I’d cleared the decks domestically and professionally by Monday afternoon and so was ready to focus on packing. In truth, I had been preparing for weeks: arranging for the bike to be serviced; checking the set up for lights and devices; plotting, refining, downloading and uploading routes; ensuring required documents were printed off; washing and setting aside clothing for the trip and so on. By Monday, afternoon, all that was left was the packing. Of course, everything I wanted to take would not fit in my pannier bags. I ruthlessly discarded two t-shirts, one of two spare pairs of cycling shorts, a hoodie for evening wear, a packet of micro-fibre cloths, some blister packs of analgesics and antacids, a bottle of aftershave, some interdental brushes, my sonic air flosser, and a couple of paperbacks, then tried again. I managed to squeeze the t-shirts and the hoodie back in, but the bags were still rammed. I need to do some more work on this. I don’t know what the luggage weighs, but I found out during the course of the next day that it was somewhere between “fucking heavy” and immovable. Souvenirs from the trip will be digital, I’m afraid.
When we were two, the original plan had been to hire a van one-way and drive down to Portsmouth. After The Hairy Nephew confirmed he could not make it, I changed my plans, booked a train ticket from Northallerton to Kings Cross, and decided to test myself by riding from London to Portsmouth. I live about twenty miles from Northallerton and so I knew I’d be up at Dawn’s crack. As I age and need less sleep, I find this is a place I frequent often when waking. In times gone past, I would have more likely been seen there before sleep. This is, I think, a natural part of the human condition.
I woke at about 3:40, before my alarm went off, and after a fitful and short night in the spare bedroom, so as not to disturb The Baroness. The sky was light, but Dawn was yet to spread her rosy-fingers across the firmament. After some coffee, I loaded the bike, bade au revoir and adieu to Her Ladyship, and set off at 4:45 for the station. It was a most enjoyable ride: the sun was just breaking over the Cleveland Hills, there was no discernible wind and traffic was largely absent. I had plotted a route to the station at Northallerton that avoided the dreaded Hutton Bank – a notoriously steep but mercifully short fall and rise across the Leven Valley in Hutton Rudby – so as not to break my spirit too soon. Along the A172 out of Stokesley a barn owl heading for bed flew across my path. The bike, despite its load, was moving sweetly. A word of praise must be given here to Tom at Westbrook Cycles in Stokesley, who set the bike up beautifully last week. It is heavy, mind (my fault), and throughout what was to be a long day, I struggled to cope with anything more than a 5% gradient.
I arrived at Northallerton in good time and after a pleasant train journey (breakfast included) I arrived at Kings Cross feeling fresh. I was very impressed with the bike set-up on LNER: very helpful staff and very smooth on and off.
After a somewhat hesitant start away from the station, as the route I had plotted took its time to load up on the Garmin, I made my way through Camden and the West End down towards the Thames and on through Westminster. I encountered some protesters in Parliament Square with an inflatable figure that looked strangely like Emily Thornberry, and I passed Diane Abbott, the Shadow Home Secretary and celebrated arithmetician, taking a selfie of herself with it in the background. I then negotiated my way through Chelsea, Fulham, Putney, Barnes and Roehampton to Richmond Park, where I had a close encounter with some very tame and pale deer – white hart, I would say, but I don’t really have a clue. It was a beautiful moment anyway. It had just started to drizzle, but I didn’t mind, as it was keeping me cool. The rain, or at least its effect on the terrain, was to cause me more of a problem later on, but I was blissfully unaware of this at that time.
I followed a riverside path to Weybridge, where I stopped for a well-earned and substantial lunch at a pub by the river. After this, I was on my way again along The Thames and then the Basingstoke Canal past Woking, which was very nice, provided you were only out for an afternoon amble, and it wasn’t raining. The bumpiness of the surface and its effect on my perineum made it difficult ability to maintain a decent rhythm, but the biggest problem was the mud that gathered between my rear mudguard and wheel, which gradually became such a drag that I had to pull over, take the luggage off the back, turn the bike over, take the wheel out of its housing and manually remove it. I still had about six miles of this type of surface to traverse before I could hit some tarmac near Aldershot, and it was quite a drain on the quads. The drive chain and brakes are still not right and will need to be cleaned up and adjusted tomorrow before the trip really begins.
Anyway, yadda, yadda, yadda, South Downs, up and down, tired, slog (still some drag on back-wheel and heavy feeling in the legs), a vicious 17% gradient 72 miles in (a get off and push): I made it to Portsmouth at about 10:30pm, with weary legs and a sore undercarriage.
Lodgings were basic, but fine (room with a view = window) I slept well, and was away early for the ferry, which was very smooth, and full of servicemen. It was raining when I arrived in Oustreham, but that soon stopped. I rode gingerly along the river to Caen, passing Pegasus Bridge where I stopped to shake the hand of a 94-year-old D-Day veteran: listening to him being interviewed by a UK news crew made me feel quite emotional.
After settling in at my apartment in the centre of Caen for the next two night (trust me, that makes it sound grander than it is, but it will do), I wandered up to Abbaye de Saint Etienne where lies William The Conqueror.
Now for some R+R, before touring the beaches tomorrow.
For those that are interested, so far I’ve rode 125 miles, climbed 948m, and spent nearly 13 hours in the saddle in the 36hrs between leaving home and arriving at my base in Caen.
Now my journey begins.
The Trick Cyclist 