London to Brighton Bike Ride 2008

Greetings, tender reader,

Well, it came and it went. The 2008 London to Brighton Bike Ride, in aid of the British Heart Foundation, happened on Sunday. It was my first, and for a moment I suspected it might be my last.

The past few weeks have been a frenzy of training to try to improve my fitness following the accident I suffered at Easter, which saw various bits of me in plaster - thankfully not all at the same time - for several weeks. In February, when I applied to participate in this year's ride, I felt fantastic. I cycled the 56 miles to my mother's just to prove it could be done. I could lift the bike single-handedly and still help little old ladies with their shopping.

One broken thumb, a fractured elbow, a dodgy knee, knackered ribs and half-a-stone later, I didn't feel so good. Which only served to make me more stubbornly determined. I WANTED my medal! A friend tells me I laugh like Muttley being raped, so I don't see why I shouldn't display other facets of his personality. There's also the other factor - you know, raising money for a good cause and all that jism. Still, I wanted a medal!

Television's own Robert Heading and I arrived at Clapham Common at 9am for a 9.30 start (immense thanks are due to Robert's brother-in-law Tony for taking both us and the bikes from Essex; the extra mileage would have finished me off.) On arriving, I heard two women talking about how they didn't get past the start line until over an hour after their scheduled time the previous year. The Common was packed: it took nearly ten minutes to queue at the pedestrian crossing. The day was a lycra fetishist's dream.

While we waited to cross the start line, I asked Robert if he'd ever stopped to consider what he'd signed himself up for. He last rode the London to Brighton over 20 years before, and cycled it this time on a racing bike bought in 1976. Nevertheless, he still seemed to manage a faster average speed than me on my 5-year-old Halfords cheapy. We blamed it on the tyres.

We passed the start line at 9.35am. The delays I'd feared would come in the first two hours.

Getting out of London was fraught, and our fellow cyclists didn't exactly help matters. In spite of being told not to do so, the majority mounted the pavement at one junction and caused a massive bottle-neck 200 yards down the road. Meanwhile, I remained behind a stationary bus running, judging from the smell, on human shit and paraffin.

At Carshalton, I reached my first challenge: a hill. No normal hill, however. This was the most obnoxious hill of all: a gradient so slight as to be insignificant, but which goes on for several miles. The kind of hill where your resolve would be questioned if you got off and walked, but which would knacker your thighs if you cycled.

I cycled it. It knackered my thighs, and my dodgy knee. I honestly wondered whether I'd be able to finish the ride.

On reaching Woodmansterne Village Hall, the first official stop, we were advised to all turn in as there had been an accident ahead which was currently blocking the road. I sent the following text to my nearest and dearest:

"12 miles in and I'm ******* knackered. This ride will be the death of me, mark my words."

I took the opportunity to have a pee, shovel a banana and an energy bar down my throat, and drink a cup of tea. I also refilled my empty water canister. Ten minutes later, we were allowed to move on. Following a conflab during which I kept apologising for lagging behind, we decided that the best policy would be to pace ourselves, not wear ourselves out and under no circumstances to feel pressured by anybody into going faster than was comfortable. A sensible policy, all told, and the knee felt gradually less awful as the ride progressed.

Around the corner from Woodmansterne Village Hall was the first serious hill descent of the day, following a journey so far at little over walking speed. Keeping my brakes on, I went down the hill at a steady 20mph. Somebody scraped the kerb at high speed to the right of me and was thrown over his handlebars with a sickening thump. Going too fast to stop safely, I did the next best thing and told the St. John's Ambulance team at the foot of the hill. I hope he was alright.

Things became generally easier over the next few miles - while the start proved to be one hell of a warm-up, it probably helped prepare me for some of the steeper hills.

Robert's chain fell off at one point, the very chain he'd oiled to within an inch of its existence the day before. The oil ended up on his trousers. White trousers, naturally. Whoops! Shortly after my experience in helping him restore his chain (and by "helping" I mean holding the back wheel off the ground while he did the physical work got his hands - and trousers - dirty), I helped a fellow cyclist with the same dilemma, and made a friend for the rest of the journey. On seeing her wave and smile at me for the umpteenth time at the foot of Ditchling Beacon, Robert threatened to tell my wife. I dunno, you can't be a good Samaritan these days without your best intentions being misinterpreted! (For what it's worth, she said that she must have been passed by 50 cyclists since her chain came loose, and I was the only one who had offered to help. Harrumph. I offered to help a couple of other people besides ("both young ladies?" queried Robert), but that's because I'm too good to be true. I'm also "old school", apparently, but that's a whole other story and seems to have something to do with the fact that I know how to do grammar and punc'tuation proper like.)

While Robert was fixing his chain, I heard the strangest statement from a passer-by: "My front tyre was flat earlier, but it must have pumped itself up when we went down the last hill."

Among the highlights of the day were the little girl in the driveway around the halfway mark who had put up a self-drawn, fully-coloured-in sign saying "Brighton, 94 miles". She was sitting beneath it with a cheeky grin on her face.

The kids (and some adults) with water cannons were good fun, too - although some cyclists weren't too amused. I slowed down on approaching one and said, "Go on, give me your worst shot - I need it." I did, too - I was roasting hot. I only hope it was water they were firing.

On descending one hill, I overtook Robert and shouted, "Eh up - 32.8mph, Robert! How about that?!" only to notice two woman police constables standing at the foot of the 30mph hill. I gave them a winning smile and Robert ribbed me about how they'd pointed a speed gun at me.
"That's okay, there are no identifying plates on a bicycle," said I.
Robert replied, "What about the ******* big number on your back?"

At another point, I said I needed to stop, "because I can't feel my genitals any more."
"Oh, so that's what you've been doing, is it?" was the reply.


I'd read so much about Ditchling Beacon that I felt quite intimidated by the prospect of climbing it. Cycling up it, I knew, would be well beyond my abilities, but I had wondered whether even climbing it would be enough to finish me off. The sight of the hill from the village of Ditchling was breathtaking, and the descent to the foot of the hill was exhilarating. Then I saw it - a vertical wall of grass.

As it turned out, the climb wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be - the gradient is not dissimilar to the steep hill of which my mother lives at the top. The distance was considerably longer, but with some pacing, and considerable sweating, my bike, backpack and myself made it up the hill.

Near the top, the trees started to talk to us like a scene from "M*A*S*H", encouraging us up the hill, and reminding us that we needed to get down the other side before finishing the ride. Following a quick breather at the top, we set off on the last leg.

I felt so happy when I could see the coast to the right of me, far below where I was currently situated. Going down the hill, with nobody around for hundreds of yards and the ability to literally see for miles, I let my brakes off and reached nearly 39mph - on a 30mph road! I eased the brakes back on when I started to get a little bit scared by the rattling noises my bike was making - images of wheels coming loose forming in my head.

We passed the finish line together at 7.04pm, nine-and-a-half hours after starting. 56 miles of hills, dales, crunching gears and erectile dysfunction. (Robert's friend and colleague Adam took the photographs before driving us back to East London. Even more immense thanks on their way to him.)

Considering the mechanical breakdowns along the way, and the fact that we didn't get above walking speed in the first two hours, I'm pleased with this timing for a first attempt. There are those who consider themselves to have failed if they don't complete the course in three hours flat, but I don't think I'd have been any happier if we'd have arrived sooner.

We're already talking about taking part in next year's ride, and even about getting a team together. I think I'll invest in some road tyres before then. And I should remember to pack sandwiches - there's only so many bacon rolls one can eat on a ride without feeling a bit sick!

Special mention should go to the Marshals and Police Officers along the route - their presence and advice made this novice feel much safer than I would have done cycling in normal traffic. And the majority of them were very pleasant and friendly.

Thanks to those kind souls who sponsored me, the British Heart Foundation will get a few hundred quid. This includes the fiver pledged by my Auntie Sheila, the subject of my previous Blog, who so tried to convince me that the whole thing was a bad idea. Silly sod.

Thanks to those of you who sponsored me. You know who you are. And to those of you who were asked and never bothered - you also know who you are and what you are, and so do I!

But most importantly of all, Muttley gets a medal.