Blog delay. Food punctuation and 265 miles.

I couldn't advertise that I was about to go on holiday, so I'm now home and hope to get on and finish writing this up.

I had known that there was bad weather coming our way and we had been fortunate enough to miss it for the start of the race. The evening was cool but not cold and having gotten lost in the middle of town during my first couple of miles, I eventually made it out onto the open road and settled into some kind of a rhythm.

Riding hard and long at night is a state of mind. You can't see much beyond making sure that you don't hit any potholes and there's not much that could be done to avoid the bat that smacked me in the chest. His radar was obviously switched off, like my own early navigation sense. I hoped that he would learn faster than I did.

The rain started at about 4ish, falling steadily in that drizzly way that somehow gets you wet in a way that other types of rain seem not to. It made no difference. After last years lessons, I was cycling come what may. This was no diminishing trans-Atlantic hurricane and the terrain was flat.

By 7 a.m I had registered 92 miles on the GPS and stopped in a bus shelter for a rest. Given the level of dust and grime, the hard wooden seat hadn't seen a butt, let alone a vagrant like me for months if not years. I gave up trying to wipe any of it away, laid my head on my arm and fell asleep.

Ten minutes later I woke, shivering and refreshed...or at least that's what I convinced myself. I took off the extra layers that I had donned prior to dropping off, ate a couple of mouthfuls of something and downed some water and headed out...into the rain again. The corner of the bus shelter seat was clean, my back was filthy. My thirst sated and my brain suitably numbed, I determined to reach the next patisserie before I would stop again. I had a pretty good idea that I wouldn't have to wait long.

I have yet to perfect the art of recording events, whilst also riding. As a consequence my recall is dulled. The days become punctuated by food stops and water and spatterings of my teenage French and sign language as I endeavour to make myself understood and my stomach filled. The longed for food stop duly appeared and its recollection merges into those of that day and days to come. A few stand out. There are pictures to prove it.

Some time after mid-day, I recall that the rain had stopped. It was the last I was to see over the next 9 days.

My target for day one had been Chaumont. Strangely also the stopping point after day one proper last year, but this time, 60 miles further along the route. Some time short of it though, I met with a fellow competitor, his jacket torn, his hand bandaged and his back wheel bent. Overtaken on a roundabout in the rain, he had come off his bike turning sharply to avoid the car, that in turn ran over is back wheel and then drove off without stopping! It is a huge credit to his determination that he continued under any circumstances, but with a bump at every wheel turn! It would have driven me to distraction. I guess that he might have ridden in the vain hope of meeting the driver again, but it's probably a good thing that he did not.

We met again a couple of hours later after the cruel and stiff climb up into Chaumont, where we shared the pavement outside a grocery store, still open at 11 at night.

From here, I worked my way through town until I found a Chinese restaurant. I again filled the tank and then 265 miles into my first day, I rode another 100m and fell asleep next to a hedge. Hidden only by the dark and 30m of grass next to the road, I didn't care too much, I was done in!

Navigtion, Navigation, Navigation

Since the rider briefings began at 18:30 in the t Hemelrijk pub/restaurant just off the summit of the Muur, we began to collect there from late afternoon. It was a great time to catch up with old friends from last year and I was particularly pleased to find Chris White, with whom I had spent a fair bit of time last year.

I was sorry to find out that after so much training, he was carrying an injury that was very likely to stop him completing the race, but all credit to him for making the start and giving it his best shot.

Considering the restaurant was catering for around 250 + people over the course of the evening, they did an amazing job. We somehow got missed in the melee of orders but the huge bowl of pasta that eventually arrived  2 1/2 hours after it was ordered, was well worth the wait, arriving as it did at the perfect time for fueling up the legs for the road ahead.

Since I'd climbed the Muur twice that day already, it hardly seemed to make sense to cycle back down to the registration hall for a lie down. No-one was going to get much in the way of sleep now and relaxing and letting the time drift by felt like the best option. One way or another this was going to be a night of little sleep. Whether once the race started, you decided to stop early and get your head down, would be the first big call we had to make and I already knew which way I was going on that one.

At 23:45 we were called to the start line, where the Town Crier and the Mayor wished us safe travels. Torches were lit and held either side of the road as at the stroke of midnight we headed off on the parcour circuit of the town before again climbing the Muur for the last time.

Racing back up the last section of the hill, with the cheers and whoops of the crowd surrounding us was magical. I've never ridden a cycle race in my life outside of the TCR and the atmosphere and sense of excitement shared by competitors and followers as we dispersed from Geraardesbergen will stay with me for a long time.

The road from the chapel descended to the left, taking us back into the town. From the get go, I had planned my route to avoid some of the main roads as much in deference to Laura's concerns about safety, but also in an attempt to find the shortest route.

It was my first mistake and one that I spent the remainder of the race correcting. I overtook people early on only to meet up with them again as my now obviously tortuous route through slow bumpy country lanes slowed me down and added unwanted and wasteful climbs. I could see already that the secret to surviving 2560 miles would be down to navigation, navigation, navigation!

Geraardesbergen and The Muur. (The Wall.)

The journey through Holland was uneventful, though I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Milens (sp) an Albanian living and working on Holland. Apart from anything else, meeting so many other European nationals speaking English has inspired me to continue with some form of language learning. I'm never going to learn them all, but making the effort to communicate in someone else's tongue only adds to the experience of travelling.

Milens and I chatted for about an hour about life in Albania and his family. I remember visiting Albania during the Balkan war in the early 90s. At the invitation of the Albanian government and with one of their officials on board, we flew over the oil fields in the north of the country before landing our helicopter on a school playing field. Instantly mobbed by a small flock of children, we were forced to take off again, for their and our safety, but I shall never forget their wide-eyed excited smiles. I was looking forward to going back.

The most useful piece of advice that Milens offered me though, was to avoid riding my bike on Albania at night. He said the drivers there were completely unused to cyclists at night and would have no regard for your safety. What with the risk of feral dogs and crazy drivers, I was beginning to wonder how I would get through.

I arrived in Geraardesbergen at about 11 having made contact with the owners of  Molen ter Walle, http://www.molenterwalle.be/Nederlands/fotos.html the B&B that I was booked to stay at. Everyone was going to be asleep, so they gave me directions to my room and left me to it. (Check out the weblink. It is a wonderful place to stay and the owners could not have been more accommodating.)

Despite my best intentions, I did not lie in until 10 as I had said, but was up by 07:30 and joining the other guests for breakfast. Realising that finding somewhere to rest during the day was going to be a challenge, I booked a smaller room at the mill for the remainder of the afternoon, giving me a bolt hole to return to after registration and then got on my bike and cycled into town.

I bumped into another competitor on the way in. A Welshman living in Hong Kong. We discussed the forecast and the perceived risks of cycling the Muur en masse in the rain and he then headed off the recce the hill and I to find the registration hall. Half an hour later he arrived, having already become the races first casualty, falling on his decent from the chapel on the dry uneven cobbles. Please, don't let it rain!

At 10, the hall was already seeing an early trickle of cyclists. For some reason I was picked out by a photographer doing a piece for SAGA. Well I suppose at 50, I was some kind of good advert for exercise in middle age. He confessed to being interested in the 'degradation' that he expected to witness through his lens over the next 2 weeks and I knew that he would not be disappointed.

Before I returned to my room, I climbed the Muur for the first of  3 times that day. It is steep and bumpy, but not long and I looked forward to the start and climb to come in the dark. For now a few photos of the chapel and a look at my decent from the summit, so that the start of the race, at least, would hold no surprises.

A ticket to ride.

In the queue for the ferry at Harwich, I was joined by Roel and Nick, his 12 year old son. On bicycles laden with camping gear and memories, they were returning home from a week or so cycling around the Somerset levels and Stonehenge.

Roel was an old hand at this bike packing game and could write a book of his own, telling tales of trips through Syria and beyond at times when it was somewhat safer, but not without it's moments. (I hope to catch up with them again soon, to hear the detail of his earlier travels.)

For now though, he recounted nights spent in fields and being moved on by landowners in the morning. Roadside camping in the midst of some of England's most famous historical monuments will be something that Nick will never forget. (My own boys will share those opportunities in years to come. I can't wait!)

They had also cycled across London and I caught myself and laughed, as I tried to claim that the cycle network in London was pretty good! Here's me talking to a Dutchman about cycle paths. What do I know? Like trying to explain to an Irishman, that they make this really cool ale in Ireland called Guinness. He might like to try it! Doh!

The ferry crossing was due to be a good 7 hours but we were delayed by 2 hours in Harwich for diving operations in the harbour entrance. With Harwich on the southern side and Felixstowe to the north, this is a busy seaway.

As a consequence of the delays, I was doubly glad to have booked a cabin for the crossing. I remembered well enough trying to sleep on the deck of the Newhaven to Dieppe ferry last year, without success. I was not about to repeat that mistake.

Instead, I had a good meal and settled down to catch up on the lost hours shuteye from earlier in the morning. Devoid of the nerves that attend the chance of missing trains and ferries, I could relax properly now and prepare myself for the challenge ahead.

The ships Captain made good on his promise to make up time. We arrived in the Hook of Holland only half an hour after our scheduled arrival time. Roel and Nick were both travelling to Rotterdam by train and I was grateful to them for not only pointing me in the direction of the right platform and train, but in a gesture of solidarity and generosity, they bought my bike train ticket for the entire journey to the Dutch/Belgium border. Roel and Nick, thank you and make sure you keep in touch.

Dreamy times

For those of you you who have become justifiable fans of my ghost writer aka, Laura, my wife, I apologise for the return of normal service. I enjoyed reading her posts of my travails from the roadside as much as you did and I hope we will see a return to this successful formulae on future expeditions.

For now though I feel that I owe it to you all to try to give you a fuller account of the journey from home to Bosnia and the little bit beyond, not least because some of the hairier moments were missed out in our daily communications to save Laura any unnecessary anxt.

On the morning of the 23rd, unable to sleep properly, I had been up at 3. We were due to leave for Norwich station at 5 for a 6 o'clock departure. (I have always been in the habit of factoring in plenty of leeway. I am happiest waiting on a platform, than running for a train.)

I switched on the computer and checked and rechecked the route through Holland and Belgium and then spent some time google mapping the town of Geraardesbergen to get my bearings ahead of time. I would be arriving in the dark and should still need to find my B&B, located about 5 miles out of town. I noted also the forecast that looked ominously like it might shower us with rain from the start. A cobbled street in the rain at night suggested potential for early crashes and I didn't want to be amongst them.

Five o'clock duly arrived. I made the obvious mistake of looking in on the boys, asleep in their beds and wondered why I was leaving. The girls I said goodbye to and was ushered out the door with their
best wishes. These are exciting and disorientating moments. Months of preparation push you out the door.

Norwich station was quiet. Laura and I took some pictures just as we had done the year before. I cannot imagine what it is like to be in her shoes. I have prepared minutely and am confident in my abilities. She knows little of the detail. Only that I shall be cycling beside fast moving traffic for up to 16 days with little more than a blink of sleep and she is anxious. On top of that she has to carry on with all the normal routine of work and home, but with one less person to help. I tell her, may be unhelpfully, to be her best 'single-mum', as much a challenge as anything. I know she will be fine.

The train to Ipswich, is the first part of the intercity to Liverpool Street, so I start the journey by distributing the last 100 or so of my business cards amongst the passengers and empty seats. A few last minute followers can't go amiss. More than a few entrants to this years race will have come from chance encounters such as these.

At Ipswich I changed trains and met up with Paul. We have known each other since I was 5 and have shared more than a few adventures. At a time like this there is no-one whose company is more relaxing and we chew over a few ideas for the future. Paul has undertaken to ride his own bike every day that I am away. Given the forecast, he is likely to have to stiffen his resolve every bit as much as I will, since he is likely to be getting wet for the first few days at least.

I love this bit, the slow and unloaded act of travelling. I am excited by the sight of the ferry. Any chance to relive my time at sea with the Royal Navy. To stand on the quarter-deck and watch the ships wake as you steam toward the horizon. Dreamy times.

Cheese and crackers! Big boys and babies!

My Grandpa Howlett had almost a century's worth of great sayings, but my favorite was his exclamation of, "Well, cheese and crackers! Big boys and babies!" It took something fairly extraordinary (though he'd never use what he called "a 50-cent word" like 'extraordinary') to get this double-barreled reaction, which was always delivered with a big grin and a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

I'm confident John's epic test of endurance would have elicited one of Grandpa's booming, "Cheese and crackers! Big boys and babies!" When it came to physical fitness, Grandpa was no slouch himself: he was a star baseball player in the heyday of the game, and he must not have put down his golf clubs until he was in his 90s. He won running races and horseshoes, bowling tournaments and, yes, probably cycling competitions, though I can't remember ever seeing him on a bike.

But what he would have appreciated most about John's Transcontinental Race was the sense of good old-fashioned adventure. Of making your own way, being resourceful, finding clever solutions and not giving up when the going got tough. Grandpa and his brother and sister set out on something similar in the 1920s, albeit in an early model automobile and heading into America's largely unsettled West, instead of East into parts of Europe most of us won't be lucky enough to see. Both John and my grandpa mended a fair few punctures along the way, and endured heat, sleeping rough and wondering where their next meal would come from. And loving every minute of it, not least the kindness of strangers met in the process.

Early this morning, though, John's big adventure drew to a close. After the third race checkpoint and 1,650 miles since July 24, his knee gave up the ghost. His Achilles tendon wasn't in much better shape, but when you're facing nearly another 1,000 miles - much of it mountainous - with a joint that's refusing to work, the smart thing to do is to call it a day.

I'm incredibly proud of John. He's battled record-breaking heat and humidity, pushed on with little sleep through elevation I can't possibly contemplate, is probably walking like the worst Hollywood interpretation of a cowboy and might never be able to look another can of Coke in the eye again. He hasn't complained, and mentally I doubt you'll find anyone tougher in the Race. I had every confidence he would finish in Istanbul (though I did worry about the feral dogs, disease-carrying ticks, errant drivers and opportunists), but I'm so pleased he didn't keep going until his kneecap exploded or whatever fate is in store for those on the wrong side of 50 with a lifetime of joint abuse.

John was, of course, conscious of letting down all of you who have so solidly supported his efforts, sending encouraging messages and following the Number 35 dot in a sea of others. He is so very grateful to you, and so am I.

The cheese and crackers thought came into my head as we talked this morning, while he waited in some tiny airfield in Bosnia for a flight home via Germany. He'd spent a good hour wrapping his bike in clingfilm and cardboard, much to the amusement of the locals ("Was anyone wondering what you were doing?" "EVERYone was wondering what I was doing!"), and was now contemplating how to transport his various small bags of equipment on an Eastern European budget airline. For the record, I'd already insisted that he burned all items of clothing and start afresh (I hope, for the sake of his fellow passengers, he took my advice).

"Why don't you go to the Duty Free and buy something so you can chuck everything in a plastic bag? It's a budget airline - you don't have to carry actual luggage," I suggested.

"This airport is exactly like Norwich. It's only "international" because it flies to one destination outside Bosnia," he said, unsure of the Duty Free possibilities.

"They must sell something. Buy a nice present for your wife! Even if it's a big cheese! Buy me a big Bosnian cheese!"

He said he'd see what he could do. I should know the result by tomorrow afternoon.

But cheese or no cheese, I think John's efforts deserve a wholehearted "Cheese and crackers! Big boys and babies!" Grandpa Howlett would have applauded, and so do I.