LONDON TO PARIS: THE MOVIE

I've put together a little mini-film about my London to Paris adventure. It's a wee concoction of all the little clips I filmed along the way. (Yep, I can cycle and film at the same time - I have MISSED MY CALLING!)

Hopefully it captures the moods and merriment, the ups and downs, the whinging and the winning. ENJOY!


No horses were harmed in the filming of this video.

However, one camera might have perished.
And many hours were killed.

DAY 4: BEAUVAIS TO PARIS!

"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go."  ~T.S. Eliot


My initial thoughts when I woke up were:

1) WHY DID I HAVE BEER?

2) That sadness I had about this being the last day? THAT WAS THE BEER TALKING.

I was tired, and I was sore. Although truth be told, this was an emotional day. It would be the last morning we'd have to wake up and get on our bikes. We'd come so far and now what... this was it?

 

Dorota and I hit the road, both of us feeling our aches and pains a little more today. In fact, after having such a good day yesterday, we both felt disappointed that today was difficult. I for one was really struggling, with stiff legs, a sore knee, and another night of not enough sleep.

And just to make things even worse, we found ourselves facing a two mile hill. A TWO MILE HILL! This was like a hill conjured up in some sort of lab of evil. Steep, busy roads which carried on.... FOR TWO MILES! (Did I mention the hill was two miles?) Needless to say, we walked up the hill, along with many others. One chap had a bad knee like me but had to attempt the walk up with cleats on his shoes.
"How women walk in high heels," he remarked, "I'll never know".

Once at the top of the HILL OF DOOM, Dorota and I stopped to dose ourselves up with various gels and potions. I took two painkillers for my knee, which was burning like the fires of hell. I'm not big on painkillers, but this time they were needed. I also started swigging the sports drink supplement my roommate Raquel had given me. I really wondered how I'd make it through the day.

Within an hour I WAS FLYING.

The painkillers worked their magic - pain? WHAT PAIN? - and the sugar drink had me buzzing with energy. I couldn't believe how good I felt! Why had I not thought of these things EARLIER?

We hit the last ever water stop, and everyone was taking time to chat, eat snacks, and enjoy the moment. The next time we'd stop together we'd almost be in Paris! It was hard to believe how quickly this day had come round....

And so I FLEW onwards, pepped up on sugar, feeling amazing. The route took us through cornfields, leafy roads and farmland. We were leaving the countryside behind, but what we had left of it was beautiful.

The Love Bus drove by blasting Fatboy Slim through their open windows and the beats just propelled my invigorated mood. (I WAS HIGH ON SUGAR!) I whooshed through a town and then flew up a horrible hill that seemed to keep going and going... as did I. I RACED up that hill. Who would've thought? My fitness, coupled with the numbed knee and sugary supplements meant I was cycling faster and more easily than ever before. I wished we had some more days under our belt!

The scenery slowly became more urban, and a group of us gals cycled together as we made our way through the back streets of small, quiet suburbs. It was nice and sociable, but for about 6 miles we had to deal with the most awful potholes (ARGH! OUR BUMS)! Even more frustratingly, we had to stop at traffic lights every 100 metres or so. For cyclists pepped up on sugar and desperate for lunch, this was SUPER annoying.

Yet we got there, and felt the buzz of mass excitement as we arrived at our last ever lunch stop. It was a stunning spot, right on the edge of the Seine. We were now on the outskirts of Paris, and it was a beautiful day. We had just 11 more miles to go to the holding point, and from there we'd all travel in convoy to the Eiffel Tower!

(As usual I ate too much lunch. BECAUSE I'M WORTH IT.)

It didn't take long to get to the holding point and it was here that the celebrating began, as people cheered and hugged. WE WERE HERE! WE HAD MADE IT!

Everyone was allocated a blue Skyline tshirt which clearly announced our achievement. The last of our independent cycling was finished. From here there was just the convoy all the way to Le Tour Eiffel. It was hard to take it in... And before I knew it we were ready to complete our final 8-mile stretch of this crazy journey.

After a briefing from James we all congregated on our bikes. James stood up through the car window, air horn in hand.

"ARE WE READY TO GO, PEOPLE?"

A huge cheer went up from the cyclists, James sounded the air horn and WE WERE OFF!

The river of blue cyclists snaked its way into the heart of Paris, the sound of a hundred bells tinging in unison. At each set of lights we’d stop, the sound of countless pedal cleats clacking on and off every time. The air horn would blast and we’d all ting our bells and whoop and cheer! Such was the jubilant mood there were even several attempts at Mexican waves at each red light. At one stage a bus got stuck in the middle of our trail and the driver sat there, throwing his hands up in a shrug, helpless as we wove around him.

We cycled up the Avenue Foch - the Champs Elysees' northern twin - and saw the Arch de Triomphe rise up ahead! Everyone went crazy, screaming and cheering with excitement. There were some nerves all round as we turned onto the roundabout, the most chaotic ring of traffic in France, but we soon turned off again.

However, when we saw the first tip of the Eiffel Tower through the trees, the feelings of excitement and jubilation went up to ELEVEN. The air horn blasted, the bike bells were ringing, and everyone whooped and cheered and screamed. For many of the group it was the first time they'd seen the Eiffel Tower. I wondered what that must have felt like, considering that for me, this was my third time to Paris and I felt OVERWHELMED with emotion!

We took the route all the way around to the Avenue d'Lena where we made the approach to le Tour Eiffel directly across the Pont d'Lena. Tourists on either side of the bridge stopped to watch, taking photos. As people read our tshirts there were murmurings in many languages, with the word "London!" said in awed tones. I felt ON TOP OF THE WORLD. I thought I might cry. Later everyone - even the blokes - admitted there were tears.

Our river of cyclists rounded the gardens of the Eiffel Tower and made our way to the back, where we completed our journey with a victory lap of the fountain on Pl Jacques Rueff. Cheering, bell-ringing, we all decided to do another lap. Oh go on then, LET'S DO ANOTHER! Friends and family of some of the cyclists were there holding banners, tourists gathered to watch, and the crew started spraying champagne in celebration. I rolled up to a final stop and was handed a plastic cup of champagne. Dorota and I screamed and toasted our achievement.

There, beneath the Eiffel Tower, I tasted success. I JUST RODE MY BICYCLE FROM LONDON TO PARIS. Two countries, 300 miles, four days. This was the hardest thing I had ever done, yet - and probably for that exact reason - it was the BEST thing I had ever done. I like to think that in time I'll look back at this and think what a walk in the part it was compared to other challenges I'll have undertaken... but for now, this was my EVEREST.

I bought myself a souvenir Eiffel Tower as a trophy, which I'd planned from day one. Other souvenir-sellers made use of their entrepreneurial skills, popped to the nearest off-licence and came back to try and sell us all beer and champagne. There were plenty of photo calls, family reunions, and celebrating going on. Two Japanese tourists stopped Dorota and I and asked if they could each have their photos taken with us! This was, I realised, the closest someone like me could ever get to feeling like a competitor in the Tour de France.

It was amazing to think how much had happened; how differently I felt than I did back on Wednesday morning, standing in Crystal Palace park screaming into my fist. Proof that in just three days you can completely smash your own perception of your personal limits. 

Finally, Tom from the crew told us to start making our way to the hotel. Oh yes, we had a little more cycling left to do! Just a couple of miles through Paris, following the last of the arrows (SOB!) to the Hotel Concorde in Montparnarsse. Those of us cycling together were on cloud nine, and even though we lacked the effect of the massive convoy we were still waving and cheering as we drove through the streets.

At the hotel it was time to hand over the bikes. They'd be taken back to London overnight in a truck, and meet us at the other side. I felt very emotional handing over Claud. Every night when I'd had to leave him stored away it was always with some reluctance, but especially now, after he'd got me all this way.

But now my only priorities were:
Check in!

Shower!

Clean clothes!

And down to the bar.

Outside in the hotel beer garden the party was well underway. For the first time all 120 cyclists were staying in the same hotel, and everyone was in a great mood. Some were showered and changed, while others had not even bothered and sat celebrating in their lycra.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur of banter, beer, and bicycle talk. Dinner was steak and the wine was well and truly flowing. After dinner James led everyone to a local bar he was clearly all too familiar with, and before long everyone was dancing, throwing their previously-aching bodies around the dancefloor, and generally releasing all the excited energy from the afternoon. I spent most of the night dancing atop a table wearing a straw hat, alongside three other cyclists who were dressed as superheroes. That pretty much sums up the mood.

I fell into bed at 2am (much earlier than many did) and thankfully, mercifully, was too tired to contemplate the achievements of the day.

I think I would have cried if I did.

Beauvais to Paris: 56 miles (90.1km)

TOTAL DISTANCE LONDON TO PARIS: 300 MILES

DAY 3: ABBEVILLE TO BEAUVAIS

“To overcome difficulties is to experience the full delight of existence.” ~ Arthur Schopenhauer

My roommate's alarm was the technological equivalent of someone screaming "WAAAAAKE UUUUUPPP!!!" directly into my ear. It works a treat.

Today we had a staggered start, to allow cyclists of all speeds to be nearer one another. It was a much smarter way of doing things, although I was surprised to see the odd speedy road biker still determined to set off before anyone else. WHY? Why would you do that when you could stay in bed an extra hour?? MADNESS.

As for Dorota and I, we set off early, and despite the initial stiffness we were both feeling energetic. Even though my knee hurt, the brace was helping, and I was determined to not let it stop me.

Up ahead we saw cyclists climbing up around the side of the hill, and we both prepared ourselves for the eventual walk up. (I being especially conscious of my knee.) But we attempted to cycle a little way at least. And then... kept going. And going. Wait... we just cycled up that big hill. DUDE, WHAT JUST HAPPENED? 

Clearly our legs had developed into SUPERLEGS and we were now equipped with hill-cycling powers we didn't have before. Awesome! There really is something magic about the moment you notice your fitness and strength increase. Seriously. MAGIC.

Our orange-arrowed route carried us through little villages, with quaint churches, and at one point we came upon some friendly horses. We stopped to say hello.

The entire day was absolutely stunning. The weather was perfect. I was in an INCREDIBLY good mood, cycling through the picturesque countryside, feeling fitter and more energetic than I ever had on this trip so far. This was what cycling was all about! Seeing the world under your own steam! "IT'S GOOD TO BE ALIVE!!" I thought to myself. (In fact, I might have said it out loud.)

The mood was only exacerbated by the support of the locals. Just before we reached the water stop, we all passed a little boy stood at the gate of his house, astride his tricycle. "Bonjour! Bonjour!" he squeaked, waggling his hand in a wave. He got very excited when all us grown up cyclists said "Bonjour" back. It was SO CUTE my brain nearly exploded.

After 20 miles we rolled up at the water stop, and found it busy with cyclists; something we hadn't seen before the staggered start was implemented. It made for a fantastic, lively atmosphere, and everyone seemed in great spirits. This was our shortest day yet (about 60 miles), and we only had 18 miles 'til lunch.
"Eighteen miles? Pah! SIMPLES!"

The afternoon offered some of the most beautiful cycling yet. Plenty of undulations, but manageable, and the beauty of our surroundings offered a VERY pleasant distraction.

The lunch stop was busier than the water stop had been. The sun was scorching and everyone sat out on the grass, dining on yet another phenomenal buffet lunch. Hot sausage pasta, salads, cheese, baguettes and potatoes. I even went back for seconds, although I probably didn't need it. 

My gears had also started skipping, despite getting them serviced a week before the trip. GAAH. So before I set off I had Andy the fantastic mechanic tune them up for me. I was definitely putting Claud through his paces!

We rolled on, with roughly 12 miles left to Beauvais. I had an insatiable craving for a sweet drink, so Dorota and I made a pit-stop in a town to pick up some bottles of lemon Powerade. For this trip I was carrying my water in a camelback, inside my lightweight rucksack (both on loan from Ben - thanks dude!). It was an extremely comfortable way to carry water; I could take up to three litres (although I generally just carried two) and it meant not having to fuss around with multiple bottles. The downside was that I didn't have the provisions to carry energy drinks or add sugar supplements. So the Powerade was AMAZING.

The afternoon water stop was more of a rest break than anything else. (I was still burning off my lunch.) But it WAS conveniently placed at the top of a very steep climb, so Dorota and I stopped to catch our breath and relax. Y'know, just for a moment.

Right! Powering on! And soon we were sailing into Beavais on busy roads. I found myself locked in a steady pace, Dorota behind, as we flew into the city centre. Dorota later told me we were averaging 17mph. (Not bad for hybrids, and certainly not bad for us!) We were both in a great mood, having found our stride and I was stoked about finally arriving early, rather than late.

On top of that, we saw our first signs for Paris!

We were, by all calculations, nearing the hotel, when we suddenly heard a short, sharp whistle. It was three of the other cyclists, waving us back. Apparently we were going the wrong way. One of the chaps had called James, who said the hotel was back in town. (The arrows we were following were for tomorrow, they said.) So we followed the three cyclists back into town, the way we had just come... but it wasn't long before we realised they didn't actually know where they were going! I was getting tired and annoyed by this stage. Dorota looked up the hotel on her iPhone and we discovered that we HAD been going the right way all along! In fact, when we'd turned around we had actually been less than half a mile away from the hotel. The three cyclists seemed determined to go with their directions, so we parted ways and followed the GPS, eventually rolling into the hotel with an unnecessary extra 8 miles under our belts!

It was tres annoying, but an innocent mistake.
To be honest, I had to laugh... another day, another detour! At this rate I was setting a record.

There were several other cyclists sitting outside the hotel drinking beer, and cheering our arrival, so Dorota and I decided to go straight to the bar and join them. (It feels OK to sit and drink in your sweaty cycling gear when you're surrounded by other people in their sweaty cycling gear as well.)

THE BEER WAS GOOD.

Showers, then back for more beer, although even though it was not yet 6pm, the hotel bar reported a beer shortage. Surely having 60 cyclists booked into their hotel months in advance would've ensured they had beer in their barrels? Apparently not. Soon the bottled beer ran short too. WINE it is then!
Wine... and LASAGNE.

It was great to get to know more of the other cyclists and hear their stories. Some were workmates wanting to test their limits for a good cause; some were relatives taking on a family challenge together; and others had their own personal motivation. One young cyclist was raising money for his grandmother, whom he was very close to, but who was suffering from Alzheimer's. I said she must be very proud of his achievement; he said, "She won't remember that I've gone." That made me want to cry. Everyone had their story, their reasons, their goals. Overall I came to realise that I was in the company of an extraordinary group of people.

After dinner the wine flowed, and a bunch of us sat outside listening to music on someone's iPod, and talking about first gigs, great bands, and other nonsensical campfire banter. It was a lot of fun, but eventually I dragged myself to bed, feeling suddenly very sad that tomorrow would be our last day.

Abbeville to Beavais: 60 miles (96.5km)
Additional miles cycled: 8 miles (12.5 km)
Total distance: 68 miles (109 km)

DAY 2: CALAIS TO ABBEVILLE

"Courage is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm." ~ Winston Churchill

My alarm clock went off at 6.30am. Of course in UK time it was 5.30am. And it felt like it. I dragged myself out of bed, with every atom of my aching body wanting to go back to sleep for several hours (or in fact, days). Instead, I had to get up, get back on my bike, and cycle for another 70-odd miles!
WAS THIS SOME KIND OF SICK JOKE?!

Padded shorts and lycra gear on, then down to breakfast. Ahhhhh breakfast! Fortunately, the perk of feeling so shit was being allowed to eat as much as I wanted. So I did. I had cereal, crepes with jam, a pain au chocolate, a slice of buttered toast, fruit juice, and cup of tea.

(And I would be hungry again within an hour and a half.)

Getting back on the bike saddle wasn’t quite as painful as I’d anticipated; however, my legs were having a tantrum about having to do any more pedalling! They were stiff and sore and I had to really force them to move me forward. Nevertheless, Dorota and I followed other early risers and made our way the couple of miles down the road to the other hotel, where everyone congregated in the chilly morning air for our briefing. And soon enough we were cycling en masse out of Calais, heading to Abbeville.

The undulations (HILLS) began straight away, making the legs whine and beg for mercy. There were some lovely downhills, but always followed by an incline. (What goes up must come down... and er, then up again.) But it was a beautiful morning to be out cycling and once the legs warmed up, I was actually enjoying myself. I sincerely LOVE being on a bicycle.

Some of the longer climbs were gruelling though. I had decided that I'd walk up the big hills if I had to. Not that pushing a bicycle up a steep hill was a walk in the park either. Either way, hills were bastards.

However, we did have some absolutely glorious downhills.
DOWNHILLS MAKE ME HAPPY:

The towns we cycled through were very pretty. Locals would wave and I’d often pass people and share a nod or a wave and a “bonjour”. Sometimes people would clap, which was nice. I noticed the French are far more chilled out about cyclists; in fact, they seem to hold a special place in their hearts for le velo. Drivers were courteous, and pedestrians loved to show support. Generally too, I was feeling good.

On an amusing note, the crew in charge of signs had been busy at work, posting little messages and amusing phrases on the orange markers. Methinks they were quite bored.

The water stop meant a quick bite to eat and having my tires pumped up, then it was back on the road. For a while there was a group of us cycling together, and eventually we passed a café, where the crew were having a tea break. Dorota and I decided, with little hesitation, to stop and do the same. C'EST LA VIE! Sweet, strong coffee with cream was the order of the day, although not being a coffee drinker I had a cup of tea. (This is where I fail on the Continent. Asking for “thé avec lait” immediately gets me filed under philistine.) It was nice to chill for a bit. Life is too short not to stop and smell the coffee.

By the afternoon, after about 45 miles, I could feel my knee starting to grate. NOT COOL. I’d raised my seat to help it; this was the knee I’d had physio for so I tried to slow down and take it easy. I found myself cycling alone for a little while, up and down hills, through wheat fields and villages. Yet strangely, it was while cycling on a flat road that suddenly an INTENSE PAIN shot through my knee -  as if someone had turned up a flame beneath my kneecap! I howled in pain and had to pull over to rub in some Deep Heat. (Basically, now my knee was painful but also smelled like menthol.)

I pushed on, grimacing for several miles before finally pulling up beside a small lake in a forest for the lunch stop. Kez sorted me out with a VERY stylish knee brace which made a huge improvement. And after that I was distracted from the pain by the buffet table.

Lunch was carbs, on top of carbs, on top of carbs. Our lunch buffets were GLORIOUS. Buttered bread, three kinds of pasta, chunks of cheese, tomatoes, mushrooms, coleslaw, cheese salad, French pate, black pudding, sausage rolls… and that was just what I piled onto my plate. I was freakin’ giddy with hunger. There was a gang of ducks hanging around looking for scraps but they’d come to the wrong place. I actually had to threaten to eat them before they backed off.

I sat and ate with some of the other gals, and we all set off together. I think we all overdid it at the buffet, and my feelings were confirmed when one of the women had to stop and sick up her lunch in a ditch. Whoops.

We pushed on up some very steep hills before coasting down brilliantly long downhills as well. The scenery was stunning; quaint streams, fields of poppies and lush forest. Travelling by bicycle is surely the best way to see the beauty of rural France!

I was cycling with a fabulous lady called Pat (a different Pat this time) when we realised we'd not seen an orange arrow in quite some time. A check on the map had us as far as the little village of Machiel, which meant we’d come quite a fair way off route. Oh no, not AGAIN!

We worked out how to return to the trail without having to backtrack the whole way, although it did mean we were running well behind. Which is when Kez phoned me up:

“We hear you’re lost?”

“Naaaah. Just took a detour.”

“Shall we come and get you?”

“No need! We’re on our way back.”

“Alright….”

Eight extra miles later, and having passed the turn-off we’d originally missed, we rolled into the water stop. We found Tom from the crew sitting on his own with the water and jelly babies, looking bored and forlorn.

“The van has gone to drop off a couple of people with mechanical issues, but then they’re coming back for you two.”

“WHY? We’re only 8 miles from Abbeville!”

“Afraid you’re cutting it too fine for dinner and briefing.”

“Noooo! But we can MAKE IT!"

We begged Tom to let us try and complete the route, while he begged us to stay and wait for the van.

I looked at Tom and then looked at Pat.

“You know, Pat, there’s only one of him, and two of us. He can’t exactly stop us.”

“Please don’t….” sighed Tom, wearily realising I was right.

“We can make it!” agreed Pat.

“Yeah, look, we’ve already stood here 15 minutes!”

“PLEEEEASE!”

“Oh… gw’an”, said Tom, defeated.

Pat and I shot off like a rocket, howling with laughter. After a mile we saw the van coming towards us. QUICK! Should we hide? Leap in the bushes? They can’t take us now! We were so close! WHAT SHOULD WE DO?? I'll tell you what we did - we covered our faces and kept on cycling, clearly knowing they’d spotted us. But the van didn’t stop, and Pat and I sped on, reaching an extra three miles before the van, having gone back to collect Tom, eventually caught us up. I tried to out-run them, in mock-getaway-style, Pat howling with laughter behind me, before Kez slowed up alongside me.

“Nice try.”

And so, Pat and I climbed into the van, and were driven the last 5 miles. But even with the lift we’d still done six more miles on top of the completed route that day. And had a brilliant laugh while we were at it. Not bad going.

Pat was staying at the Ibis while I was at the Mercure, and I strolled in, showered and tried to make myself feel human again. Not an easy task after two days sweating on a bike.

At dinner I sat with a group of cyclists I'd not yet met - mostly because they were FAST cyclists and I was, er, not so much. I felt a little sheepish when they spoke about the time gap between the fastest and slowest cyclist. (Actually, I willed my dinner plate to open up and swallow me whole.) Eventually though, we all got chatting, and I realised the woman next to me had a NZ tattoo - she'd actually lived there for a while. And so, the ice was quickly broken.

Speaking of ice, I had to get some for my burning knee. I waited downstairs in the foyer for Dorota, who was making a phonecall in her room then meeting me for a drink. I asked the receptionist for a bag of ice for my knee, and was literally given a HUGE shopping bag filled up with ice cubes. To be fair, it was EXACTLY what I’d asked for... but I had to stash some of the ice cubes in the foyer plant pots before I could even pack it onto my leg.

So I sat and iced my knee and daydreamed of Parisian macaroons, and after a while I realised that Dorota had probably fallen asleep while on the phone (she had). To be fair, sleep sounded AMAZING. I was glad my roommate Raquel was also ready for lights out. And so, at 10.30pm, with my head on the pillow, it took me about 30 seconds to nod off. 

Calais to Abbeville: 70 miles (112km)
Extra miles cycled: 6 miles (9.5km)
Total distance: 76 miles (121.5km)

DAY 1: LONDON TO CALAIS

"Run when you can, walk when you have to, crawl if you must; just never give up." ~ Dean Karnazes

Standing in the dawn breeze in the wildly uninspiring expanse of Crystal Palace Park, I glanced at all the road bikes and groups of people congregating and silently wondered just what the HELL I’d got myself into.
Eventually I saw the familiar, friendly face of Dorota, with whom I’d trained back at the beginning. Thank goodness! Whether she liked it or not, I would now cling to Dorota like a lifeline, or perhaps a large mollusc of some sort. (Fortunately she didn't seem to mind). I also met some of the other people from the L2P forums, and it was reassuring to know I wasn't the only one silently screaming.

Bags were packed into the truck - we wouldn't see them again until Calais that night - and bike labels issued. Everyone was given route maps: neatly presented, yes, but daunting all the same. LOOK HOW FAR WE HAVE TO GO! DID ANYBODY ELSE REALISE THIS?

James, the Skyline event leader, gave us all a briefing beneath the bare bones of the Crystal Palace transmission tower - a paltry reminder of the (far more grand) Eiffel Tower we were heading towards over the next four days. We were to follow a trail of neon orange triangular markers that would lead us all the way to Dover. And with this in mind, all 120 cyclists then set off through busy roads, everyone seeming a little unsure of their pace, their position in the great order of things. All crapping themselves, really.

 

At first I channelled my pent-up fear and nervous energy and sped off in pursuit of some of the faster cyclists, but before long I had to slow down. My bike is a hybrid of awesomeness and coolness but it ain't the fastest bike on the block. And I ain't the speediest cyclist. I kept reminding myself this isn't a race, it's a test of ENDURANCE.

Endure? That I could do. I think.

There were little frustrations and niggles - apparently some idiot removed one of the markers, sending a whole group of us downhill in the wrong direction. (By the way, if you're the type of person who takes down someone else's arrow markers for fun, you're a DORK. Just saying.)

Later on I was cycling with a rather inspirational woman named Pat, and before long we realised we had taken another wrong turn downhill for quite some way. We had two options: go aaaaaall the way back up the hill, or use the map to go forward and rejoin the route. Obviously the latter choice won. To be fair it wasn't a nice detour - and involved a lot of map-checking and shuttling alongside some very busy roads, but it DID take us through a little town called Pratt's Bottom. SERIOUSLY. I love England.

The sense of elation Pat and I felt getting back onto the route and seeing our first orange marker again quickly dissipated as we found ourselves becoming disheartened and tired. We had done about 10 extra miles on our little detour and it was taking its toll on what was already a tough morning. There were plenty of hills to tackle (or "undulations" as Skyline frustratingly liked to call them) and we were both short on calories. Plus, my cycle computer suddenly stopped working, meaning not only could I no longer measure how quickly I was going (a useful pace setter) but I was unable to tell how far I had gone. This did NOT help my mood.

And then, after what seemed like forever, we arrived at the water stop. I was presented with the biggest bag of jelly babies I'd ever seen, and invited to knock myself out. I GORGED.

After we'd consumed a horrific amount of sugar and water, Kez and the van crew (aka The Love Bus) took Pat and I - and our bikes - forward to meet the back of the group, making up for some of the miles we'd just spent on our little excursion to Pratt's Bottom. We found out we weren't the only ones who had got lost, which was very reassuring. And as much as I'd feared having to go in the van, I conceded simply because I knew we'd done the miles already. Besides, if we didn't catch up now, we really would have to be escorted to the ferry. NOT HAPPENING! I was riding onto that ferry dammit!

Pat and I, set free back on the right track, quickly took off - but it wasn't long before Pat lost her way again. Once I realised I called the crew but luckily they had found her (with a puncture as well poor lady, but at least she was ok). From then on, I was on my own at the back. The situation soon got to me. I was knackered, and extremely despondent. There were plenty of moments of thinking "WHY AM I SO RUBBISH AT THESE THINGS? WHY MEEEEEE?" Self pity central, I was. Needless to say I was not having much fun.

Not only was this the longest day in terms of miles, but it was the one day where we had a strict deadline. Everyone had to reach the ferry by 5pm at the LATEST. No pressure, or anything, eh. While I told myself this event was not a race, in many ways it was today - it was a race against TIME.

In time I rolled on to the lunch stop just as the last people were leaving. Deflated, I sat outside and shoved carbs down my gullet. Thick buttered white bread, potatoes, salad, pasta, and cheese. I was hungry, but it would be the smallest lunch I'd eat on this trip. My mood stifled the appetite I should've had, and I was also keen to get back on track as quickly as possible.

I had a stern word to myself. "Come on Nelson, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!" If I'd had the energy to grab myself by the shoulders and give myself a slap, I would've. But that's tricky at the best of times. 
I knew this would be a mental game. I just had to push on, and I did. Eventually, wonderfully, after an hour or so (and many undulations) I found a rhythm. In time I even caught up to Dorota and some of the other gals. I was BACK baby!

Of course, at this point of the day we were having to deal with some horribly steep hills (not even your average undulations, these, but actual GREAT STONKING HILLS OF EVIL) that went on, and on, and on. The group of us were walking our bikes up, feeling broken and knackered.
"WHAT IS THE FRICKIN' DEAL WITH THESE HILLS?" we'd all shout as yet another upward turn revealed itself. Yet before long, we were in the outskirts of Dover, and nearing our way to the coast. Just two more miles to go!

And that's when the van turned up.
Kez broke the news: "You're going to miss the ferry if we don't take you now."
Deflated, four of us were bundled into the van like stray dogs caught by the pound. Although remarkably, at that precise moment, the heavens opened and we realised we'd just avoided the only downpour of the day. So we stopped complaining for a moment.

We hadn't gone far when the van caught up with other stragglers, and considering we couldn't all fit in the van, they decided that alright, we could make the last mile after all.
"GO on then. Quickly!"
There were about ten of us together, following behind the van in convoy, revelling in the looks we were getting from passing drivers. We were like a slower, more haggard looking version of the Tour de France. Or at least that's how we felt. One way or another, as we passed under the white cliffs of Dover we were filled with a sense of triumph.

We rolled into the ferry terminal, and joined the masses of brightly coloured cyclists in the grey entrance way. Dorota and I were overcome with delight that we'd actually made it. "I am so happy! I didn't think I would get this far!" said Dorota. I knew exactly how she felt! And what's more, the worst was OVER. I had never been so happy to be in a ferry terminal in my life.

After a long wait everyone rolled into the bowels of the ferry, full of good spirits, where we and our day bags were then forced to walk through security scanners.
"If they're looking for liquids and sharp implements," I remarked to the guy next to me, "they've got the right group." But we all passed through without problems, and parked up our bikes on the parking level. As we entered the ferry lounges there were mixed feelings of elation, relief, and exhaustion. And then came the hunger.

OH THE HUNGER! Dorota and I were actually squealing with excitement about the opportunity to eat. I even did a dance in the queue at the food court. Soon I had myself a huge plate of fish and chips. It was probably one of the most exciting moments of my life.

There was good banter on the ferry, and a lot of sweaty cyclists draped tragically over sofas. Everyone looked worse for wear.

When we arrive in Calais we all donned our neon yellow hi-viz vests (a legal cycling requirement in France in low light) and gathered in the terminal parking lot as the sun began to set in the distance. We would all follow the vehicles in convoy, and eventually branch off toward two separate hotels. And so, with bicycle lights blinking in unison, we rolled along the busy roads, all 120 of us, moving like one machine. We passed through the outskirts of Calais, where a funfair was in full swing, and the sounds of the Black Eyed Peas' "I Gotta Feeling" blared on the sound system. Diners in the restaurants stared as we passed by. A man rolling out his rubbish bins on the street stopped and cheered us on.

The faster riders begrudged the convoy, while others (like me) absolutely loved it. The feeling of riding with so many others - even if it was at a snail's pace of 8 miles an hour - was absolutely brilliant. It felt like a suitably triumphant procession to end the day we'd just had.

Those of us heading to the Ibis pulled up at the hotel, tired but cheering. (Who cheers at the sight of an Ibis?? We do, apparently.) Shower and sleep were the only two things on my mind. I was sharing with a girl from South America, but admittedly I had little energy for chat. Or stretching. Or much else, really. Instead, I slept. Safe in the knowledge the worst day was behind me... I had MADE IT.

London to Dover: 91 miles (146km)
Calais to hotel: 9 miles (14.4km)
Total distance:  100 miles (160.9km)

THIS IS IT

"Whatever you're ready for is ready for you." ~ Mark Victor Hansen

I have a taxi coming to pick me and Claud up at 5.30am tomorrow morning. I didn't even know they MADE a 5.30am. Who knew?

Should be setting off at 7am from Crystal Palace, and then - fingers crossed - should be in Dover by 5pm tomorrow. I can't believe it's finally HERE!!!

A MASSIVE THANK YOU for everyone's incredible support. Every single donation and every single comment, email, text and tweet has meant the world to me. That's what's going to get me through, people!!

That, and the thought of Parisian croissants. That also helps.

lots of love
Claire
xxxx


PS - Don't forget, you can still donate here!
http://www.justgiving.com/claire-nelson
Or Text BIKE95 to 70070

GEAR AND STUFF

In order to cycle 300 miles, you need a lot of stuff. A bicycle, obviously. And a helmet. And a hell of a lot of Haribo. But there are all kinds of other bits and pieces to consider... all of which I hope I've packed!
Below are a few of my most valuable pieces of kit.

Cycling gloves, which will protect my poor palms from a beating, and also ensure that after four days cycling I have the much sought-after fingerless-glove-tan: brown finger tips, brown arm... hand whiter than the driven snow. Just you wait. 

Allen Key & Screwdriver Multi-tool. My friend Ben bought this for me as a gift while I was training, mostly because I thought it was cool and that it would make me look like McGuyver on wheels. Which it totally does.

The all-important (or so I'm told) Chamois - or "Shammy" - cream. The saviour of long distance cyclists (again, so I'm told). Don't ask me where one applies it. You can Google that.

Padded shorts (one of two pairs). Anything that offers cushioning is awesome in my books. To be fair, they're also very flattering, and I actually feel like a graceful, attractive woman when I have them on. I'm lying of course.

My fluoro hi-visibility vest. This is compulsory cycle attire in France, which I have to admit is a sensible idea. Not that I'm going to be wearing it around London all the time. Well, except those odd days when I want to loiter in the street with a packet of sandwiches and leer at women.

Aaaaand there's the bike. I call him Claud. I could say this is because it's a French name, and I'm cycling to Paris. I could claim the name comes from Claud Monet, the painter, whose art is a tribute to beauty in nature. Of course in actual fact, it's because he's got "Claud Butler" written on the frame in big white letters. I tried for a long time to come up with a better name, but nothing else stuck. So, Claud it is. And yes, it is a French name. Which I think is appropriate. J'adore Claud.

As for all the other STUFF, it's more or less packed up... I have my big rucksack which shall go in the van (lucky bastard rucksack) and my meagre daypack, which has to see me through with everything I need until I reach my destination each night. As long as I have my bike, my helmet and my passport, I guess, I'm going to be ok....