A cycle round London

The government has just awarded millions of pounds to “character development” projects in schools. What young

people really need is the opportunity to get outside and push their limits beyond what they previously thought to be

possible.

Since moving to London back in August, unable to run due to bending my knee the wrong way on the descent in a

local fell race, then rather unwisely racing on it in the Dolomites a week later, I’ve started to become “normalised” –

joining a gym, attending yoga (this would have been laughable a year ago), and even being put in my place by hefty

Romanian mothers in “power pump” classes. I’ve made ventures into the previously unknown world of public

transport and have even been known to have a lie in, meet friends for coffee or eat in restaurants.

Needless to say this is a rather worrying situation and over the last couple of months I’ve been starting to get

restless. It was a long time since I’d set out to do something really challenging, something that I might not be able to

complete. So a few weeks ago I started to look at cycling around London – not going inside of the M25. Quite a long

way and admittedly I might have underestimated the undertaking…

Sat in the pub after work on Friday I checked the weather forecast; with only a bit of rain due on Saturday morning

there was no excuse not to go. I naively assumed it wouldn’t take more than 12 hours – plenty of time to be back for

a birthday party at 8pm.

In terms of high performance nutrition, I made six jam sandwiches, put the remains of a box of cornflakes in a bag

and found a packet of dextrose tablets which had gone out of date in 2009. I fixed some new cleats on my too big

shoes, packed a pump, inner tube and some forks from the cutlery drawer as I couldn’t find my tyre levers and put

some air in my rather worn tyres. All set.

I barely slept the night before and it felt like I’d just drifted off when

my alarm sounded at 4:45. I shared the train carriage with some

rather bleary eyed souls, clearly feeling the effects of the previous

night’s exertions.

Arriving into Brentwood at 6am I set off south and it wasn’t long

before I hit the Dartford Crossing. I called the “bike transport” and

waited for my ride. Apparently when the bridge was built, it was

enshrined in law that cyclists would always have passage across, so

there’s a 24 hour service in place - handy! Whilst I waited, I devised

what was to prove to be a very useful contraption – instant

navigation. All the more so given that I had no map and was working

from three sheets of directions I’d written of my convoluted route.

I left Essex behind and went west through Kent, into rather undulating Surrey. I seemed to be on the “Saturday

cyclists” route, with groups of middle aged men passing me on their expensive carbon bikes. The trouble with having

written directions rather than a map is that when you’re told to

take the second exit at the roundabout in Slough, and then the

Premier Inn doesn’t appear on your right hand side and the non-

English speaking car washers can’t quite fathom what you’re asking

them, you’re left to rely on a compass bearing. Which although

often proves successful, isn’t always wise.

Unfortunately North of the M25 there isn’t a nice W-E road, and I

spent a frustrating amount of time zig zagging North and South,

occasionally hitting the M25 and having to retrace my steps,

heightening my increasingly demoralised state. The height of navigational sophistication

How convenient

My positivity faded with the light, as I realised just how far I had left to go.

Cycling along the A414 dual carriage way as night fell was a particular low point;

I was just waiting for one of the huge lorries to hit me as traffic hurtled past.

Earlier in the day I had made the gastronomic discovery that cornflakes add a

rather delicious crunch to a jam sandwich, and once it became fully dark and I

was no longer racing the light, I paused for 5mins to eat the last of them.

At one point I found myself crossing Lea Valley Park, weaving along potholed

gravel paths in the pitch black. I knew if I headed directly south I could be home

in about an hour, and I started to question what the point of carrying on was.

I’d not stopped for 14 hours, I hadn’t felt my feet all day, I was numb with cold, it was starting to rain, and I wasn’t

entirely sure where I was going! But then I thought how disappointed I’d be with myself to have come so far and

given up at the last moment through pure weakness.

A car stopped as I was having a directions dilemma somewhere near the M1; a lady and

her daughter apparently thought I was a Transformer, with my flashing light and

reflective bands. She was wholly concerned, insisting that I couldn’t possibly continue.

She said I was an incredibly long way from Brentwood, the road was unlit, very hilly and it

was just plain dangerous. I must admit I got a lump in my throat as she asked if I was ok –

I can’t say I felt on tip top form and she’d hardly spoken words of encouragement! But I

declined her lift, and her advice to return to Epping and take a more direct road

south. She didn’t understand the challenge!!

The next hour or so was a rather miserable slog up and down pitch black country roads – I’d had problems with my

cold hands earlier in the day but by now my left hand had ceased to function and I was forced to either bust my

quads up the hills in the big ring or when they were just too steep, lean across and change gear with my other hand,

occasionally slamming on my brake in the process. Cars were whizzing past and although useful in that they lit up the

forested way, quite a few got far too close for comfort and angry beeping horns didn’t do much to raise the morale.

Having had to divert a long way east to avoid the M25, it was an amazing feeling

heading back south, knowing that I was going to finish. The takeaways of Brentwood

looked very enticing but I headed straight for the station as I knew there wouldn’t be

many trains; it was now 10pm, I’d just cycled somewhere close to 200miles without

stopping and the thought of a long cold wait was not appealing. I was pleased to

have finished, but elation was somewhat tarnished by general knackeredness, a

pounding head (maybe should have drunk more than two bike bottles of water!), a

crippled knee and malfunctioning hands which had taken on “altitude form”, that’s

to say, they’d lost all form.

It certainly ranks quite highly on my list of challenges. I’d definitely recommend it as a ride, but maybe over a couple

of days with some company, warmer weather and perhaps even a map…

The alternative to continuing

M25 - Bugger

Where did my knuckles go?