Well, here we are. You may wonder what happened as my planned departure on Saturday passed inexplicably with no departure. As it happens, it wasn’t my finest hour, but I might as well be honest about it.
Some people have described me as brave in the past for attempting the row and now attempting this. I always try and correct them as quickly as possible, because I know it’s simply not the case, as will have been abundantly clear to anyone who saw me on Friday and Saturday. In reality, I’m just a big fat scaredy cat.
Nervous energy can push you one of two ways. Sometimes it’s really helpful and drives you to get everything done in a frenzy of excitement. Other times it’s completely paralysing, and that was certainly the case this week. As Friday came, with my departure planned for the next day, I started to get very worried: was I ready?; did I have everything I needed?
Anyone who has done something like this before will probably now be sitting back thinking “stop being such a girl”. They’re probably right. I, however, do not come under the category of “someone who has done something like this before”, so I proceeded to do my best “girl” impression. To be honest, at the time I was looking for any reason I could find to mean that I couldn’t go ahead. I’ve always been rubbish at giving up - I’m not so worried about failure, as long as I can convince myself I’ve done everything I can.
So, on Friday night, I came to a conclusion: I wasn’t quite ready to go, and had a few bits left to pick up. The start date was pushed back to Sunday morning, knowing it shouldn’t have any effect in the long run, as I had already planned to be in Strasbourg by the following Sunday night, an arrangement I intended to keep.
Then Saturday night came.
At the time, I was acting more like someone who was about to walk out in front of a firing squad than someone who was going on a trip that will undoubtedly have numerous fantastic experiences. But logic went out the window. I was desperate for a way out. Could I delay it a week? Should I just delay it another 24 hours? Would that actually change anything? Eventually, and fairly hesitantly, I came to a decision: sometimes, you just have to jump in. Or, at least, dip your toes in to check if it’s too cold, and by that point you may as well go all the way in.
Thankfully the weather was a lot better on Sunday morning. Rather than the rain and gales of Saturday, I woke up to a sunny and calm morning. The decision had been made, there was no backing out now. I was off.
By this point, I’d ridden my bike fully loaded approximately 800 yards. And I was about to attempt over 100km. In fact, I’d only really ridden the bike itself about 100 miles, even unladen. I hadn’t ridden any other bike either. So, am I brave or foolish? I think the answer is clear!
A few lessons were learned pretty quickly, with thankfully no dire consequences. After about half a mile, I tried to speed up to fly past a bus before it pulled out from the stop. I jumped out of my seat, and started forcing the pedals along. Normally, this would not be an issue at all. However, when you have a fair amount of weight attached to the handlebars, it turns out that it’s all a little heavy, and everything starts to fly around all over the place, and threaten to dump me on the floor in the middle of a busy A2. You have no idea how relieved I was to stay upright, not least because of the potential embarrassment avoided as I would have no doubt had to answer the question of how far I’ve come, and how far I had still to go!
The second lesson was one about the United Kingdom in general. Nobody seems to have come up with the concept of a flat road yet. I’m not trying to claim that south-east England is mountainous, but every road is either slightly uphill (and, in some case, more than slightly!) or slightly downhill. I longed for the Channel - at least that could be guaranteed to be hill-less! It took forever to get out of London. It seems to extend for miles, well beyond the M25, but I eventually found myself in some kind of countryside. But there was a bit of a problem: I was running short of light.
Eventually it became clear, I wasn’t going to reach Dover. As the light suddenly disappeared, and having already been narrowly missed by a slightly unobservant driver (although it was pretty dark, so I don’t blame him entirely), I pulled into Barham and holed up for the night in the Duke of Cumberland pub. If every night was like this, I could really enjoy myself! Big comfy bed, fish and chips for tea, and scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast. Where’s the hardship?!
This morning arrived, and it suddenly dawned on me that I had to do it all over again. Probably about 100 or so times. Ah. A plan was made to get to Dover, just a few miles down the road, to catch the midday ferry over to Dunkirk. However, it was all a bit too comfy, and I ended up leaving at 10:30, making it a bit tight for time. Very tight for time. Too tight for time! Pulling into Dover around 11:40, getting a little lost, and then remembering I had to get some money from the travel agents, I had to postpone my crossing until 2:00 PM; not the end of the world.
Unfortunately, I also learned a lesson that I’ve learned, and forgotten, several times before: don’t put Jelly Babies anywhere hot. They melt. My pocket turned out to be “hot”. So, on arrival in Dover, I emptied my pocket to find a sticky mess encasing my shiny, fairly new, iPhone. Never mind, I just need to wash it off, so I trundled off to the loos to clean it up. Suddenly, and not at all down to my inherent clumsiness, the phone magically jumped out of my hand and onto the floor. Upon picking it up, it turns out that the screen had decided to crack. That’s just what I needed.
I guess that, if it all went to plan, there’d be no satisfaction in achieving it!
After a nice few hours of enforced relaxation, I left the ferry to discover the magical land of France. Not only that, but do you know what you get to do when you cycle on a ferry? You get on and off first. Before anyone else! It’s quite exciting!
It appears my navigation abilities aren’t that great. I blame the fact that the ferry port in Dunkirk is actually a long way west of Dunkirk itself. Well, I presume it is, because I intended to go through Dunkirk on my way out, and at one point, having already cycled for about 5 miles, went past a sign telling me it was 12km away. Not what I needed. Added to that, every single sign seemed intent on directing me towards a motorway. I didn’t want a motorway!
Having wasted an hour getting lost, I was finally on my way, and made a lovely discovery. This bit of France, unlike the English roads that preceded it, is not only very flat, but seems to have cycle paths pretty much everywhere. I was making good progress, but I realised I was going to have a similar problem to the day before: I was a bit late. More worryingly for my belly, however, was the fact that everywhere seemed to be shut. Literally, everywhere! No garages with shops, no pubs with shops, no shops with shops. It was as though there’d been some kind of mass evacuation that a few random stragglers had decided to boldly ignore.
Eventually, I hit my third country of the day. If I manage three countries every day for the trip, I should be there in a week or so! I was a little curious before arriving how much they really care about the France-Belgium border. Would it be a big setup, or just a man in a booth? It turns out they really don’t care at all. Slightly worryingly, it turns out they don’t speak much French in this bit of Belgium. I can do French. I can’t do this language.
Once again, the light was deserting me, but I couldn’t find anywhere to stay - not a campsite nor a hotel - let alone anywhere to eat. The lights went on and it really became pitch black. I eventually admitted defeat in Poperinge, just a few miles short of Ypres. But defeat wasn’t having me today. No matter how much I searched, rode around in circles, got lost again, and got laughed at by people in bus stops for riding past them numerous times, I could not find any hotel open. This went on for the best part of an hour. Apparently there were 4 or 5 hotels in this town, but they’d clearly decided that Monday is not a night they want to have people to stay.
Eventually I admitted defeat in my attempts to admit defeat, and started the treacherous dark ride towards Ypres: surely there would be somewhere there. As I left Poperinge, the greatest sight I’ve ever seen (well, it seemed like that at the time) came into view by the side of the road. Not a hotel - that would have been too much to take - but a chip shop. I hadn’t eaten since Dover. It was now … well, too long after that to have not eaten while cycling 40-odd miles. I went in and collapsed into a chair to devour what was probably a pretty hideous burger and chips. But it was food, and I really didn’t care what it tasted like.
The final 7 miles down to Ypres were fairly uneventful in the end. My knees took turns in being really painful; I didn’t exactly cycle quickly; and I eventually entered a, to be honest, rather beautiful place. I’ll try and get some pictures before I leave tomorrow - it was a bit dark when I arrived! Finding a hotel again wasn’t straight-forward (I’d given up on the prospect of a campsite; although I can’t really afford a hotel, I needed a bed), but I eventually stumbled into the delightful place where I am now. I have a bed, I have breakfast (in about six hours’ time - better get to sleep in a minute!), and I have internet, which means I can not only write this but, arguably more importantly, try and check the route for tomorrow!
I’ve got three days to get to Luxembourg, just under 200 miles away. It should be fine. As long as nothing breaks, including me, and the world remains looking like these roads below. That’s not too much to ask, is it?!
