Leg 1 - London to France

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Passport - Check
Bicycle - Check
Helmet, Panniers, Lock, Lights - Check, Check, etc
Wallet - Check

That’ll do me, I reckon. For everything else I need, there’s always Mastercard. There are certain things money can buy, after all.

Well, not everything - Maybe if I was going to have kids, I should've done that before spending a year perched on a 20 square inch saddle. Saying that, I still have a few contacts in Malawi that could make even that possible.

The last piece of the jigsaw (or the first, if you prefer) was to decide on an official start point. I was still unsure as to where this should be from. I decided London was more appropriate than Winchester, plus it cut 80 miles off the journey. So I spent a day visiting some iconic London landmarks, so that I had all bases covered. Charing Cross, Westminster, Hyde Park. As I arrived in Hyde Park, I was met by an army of 2,000 cyclists, setting off for a 6 mile protest ride through the streets of London to campaign against the overuse of the planet's resources and the absurdity of oil dependency. I assume they were more than happy to tolerate squeaky brakes and unlubricated chains then. What better way, I thought, to signify the start of a year cycling, than to join these lot. Did I forget to mention it was a NAKED bike ride?

Why exactly they felt the need to be naked in order to make their point was left unexplained. But what better excuse to condition myself to saddle-sore. It was all very surreal. Thousands of tourists lined the pavements not knowing where to look, but then giggling and taking loads of photos anyway. And if I never see sweaty, wobbly flesh so close to my handlebars again, it will be too soon. I did strategically position myself in one of the more aesthetically pleasing riding spots. But in the spontaneity of the moment, there were a couple of factors I had not considered. For example, when someone in the crowd shouted out “Hey Tim”, the reality of what I was doing dawned on me. If that was you, many apologies, and I hope the image soon disappears. I also forgot to consider the multitude of journalists taking snaps for the papers. I looked through them on Monday morning, and my modesty was seemingly still in tact.

I still had 1 more stop to make. The Reform Club at 104 Pall Mall is where Phileus Fogg made his wager that he could circumnavigate the globe in 80 days. It is also where Micheal Palin began his trip, as well as Willy Fog (remember the classic cartoon? Great theme tune). Entry to the prestigious gentleman's club is by invitation only, so I had to ask to be invited. It also has a strict dress-code. i.e. suit, shirt, tie, smart shoes (In my experience dress codes seem to only be reserved for the highest echelons of gentleman's clubs and the chavviest echelons of nightclubs). Given I am unlikely to be wearing much other than the same pair of shorts and T-shirt for the next year, I figured I could scrub up one last time. So I found my suit, dusted off the cobwebs and crisply ironed a shirt. I'll be honest, I didn't iron a shirt. I left the attire hanging up in my nearby office, so I could run back, have a shower and costume change, then head back over to Pall Mall. It was at this moment it occured to me I had forgotten to pack my smart shoes. I have often been accused of being greatly disorganised, but with that comes great adaptability. So I located the nearest Moss Bros to Pall Mall, and hired a pair of shoes. £15 for 2 hours seemed steep, but it was a fixed charge, and no amount of pathetic pleading was going to sway them. Plus the convenience of being able to drop them off as soon I was out was going to save me plenty of time. 30 minutes back to the office, shower, dressed, shoes on, and 30 minutes back again to the Reform Club. In true Phileas Fogg-esque timekeeping, I was dead on time for my 3pm appointment. The club secretary was just as excited to show me around as I was to be shown around. It was a fascinating building with a fascinating history - set up by the Whigs and Liberals in 1832, devoted to securing parliamentary reform. Now days it is no longer aligned to parliamentarians, nor is it elitist or even a gentlemen only club. Yet another indication that society today is in a state of decline.

I was out by 4pm, and popped back into Moss Bros. I returned their shoes, but in my haste getting changed, I had not brought my original pair to change back into. Ooops. The market stall opposite had some cheap sandals for £5, so I sheepishly had to return to the office wearing a suit and sandals. I took the liberty of putting my socks in my pocket. I mean, I'd have looked ridiculous wearing socks with sandals.

A few days and several leaving do's later, I was setting off from London. I tried not to think too much about the journey ahead. Well, only as far as Brighton. I figured the enormity of the entire ride and the time away would freak me out, so I concentrated on small bite size chunks. The first bite was a 60 mile spoonful to the south coast of England. Along with my friend John, we tagged along on the annual London-to-Brighton bike ride - 27,000 people caterpillaring along the Sussex highways in aid of the British Heart Foundation, before metamorphasising into happy butterflies as they cross the finish line on the promenade in Brighton. 27,000 looked like and sounded like a hell of a lot of people, but apparently a massive 36,000 turned up at Stonehenge for the Summer Solstice the same morning. Split priorities for bike-riding druids that day then.

From Brighton, I continued that afternoon along the south coast to Newhaven.
“Ferries to France”, the sign read.
Well, I did not have any specific crossing in mind, just that at some point I needed to traverse the channel, so what the heck, I’ll see if I can't get to France tonight.
I exhaustedly shuffled up to the desk. “You look like you've come a long way”, smiled the girl behind reception.
She didn't mean it as a compliment, but I decided to take it as one nonetheless.
The 10:30pm crossing had space for a small one, so I bought a ticket. Arriving in Dieppe at 3:30am, my choices were sleeping in the ferry terminal or finding some nearby accommodation for a few hours. In the end I did neither. I had a strong cafe au lait and quick pain au chocolat, attached my bike lights, and began to ride.

I was in France, but further away from Calais than I would have been if I stuck to Plan A to Dover. However, I was not a million miles away from Paris (it was more like 200 miles). It was also true that the recent official circumnavigations started and ended in Paris. Excellent, I thought, I’ll take a quick detour. I mean, I’ve got no better offers coming up. So I took a small diversion to the Arc d’Triomphe - at a 400 mile round trip to Calais, that'd be the same sort of small diversion you might take if you went from Winchester to London - via Liverpool.

I was now heading south towards Rouen. Not too much had changed from the day before, except I'd exchanged my pounds for Euros, moved my watch forward 1 hour, started going anti-clockwise round roundabouts, swapped my manners and deodorant for impatience and arrogance (who, me? never), and was now travelling in kilometres instead of miles. The great thing about metricising my distances, were that I covered a lot more kilometres in a day than I did miles. The 400 mile round trip had just become an impressive 640km.

Much to my surprise, I arrived in Rouen in time for breakfast (albeit a very late breakfast). Rouen is a medieval city in the heart of Normandy, famous for being the place that Joan d'Arc got barbecued - and not in a friendly, sunny bank holiday afternoon with a beer type way. Rouen's centrepiece is the magnificent Gothic cathedral, which is my new third favourite Gothic cathedral - Barcelona and Lincoln, since you ask.

Next stop was Paris. I camped overnight just outside Paris, then cycled into the centre ville the following morning. In a National Lampoon tribute to Chevy Chase and the other Griswold's I did a loop of the roundabout around the Arc de Triomphe. Never again, I tell you. Then a fly-by tour of the main sights and sites of Paris, then escaped from the chaos the same day. The whistlestopness of my visit was partly planned, to avoid expense and crowds, but partly forced upon me. It was at the point I needed a public convenience that I realised I was checkmated - I could not pop into a museum, or even one of the pay-to-enter street toilets, as I was lumbered with the burden of a bikeful of valuables. Too big to take inside, too thieveable to leave outside. In the end I found an indiscreet cranny under one of the river Seine bridges. I was told visiting the “Loo” in Paris was quite an experience, but I didn't even get to see the Mona Lisa for my troubles.

It would take me another 2 days to reach Lille, the last stop on my Tour de France. The trip was relatively uneventful, the only incident of note was when a horsefly flew in my mouth. Not realising what it was at first, I poked a finger in to flick it out and got stung on the tongue. It reminded me of a story I was once told, about an old lady who swallowed a fly. It was not explained why she did. But, get this, she then swallowed a spider to swallow the fly. The absurdity doesn't stop there even, she then preceded to swallow a bird, a cat, a dog, a cow and a horse. I say swallowed, but I suspect she minced or chopped them, at the very least. She died, of course. The mad old bat. Bearing this wisdom in mind, I simply allowed nature to run its course on my numb-tongue.

So here we are, 5 days down, 395 to go. I'm hurting in places I didn't even know existed, such as the Central Arras region.
(Yes, I know I already used that joke on my Facebook status, but I like it enough to use it twice)

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Comments

[Rob Meech]

Hey bud what is your website address? Good o be reading your blogs again! Take care. Rob

[Your King]

Arras my arse
The amount you go out drinking in scumhampton I dont believe this is the first time you have hurt in your Arras region

[Your king]

Hummmm....
The bicycle is the most civilised conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart.