My first 100 miles...awww

In a bid to prove to those around me that I could ride long distances and be fine the next day I set myself a challenge. I was going to cycle from Dalkeith to Jedburgh, buy a cake and a cup of tea, carry on to the border, take a picture for proof then skip on home for supper. That would be a round trip of 110 miles and something I felt was easily achievable given my fitness and determination.

After having a chat with Catriona and her mum and doing some chores, I set off towards Jedburgh on the A68 at 12pm, 4 hrs later than I wanted to.

My inventory consisted of:
1 bike
1 rain/wind proof jacket
1 bike lock
1 bike pump
1 litre of isotonic drink
1 bag of crushed, home made cereal bars
£5.00 in cash and a bank card
1 phone
1 PDA (for music)
1 idiot on a bike.

I hadn't even left Dalkeith when I realised just how up hill the route was going to be. Up, up, up, up, it never seemed to stop. I had a little giggle with myself when I passed Dalkeith's cat hotel but apart from that it was a bit of a slog. The signs telling me how far I was away from Jedburgh weren't exactly decreasing rapidly, I was going to have to adjust my perceptions of time. My first challenge came when I arrived the bottom of Soutre hill (as described by George Taylor, 1885, the bringer of Celery to Kalamazoo). I hadn't foreseen a large climb like that and I had to change my attitude to speed very quickly to compensate for the climb. Once I had navigated that hill it was fairly plain sailing all the way to Jedburgh, with the exception of my toes going numb due to the wind chill factor, something else I'd not accounted for when setting off. When I got to Jedburgh (43 miles from Dalkeith) I was greatly lifted in my spirits with the anticipation of a small cake and a cup of tea as a reward for my efforts. After a quick circuit of the town I discovered to my horror that all the cake shops had closed. I had arrived at 3:30pm and they had shut 30 mins before I'd got there. Typical. With no cakes on offer I popped into a chocolate shop and had a quick conversation with a woman behind the counter. We discussed whether it was a good idea to head to the border. She rightly said that I'd be disappointed if I didn't go, and then told me it was 10 miles up a giant hill. I thought she was right about the disappointment and wrong about the size of the hill. It couldn't be that bad. I bought some chocolate with my 5 pound note and then headed off. After the hardest slog up hill I've ever done I stopped to ask a motorcyclist how far I had to go. He said

"you're almost there, it's only 5 miles from here, but it's all up a really, really big hill".

Maybe the chocolate woman was right.

After cycling the hill from hell I finally made it to the top and the border. Surprisingly there was a bloke selling tea and hot dogs up there. Unsurprisingly I hadn't enough money for a hot dog, I'd spent it all on chocolate. I dug around hopefully in my bag and managed to scrape enough shrapnel together to buy a tea. It was like drinking a piece of heaven! After a really interesting conversation with the old chap in the hot dog van about cycling, cyclists and killer wild goats I prepared to set off back home. Not before getting a passing motorcyclist to take my picture at the border, as proof that I'd got there. It had taken me nearly 4 hrs to arrive at the England/Scotland border and I figured that to get back would be about another 5 hrs of pedalling given my level of fatigue. I thought that I was prepared for the worst, but I was not.

I'll be honest here and say that after cruising down the massive hill I found the going tough. Tougher than I'd ever imagined. I wanted to just lay down and sleep but that wasn't an option I could take. The road was full of magic hills too. To look ahead you'd swear that you were going down hill but in fact you were going up hill. It was so de-moralising.

The night began to descend. I now realised that the lateness of my start would leave me cycling in the dark for the last 20 miles. Also the weather had closed in. It became freezing cold. My fingers sang out in pain from the wind chill. They twinged and twitched from the constant pressure from the handlebars too. I couldn't feel my feet any more. The wind chill flowing through the tops of my trainers had frozen my toes and the pedalling wasn't allowing the blood to get back into my feet.

I eventually saw a sign telling me it was 14 miles to Dalkeith. I briefely felt elation, only to realise that meant an hour and thirty minutes cycling minimum. I had no idea of the time, no food left (I had some sugar sweets I'd bought for Catriona, which I refused to eat as they were a gift) and no will. I broke down, I couldn't cycle any more, the bike wouldn't move no matter how hard I pushed the pedals, I became convinced my bike had developed a fault. I phoned Catriona and told her I couldn't do it and that I needed rescuing. I was cold, tired, hungry and stupid to have thought that I could do this. She comforted me, she told me how I would feel if I gave up. She encouraged me to walk until I felt better then to try to cycle again. If after that I was unable to do it then I was to ring her back and we'd sort something out.

"You can do it!" she shouted down the phone.

It reminded me of the Adam Sandler movies; I smiled, agreed and then started to walk. Just as I did a murder of crows alighted from a scary looking tree and circled above me. It was like in the films when someone is in the middle of the dessert and the vultures are overhead, waiting for that moment when the victim draws his last breath before gorging themselves on his pitiful corpse. Then I remembered that in the films they always make it out of the desert alive. I recalled that fantastic scene in Ice Cold In Alex when the group emerge from the desert, head to the nearest bar and sink the most satisfying lager they'd ever taste. It convinced me that I'd make it home so I carried on walking imagining really tasty beer, ice cream, cakes and biscuits, hot sweet tea, anything to keep up my spirits. After about 20 mins walking I began to realised why the bike wouldn't move earlier on. I had been on another of those magic hills. I had been going up hill not down. I'd bonked (in marathon terminology, hitting the wall) and as a result has become confused and disorientated and without realising I had just ascended the last peak of my journey and the next 30 mins was going to be all down hill! I jumped on my bike with renewed enthusiams and cruised down the other side. I was practically home.

At 11pm I carried my bike up 3 flights of stairs and finally crossed the threshold of my home. I had made it. Unfortunately my ordeal was not over. After eating and bathing I went into what I can only describe as shock. I was sitting in a hot bath shivering. I couldn't warm up. Catriona put me to bed, got me some liquid and a banana and looked after me until I was normal again (if I ever was in the first place). I slept fitfully but at least I rested, and I was home.

Injuries sustained
Sore legs
The ends of the second to last and little finger on my left hand feel weird.

Lessons learned.
The road from Edinburgh to the border is horrific.
Planning is really, really, ridiculously important.
Rest when you need to. Don't ignore your body and push on regardless.
Local women in chocolate shops are more likely to know what the road ahead is like than a bloke who's never been to the area before.
Old people are really interesting.
When you ask someone to take your picture it's almost a guarantee that they can't use a camera.
Cycling country roads at night presents all sorts of problems from speeding cars to dead deer in the road, avoid cycling back roads at night if at all possible.
Last but not least. If you are going to do a 100 mile round trip for a cake, check what time the shops close!




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A certain sense of satisfaction

At 08:35 on the 16th of April I set off to work in what I can only describe as soul destroying weather. I'd woken up feeling like a fat man was sitting on my chest and it had taken what felt like super human strength to get out of bed. I was running seriously late, which always ruins cycling to work, and I was becoming more agitated as the seconds ticked on. Having put all my stuff in my bag I zipped it up when, POP, the zip broke. Blood pressure rising. "OK, forget about it and move on," I thought as I zipped a fluorescent jacket around my bag. POP. The zip broke on that too. I threw the broken pieces on the floor in anger and disbelief. How could those two zips break at the same time? Had the world got it in for me? The weather was so atrocious it was essential that I had a bright cover over my bag so I hunted for the other dayglo jacket I had and zipped it on. Now I was really late. The morning got worse when I discovered that although it was really, really misty, it was also windy and cold, like winter. I got to work flustered, sweaty and wet from the mist. I was going to have a black mood most of the day.

Day, finished I cycled home in much more clement conditions than I'd arrived in. After getting a bit of food I slept on the couch for an hour. At 10 pm I was back out the door and cycling to Edinburgh to photograph a club event for Beltane. A night of different drumming styles from 11pm - 3am it was going to be visulally exciting and incredibly noisy. Brilliant!

3:15 am - A crazy night of eclectic drumming and about 400 photos later and I'm back on the bike home again. I got in about 3:45 and after a little faffing around was asleep for 04:15. The following day I was back in work.

Advice from the stupid.

In case you ever find yourself in a situation were you need to cycle a moderate distance home remember these words...

Prepare for inclement weather. If it's misty and cold in the morning then the chances are (in Edinburgh) that it'll be no better late in the evening.

Always carry a small pair of pliers with your screwdriver set. When tightening nuts and bolts one can not work without the other. Much like being drunk can not work without alcohol or being chunky can not work without daily ice-cream breakfasts.

Eating a large lunch in lieu of the fact that you'll have little chance for food later on only works if you eat lunch later. Don't be a gouger and scoff your massive pasta surprise before mid-day.

When at a social gathering where food is laid out for guests it is acceptable to have one or two pieces of food and a couple of little treats. It is not advisable, nor acceptable to eat one or two packets of breaded chicken goujons, a packet of gluten free chicken and mushroom kievs, half a tub of mini rocky roads and half a tub of mini chocolate rolls. Especially when you knowingly have to cycle a long way in terrible weather.

Listen to your body. If you feel a little queasy don't try to sing rock songs whilst cycling up a hill. It makes it worse.

If you ring your security console bell and your girlfriend answers with a hiccup, giggle.

I need food

This is just a quick one. OOoh, Catriona's home, I'll tell you in a minute :P

I've been meaning to tell you...

I have put this off long enough to allow my mind to accept what I saw some days ago.

I was cycling to work when I was overtaken by a more enthusiastic cyclist on a road bike who was wearing cycling shorts. That in itself is not unusual but what was really disturbing about this was that the shorts he was wearing appeared to be made from stretch see-through Lycra. We were proceeding up a hill and his technique was to stand up on the bike pedals and flex his sweaty arse muscles at me. As his bike was faster than mine and I was unable to overtake him I was forced to look into his athletic undulating bum hole for the last few minutes of my ride to work. It was an image that was to haunt me for days before a punishing migraine managed to push that image out of my head long enough to stop having nightmares.

All I can say is, I promise never to inflict that kind of attire on anyone, ever.

A little bit of history

I've told you all before that I'm cycling to Paris because my friend is going to buy me a Monaco but I haven't ever told you why the bike was the natural choice for mode of transport. As I've not cycled in a couple of days I'll take this opportunity to give you a little background information.

It all began one evening during a quiz night in the 5th Bar. The Fifth; a tiny, dark bar found in the Latin Quarter on Rue Mouftard, was the perfect hang out for penniless idealists such as I was. This bar was to become the place where most of our Parisienne adventures would begin or end, but on this particular occasion it was mearly a plan to get free beer. I had been invited to join a new friend, Jorge, at the bar to help answer questions. The first prize of a free drink for the winning team was a goal we really wanted to achieve, however the last prize of a really disgusting free drink was also worth it, given that we had no money and we wanted alcohol.

I arrived late, a trait I'd picked up from Karim "I'll be there soon" Fekar, and the team weren't doing well. They were positioned 3rd or 4th which was definitely not in the free beer zone. I was quickly introduced to everyone on the table as "the guy whose gonna answer the questions" and then thrown into the last round, music. Fifteen minutes later we had managed to come first. Being hailed the man with all the answers was a little embarrassing as it had been more like luck for my part. The quiz master, a Glaswegian barman called Roddy, had managed to pick all the songs I like and the rest of the bar was filled with non-English speaking drunkards. That fact aside, I was now celebrating with a new group of friends over a free beer. A nice tasting free beer. Returning home that night on the Metro I was smiling quietly to myself because I'd made new friends and gotten a little tipsy on free beer on an empty stomach.

The meet at the fifth became a regular occurrence for us. I'd usually stay until the last train was due then rush off home but inevitably, one evening, I missed the last Metro. After the bar had finally closed Karim, Jorge and I walked to Hotel de Ville where Karim and I could catch the night bus home. Jorge had a bike. I remember thinking that it would be nice to be cycling the streets of Paris that night. It was quiet, warm and I was drunk. I asked Jorge where he'd gotten the bike from.
He said "I was doing some work for a guy clearing an apartment, We were chucking everything out to make room for renovations. This was thrown in the skip along with all the other rubbish but it was an almost complete bike. I wanted it because I can't afford to ride the Metro so I grabbed it and took it home."
"So, what was missing," I said.
"Oh, it had bad wheels, no brakes and no seat, but everything else was there."
"Right," I said. "So how did you afford to get all the bits for it?"
"Ha, I didn't buy anything, have you seen all the abandoned bikes this city has?" To illustrate a good point he waved his arm vaguely towards the Hotel de Ville to reveal a pile of abandoned bikes. They were chained to railings that had been removed to make way, ironically, for the Velib, the cities new public bike hire initiative."
"So, you cycle around Paris reclaiming old bits of bike?" I said, a little surprised that it could be that easy.
"Yeah, I'll show you. I need a new wheel, and tires too if there are any good ones."
I called Karim over to let him know we were going to hunt for a new bike wheel and off we went to the pile of bikes to get an upgrade.

That was my introduction to Jorge's bike Petronilla, an old 80's Italian road bike. When Jorge left Paris for Montreal he handed me petronilla on the condition that I look after her in the same way. Only from reclaimed parts. When I left Paris for Edinburgh I did the same, giving the bike to Karim on the same terms. The only thing that changed was her name, from Petronilla to Petronina, because Karim and I couldn't agree on what Jorge had called her. His Mexican/Irish accent had blurred things a bit.

When the subject of me visiting Karim for a drink came up around the same time that I had absolutely no money I knew I had to improvise a way to get there. It was a natural choice to honour Petronilla and cycle to Paris for a Monaco.

So that is a brief history of how I've come to be cycling to France. Why is a Monaco involved. Well, beer is usually involved in these sorts of ventures but a Monaco has particular significance as it is Karim's choice of drink. Mainly because it is almost entirely made out of sugar and has almost no alcohol in it.

The glasgow run has been postponed

Due to some upsetting news concerning a member of my family I've had to postpone my trip to Glasgow. A new run will be announced soon. Needless to say the bad news has made me more determined than ever to see this through successfully. By successfully I mean getting to Paris and raising money for the society.