We stopped for an early lunch at a lovely country pub in Sellindge, leaving us ‘just another’ half-marathon to go. Tomato soup, pints of orange squash and some high accolade from the friendly Sunday pub goers were all consumed with relish. This was it we thought, nor far to go now, almost there, you can almost smell the sea air now....oh shit, my legs don’t work.
Please drive on the left
Legs stiffer than ever before, ankle in agony, and a growing fear I would be forced to walk the remaining 13 miles, we drudged on at a snail’s pace after lunch. James was in high spirits trying to sing me along with such merry songs as “downhills, downhills, donwhills, they are our friends....until we get there and then we eat the downhills for breakfast...yum yum yum, downhills taste good, good good good...” Sure you get the picture. This strange motivation did kind of work, but left me wondering what James’ Grenadier Guards platoon thought about my oddly childish yet spirited friend.
As the legs loosened we upped the pace in parts, running 2-3 miles at a decent pace and then 2-3 miles a bit slower, reacting to our bodies aches and pains, grinning and bearing what we could in an effort to eat up the miles. This is where we saw the ‘Please drive on the left’ sign – brilliant, I thought, Dover must be really close now! Past the Channel Tunnel terminals we ran, along a bridal path for a mile or so, and then downhill into Folkstone at hobbling pace, desperate for a break after a continuous 8 miles of head-down pain. We headed for McDonalds via a McShortcut for a very welcome McTea and McMuffin. Ronald had delivered, we felt invigorated. Just 5 miles to go now...
The last hurrah!
After the 80+ miles we had covered, 5 miles didn’t sound like much and spirits were high. But back on the road it was quickly evident that I couldn’t move my foot, which made uphills and downhills too painful to run. Unfortunate for me then, that the first mile on the B2011 to Dover was a massive winding uphill. This was the first time we walked, plodding up the hill in silence for 10-15 minutes where I resigned to the fact that I would most likely be spending the next few hours walking very slowly to Dover in the dark.
But...by the time we reached the top of the hill the double-dropped magic beans had kicked in and I was ready to try running again on the flat. Not wanting to finish on a whimper (or on my own in the dark!), we raced along. My entire body ached, but we just ploughed on concentrating all our energy on moving one foot in front of the other, mentally ticking off village after village, knowing that each one was approximately another mile closer to the beacon of Dover castle that glimmered in the distance. It was on this stretch that we heard a timely moral boosting honk from Sheila who turned up with smiles and florescent waitcoats, just as the light faded and the pavement ended. Clothed as cross-dressing workmen, we ran the last few miles into oncoming traffic (with ‘Cannon Fodder Matthews’ once again volunteered to take the lead on this dangerous section), on a real mission to reach that first Dover sign and end of this madness.
Celebratory photos, thermos tea, ginger cake, a man hug and a farewell ‘Bon courage’ and I was soon sat in a nice warm car heading back to London. James and his laden bike were checked into the Premier Inn ready for his 7am ferry the following day. While he was sat planning his cycle route through France and Spain, I was mentally calculating how much cheese on toast I would need to see me through a 24 hour film session on the sofa... Bon courage James - after what we did already, you will definitely need it...
Calais to Le Mans
Calais to Le Mans
Cold, wet and windy. I had to check that I made the ferry crossing as Calais was suffering worse weather than the UK. After a slow start and having to cycle back into Calais from the ferry port, I worked out the difference between the E, D and C roads and headed off into Northern France. The first day was quick as my legs were tired from the run, but not too affected by the bike. I pushed hard and made it to Abbeville. The next two days however were really testing. The first day strength was zapped out of my legs, the hills became larger and more frequent, and the wind started.
With the wind directly against me I reduced all breaks to an absolute minimum, and kept a tight routine. Up at 0650, snack bars and water, and on the bike at daybreak. One morning break for pain au chocolates and powerade then all other food/water taken on the move. Lunch is the first highlight of the day though. Varying between 10 and 15 Euros, the suggestion du chef weights in at 4 courses. Starter, main, cheese and desert. One such delight just north of Le Mans even came with a 1/4 bottle of vin rouge. I was the only non-french person in the room, and certainly did nothing for the English as I merely observed the wine even though I was desperate to drink it! Finally the afternoon ride starts with setting a very ambitious target and pushing really hard to dusk to make it. Elation is the only word that comes to mind when I finally pass the sign and enter the final town of the day. The second highlight is the supper and hotel. Well actually supper, as I have stayed in what can only be described as basic places. The first night was in a Formular1 hotel. Its the Ryanair of hotel chains, but for 35 Euros a night the bed has sheets and they do provide soap for the showers. Supper generally takes the same form as Lunch without the desperate speed eating Englishman in the corner of the room looking slightly jaded. Instead there is an exhausted wind tanned person in jeans and a rugby jersey who walks like John Wayne and has a habit of eating all the bread before the starter arrives...
The landscape is rural to say the least, with tractors being one of the more common forms of transport alongside, bizarrely, ambulance cars. I know France has a great healthcare system, but is it because everyone in Northern France is either a farmer or a healthcare worker primed to look after a farmer as soon as he is injured?
As I have moved south the weather has remained overcast and grey, but the wind has reduced and finally the temperature has improved. I am looking forward to cycling in a single top without my all weather long sleeve underneath and just maybe seeing a little sun! Anyway, aside from the obvious pains in my legs and bum generally I am working well, and looking forward to some flatter riding as I approach Poitier and Bordeaux before the quick run into Biarritz. Hoping that the next stage will enable me to make up some time before I enter Spain via the Pyrenees. Changing bored looking cows in hilly fields punctuated by the odd ruined chateau for flat sun soaked roads lined by trees with the occasional sight of barrelling surf is actually what I have been dreaming about. Hopefully looking forward to updating you with that in the next instalment somewhere south of Bordeaux...
James
Cold, wet and windy. I had to check that I made the ferry crossing as Calais was suffering worse weather than the UK. After a slow start and having to cycle back into Calais from the ferry port, I worked out the difference between the E, D and C roads and headed off into Northern France. The first day was quick as my legs were tired from the run, but not too affected by the bike. I pushed hard and made it to Abbeville. The next two days however were really testing. The first day strength was zapped out of my legs, the hills became larger and more frequent, and the wind started.
With the wind directly against me I reduced all breaks to an absolute minimum, and kept a tight routine. Up at 0650, snack bars and water, and on the bike at daybreak. One morning break for pain au chocolates and powerade then all other food/water taken on the move. Lunch is the first highlight of the day though. Varying between 10 and 15 Euros, the suggestion du chef weights in at 4 courses. Starter, main, cheese and desert. One such delight just north of Le Mans even came with a 1/4 bottle of vin rouge. I was the only non-french person in the room, and certainly did nothing for the English as I merely observed the wine even though I was desperate to drink it! Finally the afternoon ride starts with setting a very ambitious target and pushing really hard to dusk to make it. Elation is the only word that comes to mind when I finally pass the sign and enter the final town of the day. The second highlight is the supper and hotel. Well actually supper, as I have stayed in what can only be described as basic places. The first night was in a Formular1 hotel. Its the Ryanair of hotel chains, but for 35 Euros a night the bed has sheets and they do provide soap for the showers. Supper generally takes the same form as Lunch without the desperate speed eating Englishman in the corner of the room looking slightly jaded. Instead there is an exhausted wind tanned person in jeans and a rugby jersey who walks like John Wayne and has a habit of eating all the bread before the starter arrives...
The landscape is rural to say the least, with tractors being one of the more common forms of transport alongside, bizarrely, ambulance cars. I know France has a great healthcare system, but is it because everyone in Northern France is either a farmer or a healthcare worker primed to look after a farmer as soon as he is injured?
As I have moved south the weather has remained overcast and grey, but the wind has reduced and finally the temperature has improved. I am looking forward to cycling in a single top without my all weather long sleeve underneath and just maybe seeing a little sun! Anyway, aside from the obvious pains in my legs and bum generally I am working well, and looking forward to some flatter riding as I approach Poitier and Bordeaux before the quick run into Biarritz. Hoping that the next stage will enable me to make up some time before I enter Spain via the Pyrenees. Changing bored looking cows in hilly fields punctuated by the odd ruined chateau for flat sun soaked roads lined by trees with the occasional sight of barrelling surf is actually what I have been dreaming about. Hopefully looking forward to updating you with that in the next instalment somewhere south of Bordeaux...
James
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