The happiness of the long-distance rider

I am feeling very pleased with myself. With good reason, too. At the weekend I cycled 125 miles in aid of Demelza Hospice Care for Children, a local charity that does what it says on the tin. I can't even read their website without getting choked up and thinking “There but for the grace of God go I” and it was no decision at all to sign up and start pestering people for sponsorship. My bike had moved just once in the previous nine months: from the garage to the hallway in preparation for the building work. But Colin and I got some quick miles in and a week ahead of the event I was confident I could do the distance, spread over two days.

Then I saw the weather forecast. Saturday's route joined in a jagged line places I'd visited as a child (Eynsford, Yalding, Battle) or heard announced at the London termini (Swanley, Robertsbridge, Battle again), with a start point at Eltham. That was definitely an “it's a small world” moment: of all the places in south-east London, it happened to be literally just round the corner from the only people we know with an SE postcode. At 6.30am on Saturday, right on cue, it was heavy drizzle outside. At 10am in Eltham it was properly raining and we had to negotiate the busy high street. By 11am at Eynsford the sun was out for just about the only time in the day and we'd lost our first riders, two teenagers who were visibly ill-equipped for the challenge ahead. The remaining nine, plus guest leader Alan, who at the age of 70 holds two regional time-trial records and had to rein himself in, pressed on across the Weald of Kent. Another racer, Fast Mark, had planned the route and kept reassuring us that the next section would be downhill. After a while we stopped believing him: the laws of geology require that sooner or later you have to go up again, and experience supported them. Each regrouping stop became more welcome, each return to the bike more painful. But finally we crossed the boundary into East Sussex, skirting the tourist trap that is Battle to finish at the village of Magham Down, base for the Demelza hospice-at-home service. That was 69 miles and five of us rode three more miles to the Travelodge where we were to spend the night, while the others dived for the support vehicles and literally put their feet up.

For me probably the biggest highlight of the whole weekend – and there were plenty to choose from - was not on the bike at all. We went to the village of Coxbeech for a team dinner and as we arrived at the Merrie Harriers pub, the locals stood to applaud us. For that, I was even prepared to overlook the stupid spelling of the pub's name. The food was good, it was refreshing to be out in civvies and we finished early enough to get plenty of sleep ahead of what Fast Mark informed us would be a tough Sunday, not least because we had to go back up the one-mile 1:10 hill from earlier in the day. And he casually mentioned it was going to be wet and very windy.

It was with a certain amount of trepidation that I opened the curtains in the morning. But it wasn't raining and as we assembled at 8am for breakfast, the sun came out. By the time we got home I would be quite sunburned, again, and of all the problems I anticipated for the weekend that was not on the radar at all. Greg, who I'm told is only 13, had dropped out 20 miles short on Saturday but was back on his mountain bike for Sunday morning. The route was shorter but much hillier, with four big climbs. Fortunately the wind was behind us and by lunch at Staplehurst we were ahead of schedule with two major hills out of the way. One of our support drivers reckoned the lead group (including me) had covered the previous 13 miles in only half-an-hour, which seems unlikely but we were certainly cracking along with several descents at 30mph or more. Those of us who knew the route assured the “foreigners” that the last 10 or 12 miles would be a nice downhill cruise to the finish – and we meant it. But before that we had to climb Linton hill into Maidstone and find a way over the 200m North Downs. In between those two epic trials we rode in convoy through Maidstone town centre, trying to keep in close formation with the support vans. For just a few minutes we felt quite important. Our chosen route over the top was up the side of Blue Bell Hill, a route I've suffered a few times. But everyone rode all the way and it was all smiles at the top with the knowledge that the worst was over. We cruised to the finish an hour ahead of schedule.

In the carpark after the obligatory welcome ceremony, featuring beer, chocolate biscuits and the smell of stale sweat, I discovered that Tracey's bike had cost just £75. I had a quick ride on Fiona's and understood why the two of them had been in what the Tour de France calls the autobus for most of Saturday. But it was definitely chapeau, as the garlic munchers would say, to those two and Greg; I would have struggled to complete the distance on any of those bikes.
There were two problems with the finish on Sunday. One was that I felt great (apart from the sunburn) and wanted to keep riding. The other was that it seemed like something of an anti-climax to be back to normal routine after two days when every thought and action was focused towards the completion of a challenge. It probably didn't help that Sarah and the boys were very tired after a sleepless sleepover at Yvonne's. But collecting the sponsorship money and seeing the total soar (over £4500 at the time of writing) was restorative for the spirits.

What next? I'm planning a day trip to Battle, to take on those hills again. And Brighton in a day, albeit I might take the train home. More immediately, the 75-mile round trip to work which almost killed me before, looks within my compass. I have food for thought for the mooted Land's End to John O'Groats ride a couple of years from now. And if, as suggested by Fast Mark, there's another day ride later in the summer just for the sake of it, bring it on...

This post is dedicated to Colin, Fast Mark, Big Mark, Peter, Josh, Chris, Tracey, Fiona and Greg, without whom my weekend would have been considerably less than half as much fun.

Bricks, blocks and setbacks

While we were away our extension was due to rise to roof level. Having seen how Colin’s own house build didn’t go entirely to plan, I wasn’t surprised to receive nightly updates indicating that progress was not as swift as intended. His star bricklayer couldn’t get time off his regular job, his helper broke a toe, Colin himself was injured by a delivery lorry whose driver mistook his leg for a bag of sand, and the weather didn’t cooperate. The result is that the walls are still a few man-days from completion. But we do have a man and some days. Should be fine then.

Daniel loves “Nolin” and is keen to help, despite a lack of suitable footwear. Last weekend he was carting half-bricks in a plastic wheelbarrow and yesterday he dug a hole with his Scoop digger. Unfortunately it was in the lawn. But it’s the thought that counts. And where the extension is concerned, there are plenty of thoughts.

Head, shoulders, knees and toes

We returned from our Spanish holiday with a nursery rhyme of ailments – not that, being severely sunburned, I could do the actions for a few days. That’s the shoulders accounted for. Adam scraped a knee, probably slipping over because he insisted on wearing flip-flops on shiny tiled pavements. (His reason: his trainer socks were too dirty to wear. After he walked across gravel sans trainers.) Daniel’s head suffered from repeated contact with hard surfaces. Did you know there is no Spanish word for health and safety? I just made that up, but it’s not implausible. They expect each person to take responsibility for himself, which is commendable unless that person is two and utterly reckless. Fortunately Daniel refrained from falling into the harbour whilst trying to touch the fish.

The most serious injury, perhaps, was Adam getting his foot trapped in the door of the train en route to the airport. He had fellow passengers pulling the emergency alarm, trying to open the door and encouraging us to sue. We won't because there was no lasting damage, other than perhaps to my back after I’d had to manhandle two suitcases and Adam up the endless slopes to the departures area. And because it was no one's fault except our son's for dangling his feet idly. We wouldn’t have fancied trying to explain all that in Spanish; it’s fortunate that the Costa del Sol is largely anglophone.

That, of course, is one of the reasons we go to Fuengirola. Although ashamed of our feeble Spanish (Sarah’s is even worse than mine, despite her many years’ head start), we’re at ease and know what a holiday there will deliver. This time it included a few drops of rain but mostly it was sun, sea, swimming, siestas, meals out, late nights and vino tinto. Having Grandma and Great-Grandad for intermittent company was also a joy, one we know we shouldn’t take for granted.

I’d never noticed until trying to keep two children safe that Spanish pedestrian crossings are strange. The red man means “Cross now and you will get splatted”. The green man means “Cross now and you may get splatted.” A subtle but important difference. Its cause: Spanish drivers are expected to give way on crossings but don’t always bother. Otherwise, I have to say the urban road system is excellent. Refuse bins and vast carparks are underground, freeing the street scene for trees and bushes which in turn deter pedestrians' wandering into the traffic. It is mandatory for every Spanish car to be either dented or scratched; indeed the degree of damage may be a status symbol. The approach for finding a parking space seems to be: “That gap isn’t quite big enough. But it will be.” On previous visits I didn’t understand why Spaniards don’t mend their cars, any more than they clean off the dust. I now think they are too busy doing things that actually add quality to their lives. And I don’t blame them.