The sun has not yet risen as I pedal away from my boat, ahead 140 miles of riding over the next two days. This pilgrimage is to my twin sister’s house so we can spend our 35th birthday together. Pale blue and grey is reflected in the canal as the horizon begins to lighten; the moon still holds its night time magnificence and hangs like a lamp in the sky. The owls are quietened by the promise of day.
The night brought a freeze, and the morning wind holds my face in its teeth. Puddles across the towpath crunch beneath tyres, and on the hills, trees stand bare like chimney brushes. At the foot of the valley the river surges with winter rain, though here, the canal sits calm, feathered with ice.
Other cyclists share the path, as do early Sunday runners; like me they are wrapped within a cocoon of buffs and scarves. A boater stumbles to his neighbour’s with a cup of tea. A woodpecker vibrates against a tree. Birds emerge to chatter in the hedgerows.
The dawn begins its slow burn, a blooming of orange radiating from the eastern horizon. The colours dissolve into the rapidly lightening sky as the sun looks me in the eye.
The miles pass slowly as tyres stutter over stones and mud sucks at progress. I rumble ever eastward as the canal steadily rises through the locks into Wiltshire. Here, with mudguards clogged, I leave the river to its meandering course and seek out the predictability of tarmac.
At the height of the day, the pale blue sky is clear and bright. The moon is chalky now, the crescent adjusting its angle as the sun tracks through the sky. Coal tits and finches flash across the road as though fired from one hedgerow to the next. A red kite fans its tail above my head and starlings rise in one cacophonous cloud. The sky is empty but for the regular glint of planes tearing up the blue.
The freeze has lingered, puddles lying solid in the shade of the bushes. At the crook of a hill, a ford covers the dip, ice piled to the side in giant slabs – thank goodness, as an ice rink on the descent could have meant a nasty end to my adventure. The lanes are a delight, unfolding through farmland, and climbing up tree-lined avenues. The sun slowly arcs overhead, always remaining close to the earth, slowly marking the progress of time.
By nightfall I am still riding, the sunset having long since stained the horizon. In the sky are a thousand other suns, some fiercely shining, some so faint they appear as dust. The quiet of the road is interrupted as motor vehicles pass, their lights glaring on the tarmac. I had hoped to be there by now, but the slow drag along the towpath, the zig-zag country lanes, a constant headwind and my heavy panniers have elongated the ride. Not that I mind; the steady spin of the bicycle is how I choose to travel, and to see the day pass through every stage has been a privilege.
London is within touching distance: planes hang in the sky awaiting their arrival into Heathrow, and the glow of the city scars the horizon. Tomorrow I will reach the Thames which will draw me into the glorious madness of the capital. It already feels like another world, the gentle canal and the endless plains of the morning. The plod continues towards my overnight stop, the land steadily morphing beneath my wheels, and though tired, cold and hungry, there is a smile on my face. The prosecco can wait. This is the time to see the world.
A proposed 25p tax on coffee cups has been all over the news today, and in my inbox appeared an email from 38 Degrees asking me to share the petition supporting the tax. It stated that the levy could seriously tackle plastic pollution and save the environment.
Obviously, I agree with a tax on throwaway plastics; the fact that we manufacture single-use items from a material that, to all intents and purposes, lasts forever, is an irony not lost on me. It’s clear that the 5p charge on plastic bags has had a huge impact – an 80% decrease in their use according to studies (although just ditch them altogether, I say).
The thing is, I am not convinced that adding 25p to the price of my coffee will have the same effect. The ‘stick’ tactic works with plastic bags because, when it comes to the till, it’s easy for shoppers to a) carry their items b) squeeze more into each bag c) bring their own. Even though it’s only 5p, we would rather do one of the above three things than pay. The key word here is ‘easy’. The choice is made at the checkout. It doesn’t require much forethought (unless you choose option c).
With a levy on coffee cups, the ‘stick’ tactic might not work as well. Options a and b are impossible. The only viable option is to bring your own cup, and that’s actually a bit of a pain because it requires planning, and spending a fair amount upfront. Keep Cups do not fold neatly into a handbag. Let’s be honest, most people are not going to bother. It’s kind of easier to just pay the extra.
What could work better is the ‘carrot’ option. When I use my reusable cup in a coffee hut, I am often given money off my hot drink. This is brilliant – it makes me feel as if I’m being rewarded for doing something good, which is an excellent incentive to keep on doing it. And if I occasionally forget my cup, or I haven’t got around to washing it, I won’t be punished, I just won’t get my reward.
Lots of coffee houses already offer this incentive, and in combination with better publicity (a sign on the door saying ‘Have you remembered your cup?’, for example, in the same way supermarkets ask shoppers if they have remembered their own bags) it could have a great impact upon the number of cups that end up in landfill. That and better waste management – the percentage of single-use cups that are recycled is appallingly low.
Frustratingly, the coffee cup debate seems to have hijacked the general ‘tax on throwaway plastic’ that is the actual thrust of the original petition, by the excellent Natalie Fee and her City to Sea campaign. Definitely tax throwaway plastics (straws, water bottles etc). Coffee cups specifically, I’m not so sure.
When I migrated this website to its new operating platform, I ditched a large number of my old blog posts. They were either outdated, irrelevant or simply badly written. Given that I was promoting myself as a writer, it would be foolish to put anything out that I was less than happy with. Some of the blogs were about things I still wanted to share, so I re-wrote them; one such entry was about my trip to the Lake District which kick-started the process of turning my round-Britain blog into a round-Britain book. At that stage I was a fledgling writer – I had yet to benefit from professional feedback, and I’d never been edited; I still used the word ‘less’ rather than ‘fewer’ and I had never even heard of a preposition, never mind knowing it’s a word I shouldn’t end a sentence with (haha). Now, though still the same writer, I’m more refined, with better knowledge of how to satisfy my reader and an understanding of what literary clichés are and how to avoid them.
Partway through rewriting my Lake District post, I dragged the original out of the trash. Perhaps I shouldn’t delete it. It’s an illustration of my journey, my writing development. Once I was of the mind that writers should only publish work of which they were proud; it should always be their best. And that is true, to a point. But how can I always write my best work? I am constantly developing, so does that mean that with each new article I should delete all the old ones?
The original Lake District post is truly awful, though. But I have published it regardless, here. It’s an interesting illustration of a writer who has yet to become so. It is very much a ‘blog’, and not even a good one at that. It lists the places I went to without giving any detail of them. One thing in its favour is that it focuses on a memorable part of my trip, the mountain biking, and describes that in detail, which is a good literary technique. But words such as ‘stunning’, ‘wonderful’ and ‘fantastic’ make me cringe – they don’t describe anything. What made it stunning? Why was it fantastic? I am ashamed that I resorted to ‘take a look at the photos if you want to see what it was really like,’ rather than trying to paint a picture with my words. I relied on the reader to do most of the work: well, of course you will know the Lake District is stunning, because it is, and because I’ve just said so, and don’t you want to see my photos? And I used the word ‘I’ a LOT. Attempts at humour worked, to a point. My mistake was trying to write something that would please everybody, and which ended up pleasing no one, not least myself. Because, yes, I write for others, but it must come from me: first and foremost, I have to like it. And it has to be personal, otherwise no one will connect. That doesn’t mean I have to bare my soul with each paragraph, or write how emotionally changed I was by each hill-struggle, but there has to be something that the reader can identify with, or relate to, even if all that is is a good description of a landscape.
The re-written version is here, and this is a piece that I actually think is good. But I am also proud to present them side by side; it is better to be open than to hide my past writing as if in shame.
Of course, not everything I write is good (not even I think so) but I am satisfied with most of my work. Some posts I think particularly deserve to be read include these:
and a little poem I wrote, The Kingfisher
I write this as I sit here in my BAM Raja yoga pants. I don’t even practice yoga but my, these pants are comfy.
I am proud to put my name to the BAM bamboo clothing brand: as one of the latest BAMbassadors it’s my job to wax lyrical about the amazing properties of bamboo. Not that it takes much work: bamboo speaks for itself.
There are plenty of reasons why bamboo is such a terrific material for clothing: it is exceptionally soft, it is naturally anti-bacterial, it provides UV protection, it’s hypo-allergenic, it is moisture wicking, and it is warm yet breathable. An all-round performance fabric that is as good for lounging as it is for sports.
But the thing that sells me the most about bamboo is its environmental credentials. We live in a world where constantly shifting fashion means cheap, synthetic clothing proliferates the market, more often than not ending up in landfill. Bamboo is a wonderful alternative to cotton: it is fast-growing and yields the same volume of cotton from 10% of the land area; it grows naturally without need for pesticides or fertilisers; it’s 100% biodegradable; it needs very little water; and as a grass, it is harvested by cutting not uprooting, meaning it is better for the soil.
So shop with a clear conscience, knowing you are helping the planet as well as yourself. And there is a 50% sale on RIGHT NOW!
Serenity top: flattering fit, elasticated around the bottom and wrists with a low-cut waist. I prefer tops that cover my lower hips, so this is perfect. I chose the soft mint and it’s a lovely colour.
Seashore Cover up: really comfy, with a cosy long length and hood. I find the sleeves a little on the short side, but given that most of the time I push my sleeves up, this isn’t too much of a problem. I chose eggplant.
Enduro leggings: mine are from last season but I LOVE them – so comfy and warm, I wear them mostly for recovery after running.
Racer Back Sports Vest: colourful and flattering, this stays fresh despite repeated wear – and I run HARD. Which really helps as I can never be bothered doing my laundry 😉
Socks. Socks socks socks. Who doesn’t need more socks? I have the trainer socks which feel padded and snug when I head out for my run. And when I return they don’t even smell – I really give them a good sniff. Bamboo is truly a miracle material.
For a year-round 15% discount enter code HUGHES at the checkout.
My New Year’s Resolution way back in 2012 was to live without a car for a year. This wasn’t just my car, it was any car: friends, colleagues, taxis, Dad. The challenge was an illustration of what’s possible when you try; I wanted to demonstrate that car-free could be a legitimate option for people. ‘I’m not anti-car,’ I wrote on the first day of the challenge. ‘I’m just anti I-can’t-live-without-my-car.’
Working in the transport sector I would witness first-hand how problematic private motorised transport could be, from congested roads to poisoned air, from unhealthy inactive lifestyles to dangerous and unwelcoming towns and cities. As a daily cyclist I didn’t drive that much anyway, but I wanted to do something a little more noteworthy than what would otherwise have been my normal routine. The car ban began.
Come rain or shine I would cycle to work; with panniers bulging I would struggle home from the shops. Though riding my bicycle had always been my chosen method of getting around London, the fact that I now had to would sometimes grind my gears, so to speak.
Early on I discovered that most of the difficulty of placing restrictions on yourself was explaining it to others. I’m known as a cyclist, but to refuse a lift? Come on now. That’s just silly. People raised their eyebrows, and I felt embarrassed explaining my motivations, like I was some kind of eco-warrior eccentric. Worse, while I cycled to the pub in the rain my mates still drove; I paid for the train to wherever we were going while they split the petrol cost. I sometimes felt as if I were just doing it for the sake of it.
But about six months into the challenge, I received an email, simply entitled ‘inspiration’. David said he used to be a ‘sunshine cyclist’, but reading my blog had inspired him to get out on his bike a lot more. ‘Have now gone 9 days without using my own car. I have been in a car 3 times but at least I am car sharing so it doesn’t feel too bad. This feels great. I have driven a car for the past 24 years so this has been a massive step and buses are a bit scarce where I live.’ His email made me so proud — this was exactly why I had taken on the challenge in the first place.
Day to day I found the challenge easy, but there were a few notable exceptions. My job at the time was organising training courses and providing catering, so I would usually buy the food the day before and take it to the venue by taxi. With this no longer an option, I scouted around for another way to transport lunch ingredients for forty people and ended up borrowing a bicycle trailer from a friend. It was fantastic: capable of carrying heavy loads, the box was a versatile and sturdy way of vastly increasing my carrying capacity, although the weight meant I travelled much slower than usual and the bulk prevented filtering through the queues. Even so, it was a revelation: this is how we get around the ‘but I need to carry heavy items’ problem that motorists often cite. I was sold, and to this day I have my very own trailer.
More of a challenge was moving house. Even the most minimalist of people cannot fit all their belongings into a bicycle trailer. Thankfully the new location was only a mile or three away, and it being a house share I didn’t have much furniture to transport. Using a combination of bike and bus, over the course of six cumbersome journeys I succeeded in shuttling my belongings from one house to the next. Journey one: seven suitcases/bags on the bus. The bags were heavy and there was enough of a walk from the bus stop to make me stop and curse several times. Journey two: panniers and box on bike, pulling a wheely suitcase with one hand. The wheely suitcase broke. Journey three: panniers and trailer. This was taking hours. Journey four: bedside table in the trailer. Losing the will to live. Journey five: riding one bike while ghosting the other. Journey six: picture frames and full-length mirror on the bus. Heavy and awkward. Arrived in my new house exhausted, flustered and completely done in by the length of the task, with new housemates questioning why they’d agreed to this strange girl moving in.
On another occasion I cycled seven miles to a friend’s wedding, my dress tucked into my leggings, and I went on holidays to France and the Lake District using a combination of bike, boat and train.
I reached the end of the year having travelled nearly 10,000 miles to places including Brighton, Bristol, Brittany, Cardiff, Cambridge, Devon, Dorset, Dunwich, Edinburgh, Exeter, Gloucester, the Lake District, Liverpool, Lowestoft, all over London, Manchester, Taunton and Windsor.
Had I driven to all of those places it would have cost upwards of £3,000. As it was I spent just over £1,000, mostly on long-distance train travel and continental ferries.
- That bicycle trailers are a fantastic way of carrying heavy stuff around town (although not entirely problem free: hitches breaking, luggage rumbling loose, difficulty getting through gates etc)
- That I can get anywhere in the world my heart desires by bicycle, train or boat
- That if you have a car you use it, and if you don’t, you don’t
- It is possible to move house without hiring a van
- Placing restrictions on your life can open the door to adventure
- Sometimes motor transport is bloody useful
A brief blog about my challenge appeared on the Sustrans website: https://www.sustrans.org.uk/blog/my-year-without-car
To read more about car-free go here: http://www.worldcarfree.net
An ex-colleague of mine set up the fantastic website car free walks: http://www.carfreewalks.org
Other organisations concerned with the reduction of motor transport include Living Streets https://www.livingstreets.org.uk
An ode to the delicate little kingfisher I see flitting up and down the canal
Alighting on a branch he gleams
In stark contrast to cold-stripped beams,
An orange breast, sharp line of beak:
A fire within the winter bleak.
A sudden movement makes him rise
Into the dull and sullen skies,
His regal coat with glitter shone
Flits up, and drops, and then is gone.
My sister is taking part in Veganuary as her birthday present to me. She is an omnivore so this is a real challenge. Below is her account of eating animal-free for a month.
I woke up at around 4:30am feeling really rough. Too much champagne. Then I suddenly remembered that I wouldn’t be able to ease this hangover in the morning with cereal and milk. That was a tough realisation. I’m already considering breaking veganuary, just for the first morning.
Breakfast: 3 slices of fruit bread, toasted, with vitalite dairy-free spread.
Once I had got up, I realised that I wasn’t actually in danger of having cow’s milk on my cereal – we are doing veganuary so that’s not an option. It really helps that James is doing it too, and he’s definitely not going to break it, so this has spurred me on somewhat. I did have another tough realisation though, while preparing breakfast. My fruit toast wouldn’t be dripping with salty butter. Nor would I have a milky cup of tea to accompany it. The vitalite wasn’t that bad though. It even melted a bit!
We have soya milk and almond milk in the fridge, but I’m not going to substitute milk for those things unless I’m cooking – I’d rather not have milk at all rather than have something that tastes and feels completely different. I don’t need cereal that much. Plus, earl grey tea with lemon is brilliant.
Lunch: Beans on toast.
We have already reverted to Anna’s very useful ‘can’t be bothered to cook – how do I eat vegan?’ list. It’s new years day for goodness’ sake!! The vegan cheese isn’t great – it doesn’t melt, and it sticks to itself when I try to pick up a handful of grated stuff. It makes it look nice though.
Dinner: Pasta with peppers, tomatoes, onions, sweetcorn and pesto.
This is a meal I would normally eat. With cheese though. We avoid the vegan cheese this evening, giving our pasta an extra dollop of delicious olive oil. It’s completely yummy, but not as filling as what I’m used to.
This is already a tough challenge. It’s harder starting on 1st January than I gave it credit for. Eating vegan requires forethought and planning, and I’m just not particularly in the zone yet. At least I can drink wine.
Breakfast: 3 slices of fruit bread, toasted, with vitalite dairy-free spread. I’m already running out of fruit toast.
Lunch: Tomato soup.
I went to a friend’s for lunch today, and didn’t want to impress my temporary vegan diet on her, so was prepared to eat whatever she fed me. However, it just so happened that she had been planning soup and one of the soups in the fridge was indeed vegan. Bread and soup! Yummy.
Dinner: Vegetable lasagne.
I made a vegan Bolognese: brown lentils, mushrooms, tomatoes, kidney beans, onions and red wine. That in itself looked pretty delicious but I persisted with my more-time-consuming idea of vegetable lasagne. I made a white sauce with the almond milk and vegan cheese (why does it stick to my fingers when I pick it up?!?!) which took longer than a usual milk béchamel, mainly because I was unfamiliar with how it was meant to feel. I added a mashed potato layer as I wanted to have an extra dimension of creamy comfort. It worked! I’m utterly full as I write this. Completely yummy, although I did spend the whole meal wondering why it tasted nutty. That would be the almond milk then.
Breakfast: The last of the fruit toast.
Lunch: Pea, tarragon, leek (and 3 other green things that I can’t remember!) soup from Lulu.
Dinner: Left-over vegetable lasagne with veg on the side. Very satisfying!
Breakfast: Toast with marmalade. I wish the vegan butter would melt a bit better.
Lunch: Potato salad, sweet potato salad (from the shop), tomato and avocado salad, and salad.
I would ordinarily smother this kind of meal with mayonnaise, but that’s not an option today, so I try with a bit of babaganoush. It’s good.
The main thing I’m noticing is that I’m thinking about food lots – and not in a particularly good way. I’m having to plan what we’re eating a lot rather than just going with the flow, and I’m taking all the food responsibility on myself rather than [my husband] James doing it (he normally entirely sorts out all meals, but I feel that I should be pulling my weight more here as it’s my sister who has requested we do this). It is really tricky with a baby. I find myself starting to cook dinner at breakfast time, otherwise I cannot guarantee that I’ll have time later in the day.
Dinner: Bean stew
I followed a recipe that was recommended on Facebook by James’s sister, from an article about Italian food that was ‘incidentally vegan.’ It was a really basic recipe: beans, potatoes, tomatoes, onion and garlic, but the way that simple food like this is made delicious is by cooking it for hours! Luckily it is a case of preparing it, then leaving it, so I was able to get on with baby-related things while it was on the hob. It’ll make loads of left-overs too!
Breakfast: Toast and jam.
Lunch: Left-over bean stew. This’ll last for ages!
Dinner: Thai curry.
We are very excited about this. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any vegan prawn crackers at the supermarket (I know that sounds like an obvious fact, but we often get vegan crackers when we go out for a Thai). Ordinarily, a Thai curry has one variety of veg (at the most!) and one of meat, so we bought lots of crudité types of veg and put them in. Very tasty, and such an easy dish to do.
Breakfast: Toast and jam.
Lunch: Party food.
Today presented its first hurdle, which unfortunately I fell at. We went to a children’s party (popular at this time of year, as I have a January baby and all his friends are turning 1) so you can imagine the types of food available. This is a really difficult situation, but one that I feel I can’t impress my current diet on. If we had been out at a restaurant or café, I certainly would have ordered vegan, but when a friend caters, it’s not easy to request that my current temporary diet is provided for.
Dinner: Left-over Thai curry. Curry is always better as left-overs. Happy days.
Breakfast: Toast and jam.
Lunch: Another party, so to avoid yesterday’s difficulties, we ate at home before going. Then arrived at the party to find the most amazing Indian spread, which involved loads of veg pakoras, onion bahjis and delicious bread. I ate a lot!
Dinner: takeaway curry. Just because I haven’t eaten enough Indian food today.
Our birthday! And my first day of a new job (I work as a teacher and have just finished maternity leave).
Breakfast: Toast and jam, and beans on toast when I got to school
Lunch: vegetable tagine from the school canteen
Dinner: Italian restaurant
I [Sarah] had the tomato pasta and Anna had a pizza with no cheese. Plus olives, bread and olive oil.
I nearly broke my New Year’s Resolution last night, less than 24 hours into 2018. It is to spend less time on Twitter (and to stop reading the news*) and resist being drawn into Twitter spats with people with whom I’m likely to never agree.
But to see a tweet from none other than Piers Morgan, retweeted by someone I follow, made me incensed. It was mild enough, for him: ‘Veganuary… what new special kind of Hell is this?’ It just smacked of arrogance and ignorance. Because, Piers, #1: Veganuary is not compulsory. If you don’t like the sound of it, just ignore it. #2: Veganuary is obviously not aimed at you. Don’t bash the thousands of people who take part each year in a bid for better health and a more ethical diet. #3: What do you think vegans eat?? It’s not just dust and salad you know. #4: In one fell swoop you have criticised and offended an entire swathe of people who, for various reasons, choose to exclude animal products from their diets. That kind of low-level ‘amusing’ abuse is not helpful. #5: It’s not ‘new’, it’s been around for years. And if you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all.
Veganuary responded by saying ‘You know you’re doing something right when Piers Morgan disapproves.’ Good for them. I struggled to contain my reply of any one of the above five points, but eventually broke, heading onto my app to write my riposte. I was stopped in my tracks by a duel between two previous repliers who were arguing over ethics. One of them, to her credit, was trying to kill the other with kindness. I’m not sure it worked. But it made me see the futility of the response. I wasn’t going to win any arguments, and I certainly wasn’t going to convert Mr Morgan in 140 characters.
This is a perfect illustration of why I shouldn’t spend hours scrolling through my Twitter feed, reading ill-informed, incendiary tweets that rile me up and make me feel depressed about the world. I was annoyed that one short statement had threatened to ruin my evening. As I tucked into my vegan beetroot curry I thought about taking a picture and sending it to Piers, but to be honest, it didn’t look very appetising (tasted amazing though). The thing is, I love being vegan. I am really happy in my life choices. My three sisters and their families are taking part in Veganuary this year. There is so much to be positive about, and my life would be much happier if I focussed on those things instead.
But doesn’t it mean I’m living in a dream world ignoring the bad stuff? Well, no. Reminding myself that we are not all like Donald Trump is really important (and actually, Twitter is great for this, so perhaps I don’t need to give it up completely). In real life, I surround myself with people I broadly agree with; I don’t go around picking fights with people who think differently to me, and I’m certainly not friends with Piers Morgan. So why would I do that online?
Several years ago I gave up Facebook, a move that I have never regretted. I’ve written more about this here, and explored further the concept of the Social Media ‘bubble’. Online interactions certainly have their place, and as an author who’s trying to flog a book or two, it would be foolish to remove myself completely. But I think staying out of the arguments and not letting things get to me is a very honourable resolution.
It’s like caffeine: if you don’t have it, you don’t miss it – this is from a genuine tea addict who once drank up to 10 cups a day and now has nothing but Rooibos. So yes, I live in my little vegan, left-wing, de-caffeinated bubble, and you know what, Piers? I like it.
*The ‘No News’ thing is inspired by my friend David Charles, whose various experiments in positive constraints led him to the conclusion that No News is Good News: being fed negativity by world media is not good for the soul, and one can still Find Out Stuff through other sources. Read more about his discoveries here: he makes a compelling case for each.
(Thanks tomortega.blog for the dead Twitter bird image)
If you are still cycling in the depth of winter, good for you. Not only is it cold and wet, but your journey to and from work will probably be made in the dark. Lights are a legal requirement (red for rear and white for front*). Always carry spare batteries, or better still, use lights that don’t require batteries, such as Reelight, dynamo, or USB rechargeable (just remember to plug it in at home). And be a blinker**, not a blinder. ***
Hi-visibility jackets can help you be seen, especially in low light or at dusk. Reflectives are best for the dark.
But lights and hi viz are no good unless you ride in a visible position. Be bold and assertive. Ride wide of the door zone. Take the lane at junctions and at pinch points. Don’t hug the kerb. Make eye contact with drivers. Be aware of your surroundings.
There is no such thing as bad weather, just bad preparation. Invest in a good waterproof jacket, waterproof gloves (I find mittens work for keeping fingers warm), waterproof over-trousers (works wonders over a mini-skirt…), and a buff or two for the ears/nose. Other than that, wear whatever you like. Cycling doesn’t have to mean Lycra (though that’s OK too).
* I know this sounds obvious, but if you don’t have a red light, don’t use a white to replace it. White lights are dazzling in a way red lights are not (not very pleasant if you end up following one down the towpath, as I once did); the red and white also works as an indication of direction, as it’s almost impossible to tell if a vehicle is approaching or receding when it is at a distance.
** Flashing lights could attract attention more effectively than a solid light. The law no longer requires cyclists to have a steady light on their vehicle, though it is recommended where there are no street lamps.
*** Most lights on the market are bright – almost too bright. When riding in towns and cities, your light does not need to be on full power: blinding other road users probably won’t aid the cyclists’ cause. On country roads or towpaths, you will need a brighter light in order to illuminate the way – just remember to dip or cover when approaching another road/path user.
I’m excited to be a new BAMbassador for Bamboo clothing, a UK company that manufactures clothing from bamboo. BAM is exactly the kind of company I support: ethical, environmentally friendly and honest. In fact, their ‘sales’ pitch is “We’d genuinely rather make a bit less money and have loads of really pleased and satisfied customers and suppliers than go the awful corporate route of ‘get away with what you can and maximise profit’.” Good for them!
Though they deserve plenty of customers – their products are fantastic. Super soft to wear, naturally moisture wicking and anti-bacterial, they are made from a fast-growing, low-water crop, so kind to the environment. The clothes are biodegradable – as is their packaging!
BAM kindly supplied me with some kit for my Ironman training and race last year, so I can attest to their incredible properties. My running top didn’t need washing for weeks!
So here’s a little Christmas treat: enter code HUGHES at the checkout and get 15% off. You’re welcome.
I have a request. For the first month of 2018, go vegan. It’s not often I suggest people change their lifestyles: usually I present my own choices and leave others to make up their own mind. But this time I am making an exception, because in all the actions I take to tread as lightly on the world as possible, I am most passionate about veganism.
Reasons I am vegan:
- The meat and dairy industry accounts for 20% amounts of global carbon emissions – more than transport
- Our farming practices are brutal, barbaric and show little regard for any life other than a human’s
- Rearing meat for food is wasteful of land, water, and energy
- Vegetarianism doesn’t go far enough: rearing animals for meat is not the only way to inflict suffering
- Keeping animals in close proximity facilitates the rapid spread of disease, leading to over-use of antibiotics, reducing their efficacy in both animals and humans
- Lentils kick ass (who knew there were so many varieties?)
- The conditions in which intelligent animals such as pigs are kept is torturous
- Artificially inseminating cattle (with what is genuinely referred to in the industry as a ‘rape rod’) then forcibly parting them from their young just so we can drink their milk, that we don’t even need, does not sit well with me
- Toxic run-off from silage pollutes our landscape and environment
- It’s cheaper
- It takes over 600 gallons of water to make a beef burger – almost a hundred times the amount it takes to make a bean burger
- 91% percent of deforestation is caused by livestock, much of it through growing feed – we could just cut out the middle ‘man’ and simply eat the feed
- No one ever said eat less veg for your health
- I used to be an ‘ethical eater’ and though organic, free range, single-reared meat/dairy has a much lower impact on the planet and the animal, there is no way you could feed 7 billion people in this way. It’s just easier to be vegan.
A word of guidance: I don’t bother with tofu or ‘cheez’. If I’m not going to eat meat I don’t want to eat something pretending to be meat. And honestly, those products are so yuck, it would put anyone off veganism. I eat vegetables, lentils, bread, crisps, wine, chocolate, potatoes, beans, pulses, salads, grains, falafel, oat cakes and chips. And anything else that has ever been grown. There is an entire world of non-animal food out there.
And a word of reassurance: I am strong and healthy, and don’t feel deficient in anything. It is marketed to us that meat is the only source of protein, but there is more protein pound for pound in the humble lentil (although eating a 12oz portion of lentils is possibly more arduous than eating a 12oz steak…). Milk is packed full of calcium, but so is broccoli.
Try it: Veganuary. It’s only a month. But it could just change your life.
For more info and recipes go here: https://veganuary.com
8.30am. Whitesands Bay, St Davids. James.
Bicycle and man stand expectant on the beach. In the bay, the sea builds and curls, crashing and frothing as wind patterns the surface. Gannets circle then drop like arrows, tucking their wings tight in a torpedo-dive. Waves surge up the sand and fizz in retreat. A ceremonial baptism for rear wheel; feet suffer the same fate. The sky hangs heavy with clouds, a grey mass over the powerful sea.
Ahead is 400 miles of non-stop riding and a team of five each ready to take the baton. The opposite coast is the finish line; we will ride until we can ride no further. Luck wished, coat zipped, feet clipped. The road leads sharply upwards from the shore, instantly swallowed by the hills, the cogs of the challenge set in motion as the sea continues its slow crash against the shore.
The hills are many, and vicious. Brakes scream and judder on descents, lungs heave on climbs, the cool spring air crystallising in dizzying gasps. Pembrokeshire is a relentless series of peaks and troughs, a slow sprint through a serrated landscape of gorse, sheep and surf. There was talk of a tailwind but no such luck. Coastal view brings coastal breeze. Tarmac unfolds over each peak and round each winding descent. As the route heads inland, roar of traffic replaces pounding of sea. Hours have passed since the ceremonial departure, each mile feeling longer and harder as time marches on. Legs and lungs at tether’s end on the roll into Camarthen, exhausted, relieved, starving.
1.30pm, Carmarthen. Anna.
The hills roll like punches, hard-graft ascents followed by long freewheeling downs. Behind walls of grey stone, sheep bleat, heads raised as rider approaches, a clumsy jolt and a trot as this menace flashes by, a bump into their neighbour, then a lazy return to grazing. At the foot of the hills lies the river valley, a sharp scoop of rock gouged from its surroundings. Above it all the buzzards circle.
Castles are commonplace; that at Kidwelly passes without ceremony, and after the thick green of Pembrey Forest the hills peter out as the river finally reaches the estuary. An abandoned railway track allows easy passage as the view opens up: wide river melting into sea, with the spine-backed Gower resting across the water like a sleeping dragon. The mud flats extend for miles, shining with swirls of the sea. Wading birds crowd at water’s edge. The railway is built upon land reclaimed from industry; the docks, the shunting lines, the dirt all gone, the once-poisoned coast unrecognisable now. Pristine apartment complexes grow incongruously from the wasteland.
It’s a slow climb from Llanelli into the Swansea suburbs. Rain drops begin their patter near the summit; waterproofs are quickly pulled on, the sharp descent into Swansea coinciding with the heavens opening.
4pm. Swansea. Lenny.
The rain falls with a vengeance. Drops bounce from pavements as gutters swirl with rivulets that stampede down the carriageway. Tyres throw water into the air, spatterings of spray marking the passage of car and bicycle. Arms and thighs take the hit, slowly growing soggy as water seeps through overwhelmed waterproofs. Feet and shoulders sit heavy under water’s weight and droplets form on helmet tip. To stop moving is to freeze. Warmth is guaranteed only with continued motion.
From manicured harbour-fronts to the grinding industry of Port Talbot, NCN 4 weaves away from the city towards quieter roads. Into Parc Slip the route switches from tarmac to trail; mud sucks at tyres, slurping in the bog. This would have been lovely in the sunshine but now, with haze masking the landscape, water flicking into eyes, body struggling against cold, the rain saps at the spirits. Dusk descends early, a dreariness precipitated by the weather. Vehicle headlights beam through drumming rain as the route reaches the Cardiff suburbs, then it’s down to the Taff for the final stretch, following the rushing river towards the station. There is the team; the baton is passed by numb hands, soon after to be coaxed back to life in a long, hot shower.
8pm. Cardiff. Andy.
The city roars with commuter traffic and folk spill from the station. A group on a night out hurries past, squealing as stilettos splash through puddles, huddling under one umbrella. It’s a fight to leave, the movement contrary to all others. The city remains loud, overwhelming, dampened by the incessant rain. Ahead are four hours of riding into the growing night. Motivation is called into question.
Away from the city, rain and traffic eases. Darkness descends. Time and place become immaterial: what matters only is now. Wheels whirr over tarmac; legs move like pistons. The countryside between cities is eerily quiet. In the distance the red lights of the bridges come into view, a magnificent duo of construction spanning the water between Wales and England. The lights speak as a guide, drawing rider ever closer. On the approach ramp to the bridge, the suspension cables rise ghostly white into the darkened sky. It is strangely quiet of cars as the day marches into the night. A lone runner passes. Below, the water swirls, black as pitch, hypnotic, languid, deathly. Thoughts of falling, that improbable yet strangely tantalising scenario of bicycle and rider spiralling from the bridge. If it were to happen, no one would know. A brief pause, a glance, then a slow freewheel away from the bridge. The Gloucestershire flats bring a return to perspective, the scale of the surroundings normal once more, the ground solid.
Midnight. Thornbury. James.
Back at the helm for the graveyard shift, the only one that will both start and end in total darkness. Groggy from snatches of sleep in the car. The Cotswolds are at once expansive and oppressive, the darkness almost tangible, the utter nothingness of the midnight hour setting the senses on edge. Phantoms creep at the edge of restricted sight, breaths sound cacophonous in the vast emptiness. Hills rise without warning, the darkness swallowing each clue as to the terrain. The headlight beam stretches ahead, carving out a narrow cone, illuminating dipping branches of trees, sudden potholes and road signs that glare back. Moths stray into the chilly beam. A vehicle approaches, lights blinding with a quick overwhelming white, then passes to leave a steadily fading tattoo on the retina. In the villages all are asleep. It’s a translucent beauty when one is not quite able to see; a suggestion of countryside stretches into the blackness. Silent but for the owls, still but for the fox. The dark is deep and absolute. And in the silence, in the calm, there is a strange sense of freedom.
Senses are jolted as the front light fails. Blackness pounces like a monster. Pannier fumble, phone locate, support car call. The remainder of the ride will be in convoy, the engine purr bringing an end to the dream-like state. A while later the front brake snaps and the remaining miles are ridden carefully, a cable tie holding the parts in temporary place. The lights of Cirencester beckon, a town asleep but for the stumbling revellers of the night before. Waiting beneath garish street lamps for the changeover, the panic has been replaced by calm relief. The worst happened. We are still going.
3am. Cirencester. Anna.
Lights from the town fade to nothing on the exit from Cirencester. The road seems to vanish as if into a tunnel, the countryside ahead completely devoid of light. Haze blurs the periphery; a cool dampness hits the lungs. Miles pass beneath wheels on fast, flat roads. Here at last is the tailwind. In a matter of hours this route will pour with commuters but now, it is shared only with the night creatures. Taking a brief pause, with air no longer rushing in ears, there is the faintly discernible screech of an owl. Later, resting on a darkened village bench sipping tea, a late-night police patrol stops to investigate. Witching-hour riders are a strange lot.
Dawn happens both all of a sudden and creepingly unnoticeably. The first suggestions of light are so faint they could be the reflected lamps of a distant town. Blacks become greys, the road flanked by the faint suggestion of fields and trees. Banners of brightness flutter on the horizon, absorbing the dark, colours becoming distinguishable: yellows, blues, pinks. By 5am the sky is light, the birds shouting with overwhelming energy. It’s a transition few see, the daily miracle of night morphing into day, the passing-on of absolute nothingness. The vibrancy unleashed by daybreak pulses through the air: the world is alive. Tired but emboldened, all that is left is to freewheel into sleepy Oxford, an eye-witness to the making of a new day.
6am. Oxford. Will.
Oxford appears as a ghost town at this hour, the only people wandering amongst its sandy buildings the early morning workers. Another cyclist approaches, a young lad, headphones on, singing at the top of his voice. It’s impossible not to smile. Once beyond the city limits there are few vehicles: on these country lanes, only the wind moves past. There is significance in riding between the two prestigious university towns, to be following a route along which ghost trains of the Varsity Line clatter. It’s calm and cool, with only a whisper of yesterday’s rain, the tailwind a gentle but decisive hand.
The route crosses into roads familiar from past racing circuits and suddenly this is another day and another ride, being carried along in a bunch sprint, watching the breakaway lurch forward, mind whirring with tactics of whether to give chase or sit tight and wait for someone else to make the move. Rhythmic, controlled breaths, the slow build of lactic acid in the legs providing focus as wheels and pedals continue their furious spin.
Back in the present, the mileometer ticks over to 100; there is life in the legs yet, and the approach to Cambridge is cloaked in satisfaction for having the independence and fitness to cover such distances.
Midday. Cambridge. James.
The day is young but the challenge is old: we have been riding solidly since yesterday morning. Body and mind are fatigued with the effort and lack of sleep. Routine is well-worn: ride, baton-pass, rest, refuel, support-car drive, change, fuel, get on it again. Cycling is now along main roads: the picturesque is done. The coast cannot come quickly enough.
3.30pm. Botesdale. Anna.
The final baton-pass, the last push. The Suffolk flats roll fast on the dual carriageway. In a sleep-deprived state a turn is missed: a five mile detour summons tears of exhaustion and frustration. Re-fuel, recover, resume. The roads pass through tunnels of trees, the air warm, the terrain kind. The sprint to the finish line begins.
Desperate for the inevitable descent to the water, the legs grow heavy. The flattening land brings a sense of the coast, the suggestion of sea floating beyond the horizon. On the approach to Lowestoft, a cyclist is waiting by the verge. James! The final miles are ridden as a duo. Across the Broads at last, fatigued, pained, willing the road to end, wondering if it will ever descend, then it does, sharply, to the docks, and there it is, the sea.
8pm. Lowestoft. Anna and James.
Sea crashes dull and grey against dull, grey breakwater. The tidal defences sit stacked against the concrete, unfazed by the strength of the waves. A dial announces the corners of the UK, highlighting this, the most easterly point of mainland Britain. Out at sea wind turbines spin. There is no beach, no ramp on which to wet our wheels, so we make do with gazing out to the horizon, grey with mist. The light begins to fade. We clench hands triumphantly to the sky. West to east; sea to sea; shore to shore. The ride is complete.
“Being able to read a map can open up a whole new world…” – Ordnance Survey.
There’s a week for everything and this week is National Map Reading Week. Launched last year by Ordnance Survey, the idea is to encourage and teach the art of reading maps, a skill that is being slowly lost to technology.
I adore maps. The first thing I do when I move to a new city is buy an A-Z, subsequently spending hours thumbing through the pages and becoming familiar with my new home. Here are ten reasons why a physical map beats an app every time.
- A wider view. Your tiny phone screen will show you where you are, but doesn’t give much of a picture of where you’re going. Being able, at a glance, to connect your destination to your current position makes route-planning much easier.
- Personal choice. You can choose a route based on where you want to go, rather than on where your app thinks you should go. Algorithms don’t always make sense.
- Brain power. It’s a valuable skill being able to orientate yourself, and it’s very satisfying to be able to use all the clues in the landscape to work it out. Brains need exercising as much as the rest of the body does. Working things out for yourself is a great way to do this.
- Everything you need on one filter: terrain, infrastructure, amenities – it’s all there. Look also for the remnants of the past (disused railway lines, Roman Roads, old canals) – an OS map can be as much a history lesson as a geography one.
- Facilitates dreaming. While apps are functional, maps fuel the imagination. Planning routes, thinking of future and past adventures – this is the beauty of the map.
- Signal. Always works, even in the middle of ‘nowhere’ (though with a map, nowhere becomes somewhere.)
- Battery. No need to charge.
- Romance. The wonder and sense of exploration you feel when walking into a map shop. I can spend hours staring at maps. It’s good for the soul. I don’t feel as wholesome when I’ve spent hours staring at my phone.
- The anti-Sat Nav. There’s no need to have a disembodied voice telling you where to go if you can work it out yourself, thank you very much.
- A work of art, a thing of beauty. Maps on the wall turn your home into an art gallery.
For more info on National Map Reading Week go to www.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/getoutside/guides/map-reading-week/
My mother never liked The Archers. Radio 4 would always be playing in the kitchen while we were getting dinner ready, so Just a Minute, I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue and The News Quiz were staples of my childhood, but when the opening bars of The Archers theme struck up at 7pm, she would practically launch herself across the kitchen to switch it off. It made me curious – what could possibly be so bad?
When I started to live on my own, I bought myself a digital radio which quickly became my best friend. It was a source of constant interest, entertainment and education, and would babble away in the corner while I went about my business – much better than an attention-demanding television. I would delight in the 6.30pm comedy slot, and with a slight sense of guilt, leave it tuned to Radio 4 as the 7 o clock news came and went and the schedule turned to The Archers. I quickly became an addict. As opposed to my mother, I loved the ‘soapiness’ of it. It’s silly, and dramatic, and in many cases wholly unbelievable, but therein lies its attraction. I liked the way the writers wove the many story lines around each other, and the fact that it didn’t matter if you missed an episode – every conversation in the next one would let you know what you’d missed. I came to know the characters, and built their pictures in my head (nothing like their real faces, I might add – never go on the website of your favourite radio show). I even stuck with it through Helen’s trial which, I have to admit, was a bit far-fetched.
But today, for the first time ever, I turned it off mid-episode. It was a reaction that has been bubbling away for a while now, a feeling of misrepresentation of real life, far too much scandal, and missed opportunities to explore issues that I feel are really important.
In today’s episode, the insufferable Nolutando criticised the even more insufferable Kate’s diet: “That vegan food takes so long to eat.” It’s only a tiny moment and a tiny example, but it sums up everything that is wrong with The Archers. Stereotypes abound. ‘Vegan’ food, or ‘food’ to you and me, is simply that. If I choose to eat a raw vegetable salad, which is what I think the writers were implying, then yes, it might take a lot of chewing. Anyone can eat a raw vegetable salad, vegan or not. A chicken salad would probably take as long to eat. If I am in a hurry to catch a train, as those characters were, I would pick up a wrap from Bar Burrito which exists at most London train stations, and tuck into my delicious, easy-to-eat, satisfying mix of beans, rice, salad, salsa, and guacamole on the train. Not all ‘vegan’ food is difficult to eat. Sometimes I just eat chips.
Surely it wouldn’t have hurt the writers to come up with a different excuse for missing the train? Nolutando wanted to try on one more dress; Kate couldn’t resist picking up a face lift kit from a health food store. Earlier, Kate has cited her being vegan as a reason she should be surrogate for Ian and Adam’s child. Her diet makes her healthy. I bristle at things like this, small, insignificant things that shouldn’t matter, but that perpetuate people’s misconceptions about a lifestyle choice I have made. The assumption is that my diet is boring, healthy and measly. But it’s not! Yes, I am healthy, but that’s because I eat sensibly, not because I’m vegan. I am never ever hungry after eating (except for the time I went to The Narrow – one of Gordon Ramsey’s, no less – and was given the equivalent of a side salad for my dinner. But that’s another story), my diet is varied, filling, and delicious. And it can even involve fried food!
I’m perpetually frustrated at stereotypes such as this. Perhaps the writers were trying to avoid that trap with another storyline, about the fruit picker Lexy from Bulgaria who’s been doing seasonal work on Adam’s farm. It was an important issue to explore, that of EU workers, one that is emotive and will speak to many people in wake of Brexit. But I can’t help feeling this was also a missed opportunity. Lexy was well-educated with an excellent grasp of the English language, which made it almost laughable that she approached Kirsty for English lessons. I have a Bulgarian friend who has lived in England for far longer than Lexy, whose English is nowhere near as good. Regardless, she is excellent at her job, and she has an English husband and an English daughter. That’s the reality: people making a success of life in a foreign country despite the language barrier and communication issues. Instead, Lexy sails through conversations, being given explanations of misinterpreted English idioms which they all have a good old laugh about.
It wasn’t until recently that I looked up the characters online – after four years, I still don’t know how everyone is interconnected (as all families tend to be in a soap opera), and with the arrival of Nolutando, one of Kate’s children, none of whom she’s much of a mother to, my head was spinning. I was horrified to read about how many affairs everyone has had, and how many illegitimate children have been born as a result. Call me naive, but it does seem ridiculous. And now, Kate is offering to be surrogate for Adam and Ian? The surrogacy storyline has already been covered a while back, with Ian’s best friend Mads failing to come good on the deal (before my time, but it’s not that hard to get the picture). What is wrong with a married couple adopting? That would have been an excellent storyline to pursue, especially as it could address the fact that perhaps having all these children isn’t such a good idea after all…
I’ve finally seen that The Archers just pays lip service to the issues that actually matter. It was created to educate and enthuse the public about farming, but it seems to have become a parody of itself. And though it breaks my heart to admit it, as when someone you love turns out not to be quite the person you thought they were, I think my time with The Archers is over. Perhaps my mother was right after all.
The Cotswolds glow with Autumn as we ride along narrow lanes that disappear down tunnels of trees. Leaves drip and swirl golden onto the carriageway and horse chestnuts lie split and smashed on the tarmac. The land sits flat and open, farmsteads hemmed in by sand-coloured walls constructed from slabs of Cotswold stone. The villages are moulded from the same, each building rising uniform yet charmingly different, a ramshackle collection of homes, shops and public houses gathered around the lane, with the church spire acting as a beacon across the surrounding miles.
The little town of Lechlade is an expanded version of the villages we have seen, lying on the confluence of the Rivers Leach and Thames. Down at the riverside we roll past the pub, cafe, canoe hire and swans to see the water where narrowboats line the banks. This is the limit of the navigable Thames, and a mile or so upstream is the Inglesham roundhouse and the junction with the derelict Thames and Severn canal, where barges once transported goods between London and Bristol.
We roughly follow its course. The Ordnance Survey is scattered with the disintegrated remnants of infrastructure but few traces remain. A farm track leads to a humped bridge under which the waterway once flowed; the guardian’s roundhouse still stands but has been incorporated into a modern home, the foundations of which interrupt the canal’s course. The deep cut has been converted to a pond with a neat set of steps forming part of an ornamental garden under the bridge. On the other side a water-filled ditch passes into the distance. Later we glimpse a sunken gully beyond the trees; later still, we stumble across the skeletal remnants of a mooring basin. What had been such a significant feature of the landscape is now mostly lost, the cut filled in, converted to road or border-hedge, or clawed back by nature.
Next is to find the source of the Thames, tracing the river backwards from the limit of its navigation to its heart. In Cricklade it is reduced to little more than a brook, a trickle flowing along a shallow channel, dramatically reduced in the few miles from Lechlade. We are soon deep in the Cotswold water park, the old gravel pits lying submerged to create vast lakes inhabited by wildlife and the rich. The roads continue their slow roll; it’s a cyclist’s paradise of gently undulating lanes, few vehicles and picture-postcard views.
The day is growing old as we near Thames Head where the famous river rises. Our tyres stumble on tractor ruts: tracks across a field lead to the ceremonial stone and a signpost for the 184 miles-long Thames path. There is no suggestion of water here, yet this is the source of the river that will meander through Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire and into London, the majestic waterway upon which our capital and many major towns are built, growing in size and gaining flow along the gentle Thames valley. We stay for a while, reading the inscription on the stone, feeling as pilgrims do. It’s almost spiritual, to have found the point where life for so many begins. In this way, a simple ride becomes so much more.
In time we will drink a pint in the Thames Head pub, cycle home, and the sun will set on this day of exploration. For now we contemplate our adventure and dream of adventures to come.
It was at the age of 17 that I was introduced to the sonnet, during my ‘A’ level year when curious minds feed on endless titbits offered by teachers, minds open to exploration and suggestion. I loved the ingenuity of the form, at once restrictive and inviting of creativity, and I admired those poets who could mould phrases and sentiments around its strict rhyming requirements.
One of these was Edna St. Vincent Millay, whose Sonnet I committed to memory and have never since forgotten. It’s an elegy of love and loss, touchingly personal yet universal, words of beauty and simplicity that spoke to my teenage self.
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
to go,—so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
Another I adored was Menelaus and Helen by Rupert Brooke, snatches of which come back to me on occasion, though I have never been able to recite it in its entirety. Hot through Troy’s ruin is so evocative an opening, and I’m endlessly impressed by the poet’s frugality with words and phrases to make his meaning fit within the structure. This work introduced me to such words as ‘sate’ and ‘garrulous’, my teenage study requiring as much time thumbing through the dictionary as reading the poem.
Hot through Troy’s ruin Menelaus broke
To Priam’s palace, sword in hand, to sate
On that adulterous whore a ten years’ hate
And a king’s honour. Through red death, and smoke,
And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode,
Till the still innermost chamber fronted him.
He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim
Luxurious bower, flaming like a god.
High sat white Helen, lonely and serene.
He had not remembered that she was so fair,
And that her neck curved down in such a way;
And he felt tired. He flung the sword away,
And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there,
The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen.
So far the poet. How should he behold
That journey home, the long connubial years?
He does not tell you how white Helen bears
Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold,
Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold
Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys
’Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice
Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old.
Often he wonders why on earth he went
Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came.
Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent;
Her dry shanks twitch at Paris’ mumbled name.
So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried;
And Paris slept on by Scamander side.
Though widely regarded as the father of the sonnet, it wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I first encountered Shakespeare in a meaningful way. I was seeing an older man at the time, a well-read, artistic type who wore long flowing shirts and tied his hair back in a ponytail. His knowledge of literature intimidated me; I was desperate to impress him or at least appear to match his intellect. We were out for a walk one day, a long, lazy walk around the suburbs of Leeds when we spotted a fridge in someone’s back garden. There were poetry magnets on its door, a novelty at the time, some of which had been arranged into the opening lines of Shakespeare’s sonnet 29: When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes I all alone beweep my outcast stat (there had been no final ‘e’ to complete the word; perhaps it had fallen off). To my amazement my companion proceeded to recite the entire poem. He took the letters and gave them to me; I think I fell in love with him then. The sonnet was quickly committed to memory, the magnets given pride of place on our fridge at home. They have since been lost or rearranged, my father perhaps not realising their sentimental significance, and though the relationship ended not long afterwards, Shakespeare’s words still reside in my head.
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
‘Should reckless cyclists face the same consequences as dangerous drivers?’ asks Good Morning Britain on Twitter. The cycling community sighs collectively.
Each time someone is killed on a bike or by a bike, it’s headline news. It perpetuates the perception that cycling is dangerous; it justifies people’s hatred of cyclists. It feeds the simmering nastiness on the roads that results in all of those who ride two wheels getting shouted at, beeped at, spat at, missiles hurled at, sworn at, swerved into, threatened and abused daily. This is the reality of cycling in the UK.
It’s exhausting that people hate me just because I choose to ride a bike. It’s exhausting and frustrating and saddening. I choose to ride because I love it, but it’s not just beneficial to me, my mental and physical health and my purse: it means there are fewer cars on the road, less pollution, better air quality, less congestion. In short, my being on a bike benefits drivers. If more people were active there would be fewer health problems, less of a strain on the NHS, fewer tax dollars given to treat preventable sedentary lifestyle-related illness. My being on a bike benefits the tax payer.
A cursory glance through the responses to this question from Good Morning Britain reveals the same old arguments. ‘Yes, and they should be made to pay road tax’; ‘Yes because all they do is run the lights’; ‘Yes and they should have to take a test’.
First, the tax question. So often this has been used as an argument against me, as a reason why someone would drive dangerously around me. Somehow I don’t deserve to use the road because I haven’t paid for it. Yet ‘road tax’ as it is known doesn’t exist. All road infrastructure is funded through general taxation. I pay tax therefore I pay for the roads, for the pavements, for the cycleways. The ‘road tax’ that vehicles pay is based upon emissions. A cycle doesn’t create any pollution; if you drove an electric vehicle you wouldn’t pay either.
Second, the moaning about cyclists jumping the lights. Yes, cyclists do it, and yes, it’s annoying. Lots of cyclists wait. Lots of cyclists call out other cyclists for doing it. And drivers do it too. Every day, almost without fail, I see a driver run the lights.
Third, the point about having to take a test. The fact is, most do. Most cyclists are also drivers, who have a licence to use the road. Most drivers have a licence, but that doesn’t prevent drivers running red lights, using a phone at the wheel, dangerously overtaking and speeding. Using examples of poor driving is not intended to exonerate cyclists of wrong-doing, but this whole debate exacerbates this war on the roads, this animosity between road users. It fuels ill-thought out arguments, it perpetuates tribalism.
It also ignores the real question asked by Good Morning Britain which is about consequences and culpability. Yes, of course cyclists should face punishment for causing death or injury, just as drivers should. Cyclists and motorists should both be accountable to the law, and penalties that befit drivers for killing someone should also apply to cyclists. The debate has arisen because a cyclist was given an 18 month sentence for killing a pedestrian. Many people on the thread point out the extraordinary number of examples of drivers who get let off with a fine or are found not guilty when they have taken a life.
I feel compelled to write a response to this one: ‘I face cyclists every day and they don’t care about anything around them apart from getting to their destination.’ I reply verbatim, substituting the word ‘cyclists’ for ‘drivers’. The fact is, everyone using the road wants to get somewhere; of course they do, otherwise they wouldn’t be on the road. Everyone gets frustrated, suffers lapses in attention, goes a bit too quickly, sneaks through the light just as it goes red. I do it. Everyone does it. Yet arguably, and statistically, motorists are far more dangerous than cyclists. Because in the time it took for Charlie Alliston to be found guilty of wanton and furious cycling, 300 people were killed by motor vehicles. None of those made headline news.
Yes, the law needs to be changed and yes, there needs to be better enforcement. But we are all road users. There should be no Us and Them. We should be allowed to choose the type of vehicle we travel in/on without experiencing the negative backlash from others.
A few reasoned responses slipped through. One of the replies was, “These cyclists and these motorists are all still people”. I wholeheartedly agree.
In the Netherlands, drivers are taught to open the car door with their far hand. It’s an indication of how bicycle-centric their culture is; by performing the ‘Dutch reach’ the driver is forced to turn their head and body, so can see if a cyclist is about to pass, therefore avoid opening the door in their path.
Cycling UK have this week called for British drivers to be taught the method. Eight people have been killed and thousands more injured in the last five years because of car doors being thrown open without looking. The Bikeability scheme already educates cyclists to ride wide of car doors – the width of a door and a little bit more – but this would put the onus on drivers, too.
I was doored once; never since have I ridden in the door zone. Yet daily I see cyclists in that danger area. There is a lack of awareness on both sides: cyclists feel safer on the left; drivers expect cyclists to ‘Get out of the way!’. You only have to search the word ‘cyclist’ online to see drivers’ rants about idiots riding in the middle of the road. Stay in a safe position and open yourself up to abuse; bow to pressure and end up riding in a position that could cause you more harm.
In a rare positive exchange with a taxi driver I succeeded in explaining that the reason I was riding wide was so I wouldn’t get hit into his path by an opening car door – “then you’d be having a bad day as well as me.” He looked at me for a moment then replied, “I never thought of that; you’re right, I’m sorry.” The buzz of that apology lasted for days.
But more common is the yelling, the unpleasantness, the frustrating exchanges. There are many solutions: better infrastructure, different laws, a cultural shift. But something that could help right now is education. All road users would benefit from greater understanding of each other. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a journey by bicycle were part of UK driving lessons? In lieu of that, the ‘Dutch reach’ would be a massive step in the right direction.
Chris Froome has cemented his place in the list of cycling greats with a win in the Vuelta España to add to his victory in the Tour de France earlier this season. He is the first cyclist to win the double since Bernard Hinault, the dominant rider of the 1980s, and with four TdF titles, becomes the most successful British cyclist ever on the grand tour stage.
Froome is one of the strongest climbers of his time. Yet he rides under the cloud of Lance Armstrong’s legacy. People spit at him, shout ‘Dopé!’, mimic injecting their arms as he rides past. The spectators get up close, one upturning a cup of urine over his head. A banner with the word ‘Froome’ followed by a question mark appears as cyclists take a bend. The French press label him a mutant; they say he can’t possibly be that good at climbing. There are suspicions of his sudden bursting onto the scene: from a little-known rider on the verge of being dropped by his team, he came out of nowhere to take second place in the Vuelta a España in 2011.
It’s a legacy that Froome and the other riders of his generation will have to overcome. Doping checks and regulations have tightened to an extent that it is now nigh on impossible to cheat. Froome deals with the accusations with characteristic dignity and politeness. He aims to be a role model for clean cycling.
Froome grew up in Kenya, where he used to ride through the townships and among wild animals, selling avocados off the back of his bike as an eight-year-old. ‘Cycling was my freedom,’ he says.
Froome’s first tour victory took place at the historic 100th edition of the Tour, the year after he rode as domestique for Bradley Wiggins. The role of a domestique (French for ‘servant’) is to assist the team leader by providing a slip stream so they can save energy, carrying their water or supporting them in the bunch until the moment of attack. Consequently, the domestiques are largely unknown figures, often sacrificing all for the team, peeling off before the finish line after having spent everything they had. Yet despite riding essentially on behalf of someone else, in the 2012 Tour, Froome came second.
Those crowds that line the route of the Tour give so much to the riders, a much-needed cheer of encouragement, a turbo-boosting Mexican wave, sometimes even a gentle push. It is one of the curiosities of the Tour, these crowds that spill into the road, parting at the last moment. ‘We have a unique sport; it is a privilege to be able to get up close to the race and to the event,’ says Brian Cookson, UCI president. ‘But people have a responsibility to respect that as well.’ It’s what led to the punching of Eddy Merckx; it means those keen photographers whose desire to get a close-up often results in their camera, and the rider, smashing to the ground. An ascent in the 2016 Tour saw a fan attempting to run alongside the riders, cape flowing behind him. He received a jab in the face from Froome.
Poor weather on the ascent up Mont Ventoux in 2016 convinced the organisers to bring the finish line a short way down the mountain, displacing the crowds from that top section and squeezing them into spaces already over-filled with fans. Those groups that spill into the road spilled too far and the lead motorbike had to stop, causing Froome to crash into him. A second motorbike hit from behind and broke his frame. With his support car 5 minutes back, he began to run, cleated shoes slipping on the tarmac. There’s no rule stating that you’re not allowed to run – as long as you cross the finish line with a bike. He was finally given one, and retained the yellow jersey.
Perhaps Froome will be the first to legitimately break the five-win record. ‘I don’t see anyone beating Chris Froome for the next few years,’ said Merckx.
This is an excerpt from ‘Pedal Power: inspirational stories from the world of cycling’ available to buy now
When speculation emerged in July that Kate Middleton might be pregnant with her third child, a letter from charity ‘Having Kids’ urging the couple of reconsider met with a considerable public backlash. The charity: for the good of the environment, we should be having fewer children, and those in the public eye have a duty to set an example for the rest of us. The public: who are you to tell them what they should and shouldn’t do?
To not have children is a decision I made long ago. At an early age I was conscious that there were too many people in the world, among them many unwanted children. Why would I contribute to that? My view was usually dismissed by others: “Oh, you’ll change your mind,” and, “Wait until your biological clock kicks in!” I would smile and say, perhaps. But as my teens turned into my twenties, I never developed that maternal instinct, neither did I feel an urge to be pregnant. Babies don’t make me weak in the knees; I don’t quite know what to do with them.
My decision to remain childless has caused tension in past relationships. One boyfriend would say, “I know you don’t want children, but why don’t you want my children?” He wouldn’t accept that this was a decision I could make alone. We argued endlessly about it until one morning he told me he needed to find a woman with whom he could have babies, and that was that. I was heartbroken, but wouldn’t change my mind just to keep him happy.
Most of my friends are now parents. All three of my sisters have children. But at the age of 34, I am still as adamant as ever that I won’t follow suit. Though my resolve is still the same, my motivation has changed. I’ve always been environmentally aware, but it wasn’t until recently that my decision struck me as being an environmental one. Our global population is on the increase, and in a world with finite resources, we cannot continue to grow exponentially. We can be diligent in terms of reducing food waste, using renewable energy, creating less pollution, protecting animals, but fundamentally, if there are too many people on this earth it doesn’t matter how much we protect our resources: there simply isn’t enough to go around. The obvious answer to our environmental woes is to have fewer children.
Yet it’s a controversial issue. When we speak of limiting a population, we think of China and a restrictive one-child policy that has resulted in forced abortions. We think of freedom of choice being taken away. In Western society, large families have been the norm for several generations, with the push after the World Wars to re-build our decimated population, or the historical need for women to have lots of children because only a handful would survive into adulthood. Most people see the choosing of family size as a fundamental human right, illustrated very clearly by the outrage sparked by the ‘Having Kids’ letter.
And so it should be, to a point. We should all be free to make those decisions. But we should also be informed to make those decisions responsibly, with regards to the impact they have on those around us. Everything we do in life affects the environment to a greater or a lesser extent. People consume resources. By bringing a child into the world, we are creating a person who will need food, water, clothes, stimulation, and all the other resources life demands. We are already consuming far more than this planet can provide, a worrying trend that will only continue to rise.
Today, the Cambridges confirmed that Kate is indeed pregnant. The news made me sad and slightly frustrated. While I am against forcibly restricting people in their fundamental freedoms, I wish we could be better educated to make better choices. I’m frustrated because Kate and William are in the public eye; it could be enormously influential if they had chosen to have no more than two children. When I tell people of my decision not to have a family, and explain the reasons why, they are interested, and admit to never having thought of it like that. It is difficult to present limited family size as a positive choice, but it’s an important argument to make, and one that would benefit society and the world for generations to come.
Today was the turn of Edna’s Kitchen. Friends had recommended it; news articles describe it as legendary. I was about to find out.
Edna’s kitchen sits at the top of Castle Park, the small kiosk offering a number of yummy-looking dishes including meze salad boxes of various sizes, halloumi, and, of course, falafel. Again, I opted for a falafel wrap – £6.
Castle Park is a good setting for a takeaway. My bike and I settled down on a bench overlooking the various pathways that lead down to the water, while a man of advanced years free-jumped over the walls as youths looked on with repressed amazement. I took a bite.
I can see why Edna has such a reputation. Crisp and flavoursome falafel contrasts with silky-smooth homemade humous, all offset by a salad of tomato, grated carrot, red and white cabbage, lettuce, gherkin, sweet coriander, biting chilli and dill. With so many contrasting elements stuffed into my little wrap, there was variety in each delicious mouthful. It was brought together well by a generous slop of tahini sauce, though this was to be its downfall. The wrap had been handed over in a single paper bag, not strong enough to hold the various juices that pooled in the bottom, the paper growing weaker and weaker as I ate and eventually bursting… into my handbag. I have to dock a mark for that.
So, incredible falafel and delicious salad – next time I’ll order a meze box in order to avoid handbag-gate. Good value, although not quite as full a wrap as Falafel King for the same price. A very respectable 4/5.
On October 1st I will have the pleasure of leading a guided ride and giving a talk in the beautiful Cotswolds. The ride is a 45-mile round trip between Calcot Manor Hotel near Tetbury and its sister hotel, Barnsley House, near Cirencester, and will be mostly along country lanes with the odd hill. Cycling fuel and refreshments will be provided before, during and after the ride.
The talk will take place in the evening at Calcot Manor. I’ll be speaking about my latest book, Pedal Power, from which I’ll share stories of inspirational cyclists throughout the ages.
The ride is bound to be beautiful whether we have an Indian Summer or English Autumn, and is open to all. The pace will be conversational.
Places on the ride are priced at £45, or £15 for just the talk. Full details are on the Calcot website here.
To book a place at either/both events, telephone Calcot on 01666 890391 or e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org
Today it’s the turn of The Bristologist, a ‘Plates and Slates’ bar on Corn Street. They do a falafel wrap as part of their lunch menu: £5.95 for a wrap stuffed with hummus, raita and leaves, served with chips. I’ll be having it without the raita.
Pubs are inevitably more expensive and the food inevitably takes far longer to arrive. This is the easiest option today: I’ve started a job behind the bar here, so might as well check out the only thing I can eat on a menu otherwise dominated by burgers and hot dogs.
When it arrives I can only describe it as less a wrap, more a fold – the hummus, leaves and falafel are rather clumsily shoved in amongst a roughly-toasted wrap which falls apart as I pick it up. There’s little to improve the experience: the falafel tastes suspiciously non-vegan, as if it’s been fried in pork fat, and there are far too many leaves. The chips are nice, though.
2/5, and that’s 1 point for the chips. At least I work here so I didn’t have to pay for it.
It’s week two of #FalafelFriday and I’m lining up the big boys. With a name like Falafel King, I’m expecting something spectacular.
This is the street stall at the head of Narrow Quay, outside Bristol Hippodrome, the little sister of the Cotham Hill-based restaurant. I can have my falafel in a pitta for £4 or a luffa (wrap) for £6. I go for the wrap.
The luffa is gently heated, then covered with plenty of hummus, which is followed by no less than 8 balls of falafel. The accompanying salad comprises julienne carrots, white onions, red cabbage, tomatoes and couscous. I opt for tahini sauce. Once everything has been piled on, the wrap is so full it can barely be, well, wrapped. The server handles it with expertise and passes it over, and I’m ready to get stuck in.
De.Li.Cious. Easy to eat in spite of its size. Excellently-cooked falafel well distributed throughout the wrap, with tasty salad (though I’m not sure about the carrots). Totally worth the £6 for the amount you get. And while it looks far too huge to eat, I finish the whole thing without a problem. A very pleasing 4/5. I will definitely be coming back.
As a vegan in a new city, seeking out places to eat can be a challenge. But there’s one dish that I’m pretty much guaranteed to be able to find: falafel. For years it’s been a staple of mine, from take-aways to street stalls to restaurants. So, how will Bristol shape up in the falafel stakes? Being the greeny, hippy-type place it’s reputed to be I have high hopes. Here begins #FalafelFriday, a weekly search for the best in deep-fried fava beans and chick peas.
Day one of this new adventure doesn’t begin so well, my first Friday in Bristol seeing me wandering the streets in frustration at the apparent lack of falafel. I don’t know Bristol very well yet, and while I could turn to the internet for help, I had a rather romantic notion of exploring. So far it’s not turned up the goods. I wander up Victoria Street but there’s not much to be found, just a few pubs and newsagents set amongst the office blocks. The handful of street stalls here are closed. All is quiet in St Nick’s market. The flashing neons of kebab houses signal nothing but disappointment – no falafel on the menu. I eventually find one hidden down a narrow street. It’s a small, simple kebab restaurant with the regulatory columns of meat slowly turning on their spit. I’m the only customer. Do you have falafel? He nods. With hummus? No. His assistant heads out to the local Tesco. I sit and wait beneath the garish strip lighting with grease filling my nostrils.
Hummus purchased, falafel cooked, oddly enough in the microwave. Two largish pieces of the good stuff are smashed onto the wrap, covered with loads of kebab-style salad, which I love: cabbage, onions, cucumber, tomato. No sauce for me. Expertly rolled with a napkin to catch the drips. £4 and the wrap is handed over.
I walk along the waterfront and sink my teeth in. It’s good: great flavour and variety from all the salads, though I’m not sure about the key ingredient – it could have done with being crisped in the frier rather than heated in the microwave. Also, all the falafel is on one side so I have to be very creative with my biting in order to get a mixed mouthful. Not the worst falafel wrap I’ve ever had, though, and I appreciate the effort they went to. And not a bad price. A solid 3/5.
It’s raining again. Droplets run Matrix-style down the windows, the sky fading from grey to black beyond, the river surging beneath. I look out at the choppy, relentless waves and feel uneasy. The Thames is a beast with which I’m not familiar. I have been battling it for four days, fighting the current, avoiding weirs, and looking on as cruisers roar past, their wash rolling up the side of my vessel and slapping loudly against its flat hull. My narrowboat is not suited to river life.
My mooring tonight is in Henley. The regatta is tomorrow, the rowers out for their final preparations, disturbing the water with their blades so that I knock against the platform where I’m clumsily moored. I’ve moved the fenders twice to no avail – wherever I tie them seems to be the wrong place. Mooring on the Thames is difficult. The town pontoons turned out to be private, and returning to the previous spot was less straightforward than I’d hoped, with some unfortunately-timed gusts of wind, a very shallow bank and a near collision with a passing rower making this one of the more stressful moorings. I’d lashed my lines to what appeared to be little more than a fishing platform, only noticing the words ‘No Mooring’ once I’d disembarked. With the rain sluicing down, finding somewhere else was decidedly unattractive. But soon the river patrol motors over: it’s OK – I can stay, for a fee.
The rain is getting me down. In the four days since I left east London it has rained every day, sometimes pelting, sometimes seeping, always enough for me to become utterly saturated standing on the tiller deck. It is not at all what I had hoped for my summer cruise. Boating, it seems, is not all gin and tonics. For a sweet moment, the downpour subsides and a break in the clouds allows the evening sun to pour unrestrained onto the water and rebound in blinding reflections. A full rainbow arcs over the water, emboldened by the solid grey clouds. I leave the boat and stand on the waterlogged banks, the air still, the sun dazzling, as the perfect curve of the rainbow splashes the sky above my boat.
I am at the beginning of a two-week, 180-mile journey to a new life in Bristol. Since I moved aboard three years ago, it’s been at the back of my mind to travel somewhere beyond the River Lea, my favoured cruising ground where I constantly shuttle between London and Hertfordshire. That’s what boats are for, after all; it would be a shame not to take advantage of the fact that I can move home without actually moving home. Bristol seems as good a place as any: a small, environmentally aware, bikey city, with plenty for vegans and a rich history. I have a couple of friends there. And I’ve never really gone anywhere on my boat. People often buy their vessels outside London and bring them into the capital, the resulting cruise an introduction and (often literally) crash course in boat handling, the statutory adventure and accompanying tales almost a prerequisite to life afloat. I didn’t have that. I bought mine in Enfield, my first cruise being on a chilly New Year’s Day where I motored for two hours through torrential rain then ran out of diesel.
So this is my adventure, my boat move that never was. I’ve been looking forward to it for six months, imagining the beauty of the canal, the long, hot summer and the inevitable tan. But now, after four stressful days of cruising, all I want to do is turn around and go back. The Thames is a struggle, an unfamiliar waterway on which I feel entirely overwhelmed. I have forgotten the promise of a new life in Bristol. All I can think about as I negotiate these waters beneath the overbearing skies is what I have left behind. I mourn my job, my friends, a city I know and love, my darling sister and my boyfriend. Most people move towards something. I feel that I’m running away.
And so it is, in times of struggle, that we forget why we do these things. It would be so easy to pack it all in and turn around. Heaven knows I have thought this before, on long, solitary cycle trips, or in dark moments at sea. These hours of solitude force me to really examine my motives. Why would I yank myself up at the roots to surround myself with unease? In the past I have described myself as fiercely independent; I’ve never held down a relationship for longer than two years or a job for longer than five. Am I always destined to be dissatisfied, to be restless, to hold people at arm’s length? Is that why I’m going? The feeling of being too comfortable, that there is more to life? It’s frustrating, my inability to settle. Why can’t I be happy with what I have?
But it is these adventures, these experiences and challenges that makes up the rich tapestry of our lives. To do is always better than to not. We must take these opportunities when we can: when looking back we want to remember what we did, not regret what we might have done. Yes, I had a wonderful life in London, a rich, fulfilling life, a life that could have kept me satisfied for years to come. But truth be told, If I hadn’t set sail, I would spend the next year wishing I had.
As I continue my journey, people will tell me they admire my independence, that they envy my lifestyle, and I will usually respond benignly, with only a hint of how much I am struggling. Arriving won’t solve things. But eventually I will find a job, make new friends, and learn how to live on this unfamiliar waterway. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know what I’m looking for. Neither does it matter particularly if I find it. Simply being here will enrich my existence, embolden my character and add a few lines to my face, all of which will tell a story. And when I am satisfied with my adventure, maybe then I can go home.
This is a lightly edited version of the cruising log I kept on my move from London to Bristol by narrowboat. Photos of the journey can be found here: https://flic.kr/s/aHsm6dJKna
22nd July 2017.
DAY ONE. The cruise to Bristol begins!
Limehouse to Kensal Green. 11.5 miles. 12 locks. 9 hours
Beautiful cruise out of Limehouse basin with all the big boats. Up Regents Canal through Mile End – first time on this stretch. Lock-shared from the beginning, which was so helpful – I didn’t have to work a single lock. Nell, Rosie and Richard came. Horrible weather! Started off nice – we toasted the journey with Prosecco in the sunshine. Rain started at lunch time – soggy pita bread and empty glasses filled with rain. Everyone ended up wearing my waterproofs – luckily I have many. Torrential at points. Paused before Islington tunnel to fill water tank and go to my favourite hair dressers for the last time – £8 for a cut, no appointment necessary. Nell and Rosie headed home after a cup of tea.
Tunnel was fine – my lamp is terrific and I have attached it to my new cratch frame, which also gave a point of reference for the centre of the boat. Far different to my first tunnel experience – no light, no idea where I was going, much crashing and scraping into the sides and a few extra grey hairs by the time I emerged at the other side.
New lock-sharing partners through Camden. Bit of a slog after that – wet and cold. No more locks. Moored up on 4-hour bollards at Kensal Sainsburys, but no one was around so we hoped it would be ok to stay the night (it was). Went to say goodbye to Alex, moored a few boats down, heavily pregnant with twins. Picked towpath blackberries.
Engine smoking a fair amount – had to empty filters three times as so much weed clogging up the water cooling system. Cooked curry. Hard day but good to get started.
23rd July 2017
DAY TWO. Kensal Green to Boston Manor. 15.5 miles, 9 locks, 8.5 hours
Easy cruise for the first 11 miles – no locks! Fine weather with a few rain showers. Stopped briefly at Greenford for lunch. Richard did most of the driving while I cleaned my boat – it is Sunday, cleaning day, after all. Made crumble with the blackberries and stewed apples that my aunt Vanda had given me. Turned off the Paddington Arm onto the Grand Union at Bull’s Bridge. Beautiful cutting for the canal. Hanwell flight of locks took almost as long to get through as the previous stretch! Met a boat coming up through the flight – the three men on board couldn’t work out the sluices so we helped. Apparently they had been there for 30 minutes and had decided to give up, back out of the lock and moor up for the night. I think they were grateful we came along. Rained on and off all afternoon. Rainbows. Tarp on and off the cratch frame – I need to get a coat of gloss on it so I don’t need to cover it up any more. Moored up just south of where the Piccadilly Line crosses the river – an impressive iron bridge. It’s a beautiful and peaceful stretch. Feels very far removed from London even though the M4 is right around the corner. First time I have only seen darkness out of the windows.
Mat and Anna came for dinner. We had picked more blackberries and froze them to put in the Prosecco. Lovely meal, wine and company.
24th July 2017
DAY THREE. Boston Manor to Kingston-upon-Thames. 8.5 miles, 4 locks, 6.5 hours.
Left our beautiful mooring on the leafy River Brent and cruised down to Brentford Dock. Gauging lock at Brentford marina operated by volunteer then a small stretch before the Thames lock. We arrived with three hours to wait before tide was right for locks to open. Second in a long queue of boats. I spent the time sponging out the diesel spill in the bilge – how pleasant. Also went for a walk to calm my nerves about the big scary Thames. Horrible stretch of canal – very industrial, no greenery, no facilities, nothing. I was expecting to be able to fill up my diesel tank before going out on the Thames. Oh well. Slightly nervous now.
Went through tidal lock and turned onto the Thames. Following larger boat – makes it a bit easier. Slightly windy but not too difficult. Flooding tide carried us along. Thames wide and absolutely beautiful. We felt very small. Two narrow boats behind us. Looked tiny. Came through Teddington lock after an hour – end of tidal Thames. Purchased temporary licence for non-tidal Thames. No dramas coming along the river – only difficulty when boats coming the other way and creating wash. Lovely bridges. Moored up just upstream of bridge at Kingston-upon-Thames. Dinner and wine on the river and a walk around Hampton Court Palace grounds – got locked in so had to jump the fence!
25th July 2017
DAY FOUR. Kingston-upon-Thames to Old Windsor. 17 miles, 6 locks, 9 hours.
Really sunny day – very hot at times. I was hoping to fill my diesel tanks at Thames Ditton (there’s an underlying fear that I’ll run out at any moment) but the diesel pontoon is private. Next available – Shepperton marina, near Walton-on-Thames. Went into Walton marina first and had to pull off a spectacular turn to get out again without bumping anyone. Similar spectacular manoeuvre to get onto the diesel pontoon in the marina – managed well (and received compliment from passing worker) but then wind caught the bow and nudged me into the neighbouring boat which cracked the window! Grrr. Really nice cruise up to that point – very grand buildings and loads of riverfront chalets. Filled up on diesel – turns out tank was half full so no need to panic. Really must get a dip stick. Cycled into Shepperton to buy something for lunch – very disorientating being on the road again after having been on the river for so long. Forgot which side to ride on!
Continued to Windsor. River is very green with tree-lined banks. Calm and wide. Little other traffic. All locks except one manned so it was an easy cruise. Stressful trying to find a mooring spot! It has to be hardstanding as you can’t just moor anywhere, and most of the moorings are private. But I found a perfect one opposite some beautiful boats in Old Windsor. Free for 24 hours. Engine going strong all day.
26th July 2017
DAY FIVE. Old Windsor to Boveney. 6.5 miles, 3 locks, 3 hours.
A short cruise today – I went to visit Lila and Kerry for lunch. Very rainy ride to the station! Lovely lunch. Got back to the boat at 1645 and set off on the cruise through Windsor. Met another (huge) boat at first lock. Slowly overtook them on the long curve round Windsor Castle grounds. View of the castle slowly emerging. Great coming through Windsor under the town bridge – I’ve been here before a few times. Round the race course – remember going there to see the races! Final lock self-service, helped by the people in the big boat. Upstream moorings full so I doubled up.
Had to really push the engine to get past the big boat. Hope it’s ok. Running well so far.
I can’t say I’m enjoying it so far. The Thames is huge and overwhelming and my boat feels very small. I’m not familiar with rivers and can’t wait to get back to the canal network. At least all the locks are manned which helps.
27th July 2017
DAY SIX. Boveney to Henley-on-Thames. 18.5 miles, 7 locks, 7.5 hours.
Great to have made Henley – means I’ll be off the Thames tomorrow. It was tough mooring up – lots of rowers to avoid, a bit of wind, had to turn as I went into the town where the moorings were private so came back. Paid £10 to moor.
Cruise was sunshine and showers. River at Maidenhead was beautiful and has remained beautiful since. Talked to a few of the lock keepers about my cruise. Seems that the river is quite quiet at the moment. Apparently it becomes more narrowboaty further upstream, beyond Reading.
Spent a few hours this morning painting the cratch frame so had a late start. Engine running well. Spent most of the day listening to Radio 4. “I envy you,” says one lock keeper – a nice change from “You’re brave!” or, “Isn’t it hard by yourself?” <— I know people are just being interested and mean no harm but the implication of statements like that is that I shouldn’t be capable of a solo cruise. It becomes wearing after a while.
The river is beautiful though still overwhelming. Many homes back onto the river with boat houses built into them or constructed at the bottom of the garden. The river often winds around a hill with stately homes built into the hillside. It’s very rich and posh.
28th July 2017
DAY SEVEN. Henley-on-Thames to Reading. 8.5 miles, 3 locks, 3 hours.
Started the day by getting stuck on the bank – bow was blowing out with the wind but stern was struggling to get off with no propulsion in the shallow water. Rower coming! Managed eventually though nearly ended up being blown totally around. Met another narrowboat far side of Henley and lock-shared all day. Not sure about their lock etiquette (made it tricky for me by motoring out at the same time as me, and left before me even though I got there first and was going faster).
Very windy against me all morning and a few showers. Many rowers on the whole stretch. Nearly missed the entrance to Kennet and Avon – quite hidden! One lock then backwater to the town moorings where I knocked the chimney off on the extremely low footbridge. Really dented it. Grrr. Moored by Chestnut Walk Gardens. Roz came for lunch then it rained all afternoon. I couldn’t face going any further so here I am for the night.
It’s such a relief to be off the river. Though the canal is full of weeds and rubbish and my mooring overlooks the back of businesses and industrial estates, I feel far more settled and at home.
29th July 2017
DAY EIGHT. Reading to Thatcham. 14 miles, 16 locks, 11 hours.
First full day on the Kennet and Avon. It starts in Reading by going through the middle of a shopping precinct with a traffic light system to allow one-way traffic only. Turns out this is actually the Kennet navigation rather than a true canal so it really has the feel of a river: very winding with loads of vegetation, a weir at each lock and sluices/weirs along the way. It’s nice being back on the calm of the navigation although it’s often shallow and there are loads of weeds and rubbish and oil. Beth stayed with me til lunchtime. Sunny to begin with but soon started drizzling. Beth at tiller most of the time but sometimes I had to grab it. She went home at Theale, just past the first swing bridge. These are something I’ve not come across before, some operated electronically but some where you have to push them open. Process can be very slow when single handed: moor up, open bridge, take boat through, moor up again, close bridge, go.
A few rainy hours then Jess came to join in. Afternoon/evening was a complete wash-out – got through three waterproof jackets! and my overtrousers started leaking. Jess helped keep the spirits up with white wine and good banter. Nearly had a boat slam into us on a tight bend – ended up entangled in a hawthorn bush in effort to avoid it. Probably our fault as we were on the wrong side… only because there were so many overhanging branches and I didn’t want them to drag anything off the roof. While winding down the sluice at a lock, the windlass flew off the handle then bounced into the water. Jess was mortified. I fished it out with the magnet. We were cruising a bit too fast towards the end – wanted to get to a town by nightfall and to get out of the rain. Caused a bit of surf on the banks which you’re not allowed to do. Engine smoking towards the end of the day. Soggy pint and curry in the pub.
30th July 2017
DAY NINE. Thatcham to Hungerford. 12 miles, 16 locks, 10 hours.
Mostly sunny today but got completely soaked coming through the last lock. So far it has rained every day. I can’t wait for some sunshine. Really pretty stretches of river, some very overgrown with reeds. Came through the second turf lock, a listed ancient monument, that you’re supposed to leave empty – I didn’t realise til after I’d gone, oops. Newbury was really pretty with old mills backing onto the river – a different aspect of the town to what you might usually see. Today I went nice and slow, partly because the river is narrow so you can’t really go fast, but also because the tranquility of boating is somewhat disrupted by a great diesel engine motoring away. Now I’m no longer ploughing through the miles trying to get off the Thames I can take my time a bit more. Lock-shared today – asked a guy to wait at the next lock which he did. Nice guy, constant cruiser around this area. One of the locks wasn’t filling properly – massive hole in the downstream lock gates – so we had to empty it and start again. I chucked a stick in which blocked the hole sufficiently so it filled properly. But it meant I got to jump the queue – I went in with the next family ahead of the the guy who had waited for me. Felt bad. Had a pint at Kintbury. Saw TR! He’s been cruising around these parts for the last year or so – thought I hadn’t seen him for a while. Had a nice chat while my boat got cosy in the reeds. Not much further to Hungerford. Moorings are hard to come by as the river bank is not very firm and it can be shallow towards the edge. Managed to jump ashore to moor up. Walked into Hungerford – lovely little town. Engine is doing fine and is not smoking as long as I don’t push it too hard.
31st July 2017
DAY TEN. Hungerford to Crofton. 6.5 miles, 15 locks, 7 hours.
Not many miles but slow progress – loads of locks. I was really frustrated to begin with and made hard work of the locks, but faced up to the fact that boating is slow! and after that I enjoyed the day. Started off by following someone through the locks so had to reset each one, so cycled ahead to ask him to wait for me. We shared a few locks then I shared with a family. Stopped at the moorings by the Crofton pumping station for the night.
Nearly at the top of the hill! I’ve been climbing since I left London – only six more locks til I start going down again.
I had picked blackberries and apples in the morning so I made a crumble.
I saw a couple of kingfishers and some fish.
Put another layer of paint on the cratch frame. Then it rained.
1st August 2017
DAY ELEVEN. Crofton to Devizes. 18.5 miles, 10 locks, 10 hours.
Reached the summit pound today. The pounds on the way up were very shallow and I got stuck on the bottom in one. Penultimate pound was a couple of feet lower than usual – the water line was way below where it should be. The landscape continued to rise leaving the canal in a deep wooded cutting which then became a tunnel. Four locks descending then a glorious 12 mile stretch without a single lock. My hands are red raw from all the rope work getting into and out of the locks. The Vale of Pewsey is very beautiful with farmland, hills and white chalk horses on the hillsides. It did get a bit tedious though – nothing to break it up. Would’ve been nice to have just one more lock, haha. Lots of boaters live here so there are long stretches of going very slowly. Lots of narrowboats here, hardly any barges or cruisers. Pill boxes at intervals – turns out the K&A was to be a second line of defence after the south coast if England were to be invaded in the war. Canal banks dominated by reeds, often leaving only a narrow channel. All the boats need a gangplank in order to disembark. Shallow in parts. Got told to slow down as I went past Devizes marina – oops. Moored on the visitor moorings opposite Devizes wharf.
2nd August 2017
DAY TWELVE. Devizes to Foxhangers. 2.5 miles, 29 locks, 5 hours.
Yes, that does say 2.5 miles, 29 locks. This is the famous hill. It took all day.
What a day! Terrible weather, really windy and rain that alternated between light sprinkling and heavy downpour. Knowing I had a full day of locks ahead, I waited at the top lock in Devizes for another boat to lock-share with. 45 minute wait! Totally worth it. I got a holiday narrowboat with seven people on board who did ALL THE LOCKS for me. This was basically amazing. We flew down the flight in a few hours and it was brilliant despite the rain. Although they did ram my boat a couple of times, once quite badly! But it was a slick operation and very much appreciated. Dad and Valmai came along and helped as well. Moored up at the bottom and had hot soup and crumble for afternoon lunch.
The valley was laid out beneath as we came down the hill in varying degrees of visibility – sometimes we could see the whole valley, other times just a load of grey cloud. Hills misty with rain. At the top of the locks it felt as if we were cruising off the hill, or just about to tip over the top of a roller coaster. I cycled back up the hill for a pint at the canal-side pub at the end of the day. It had lots of canal-related photos, charts and posters on the walls. No pub at the bottom of the flight. I reckon it’s far harder going uphill than down.
3rd August 2017
DAY 13. Foxhangers to Bradford-on-Avon. 9 miles, 7 locks, 5.5 hours.
It was very, very windy today. I considered not cruising because the morning was so ridiculously windy but it was not so bad once I got going. Tricky sometimes in the locks and at the landings for the swing bridges but mostly it wasn’t too much of a problem. Nice slow cruise. Lock-shared the first few but the rest by myself, although people helped. Most boaters using the canal were holidaying (been the case for most of the trip) – most don’t really know what they’re doing which can be tricky. There are lots of boat hire companies on this stretch.
It was a late start as I had a lazy morning tidying but I arrived in time to have a look around Bradford – just in time for it to start raining, groan. That makes 13 consecutive days with rain.
4th August 2017
DAY 14. Bradford-on-Avon to Bath. 10.5 miles, 7 locks, 7 hours.
Bradford-on-Avon is a beautiful little town similar in appearance to Bath – buildings made of Bath stone built into the steep hills that come down to the river. Lots of ancient buildings. I had a lovely time wandering around this morning, plus I found a ‘Sustainable Supermarket’ – finally! All this time without organic lentils – that won’t do. Beautiful cruise along the Avon valley, partway up the hill – river is at bottom of gorge and canal is elevated. Twice crosses the river on aqueducts. Stunning views (between the rain showers) across the countryside and of Bath as I approached. Canal steadily curves round the hills. Steep descent into Bath – six locks, one of them twice as deep as a standard lock – scary! My boat looked tiny at the bottom. Came onto the river and turned upstream but no mooring so turned below Pulteney Weir and came down to the visitor moorings opposite the old wharf buildings. Good location although currently a building site so not that pleasant.
Took it really slow today as there were loads of moored boats. Two swing bridges where the landing was on the wrong side! Therefore impossible to operate single-handed. Apparently it’s possible with a clever configuration of ropes – luckily there were boaters passing on the towpath who helped. Really sunny evening! But grey day and a couple of rain showers just to keep up the consistency.
5th August 2017
DAY 15. Bath to Keynsham. 8.5 miles, 4 locks, 4.5 hours.
Becca, Lara and Oliver came with me today. We had a really nice day – it was mostly sunny with a couple of scattered showers, and it wasn’t too much hard work. Perfect for a 10 and 8 year old. Lock-shared with a couple cruising their daughter’s boat. Locks were large and took ages to fill up. Everyone took a turn at steering and helping with the locks. We repeatedly passed beneath the Bristol-Bath railway path and passed the spot where I had camped on my LEJOG ride. Got dragged onto a weir boom at one point while trying to hover waiting for the lock, and had a real struggle to get off. That was nerve-wracking.
Moored up on an attractive concrete wall at Keynsham and Bec and the kids got the train home.
The engine has been running amazingly well, considering that I have worked it more in the last two weeks than I have in the last three years combined. But I think the oil has sprung a leak – it went from nearly full to way below the limit in a matter of days. Definitely need a service.
6th August 2017
DAY 16. Keysham to Bristol. THE LAST DAY. 8 miles, 2 locks, 3 hours.
Sara and Lucie, my two Bristol friends, came for the cruise. It was a beautiful day – no rain! It was sunny all day! Sometimes a bit cold though. It was a lovely relaxed cruise, long waits at the locks but that was OK. The river between Keynsham and Hanham then up to Netham was beautiful. It’s tidal beyond Hanham and at low tide it was fairly shallow at the edges. Sara drove for a while.
At Netham lock we stopped to meet the lock keeper and purchase my licence for Bristol floating harbour – this is under the jurisdiction of Bristol City Council so not covered by my CRT licence. Real character – John. He didn’t believe my boat was quite that long, which was very helpful given that you’re charged per metre. Issued a two week visitor mooring for the floating harbour (and a couple of extra days for good measure). All there was to do was motor up the feeder canal into Bristol centre – I felt truly, genuinely excited for the first time. Passed beneath all the bridges, seeing a different view of a city I partly recognise. The last bridge (swing bridge) was very low and nearly knocked Lucie’s bike off the roof – she had to walk up the gunwales and grab it. Moored up outside Arnolfini, right in the middle of it all. We opened the Prosecco I had been saving since London. Amazing location. Loads of boats. Private pontoon so lovely and quiet. Lights on the water at night. Seagulls everywhere. No grey water in the harbour – means no showering and no washing up for the next two weeks! But I’m here. Bristol. Finally made it. I was warned this bit would be horrible and rowdy, but it’s not. It’s lovely. Welcome Slow Gin to your new home.
While working on my bike in a DIY workshop, I overhear a customer speaking to the mechanic about his child’s bike. Can you fit stabilisers? he asks. I cringe. Stabilisers are the cycling instructor’s nemesis. They are an anti-teaching tool – how not to allow your child to learn the one thing that is essential in being able to ride a bike: balance.
The American name, ‘training wheels’, is wholly misleading – it trains nothing other than pedalling motion, which on its own doesn’t constitute riding a bike. Time and again I have adult clients who, in their second or third decade, have not learned to ride a bicycle because their parents were too cautious to remove the stabilisers. It’s a false picture of safety, the desire for the child not to fall; a bicycle can still tip over even with stabilisers, and the only way to truly prevent your child from falling is to teach them how to balance. Stabilisers might delay the falling stage, but they will have to learn eventually, and learning is arguably harder if they have relied on two extra wheels to be able to ride.
The mechanic doesn’t have any stabilisers to hand, and asks the customer to come back when he’s had a look. He could just teach his kid to ride a bike instead, I suggest. The stabilisers, it transpires are £40. Forty quid! In that moment it becomes more than just the concept of being able to ride a bike. It suddenly has a price tag on it. He should save himself the cash and take his kid to the park. For £40 (or for free if you live in London) you can even hire someone to teach your child how to ride. And by that you will be giving them a gift that is worth far more than a pair of plastic wheels: enjoyment, empowerment and a low-cost form of transport they can use for the rest of their life. The gift of freedom.
For advice on how to teach your child (or anyone) to ride a bike, see this post
Summer is a great time to get your kids out and riding their bikes. This is the method I use to teach complete beginners how to ride – it’s remarkably effective and typically gets the rider going within half an hour. It works for adults, too.
Disclaimer: even with this method, it can be difficult to teach your own kid how to ride! If you would like an impartial, professional, experienced adult to help, please get in touch.
Ditch the stabilisers!
What does it mean to be able to ride a bike? Is it pedalling? Well no, if someone freewheeling is still riding a bike. In fact, pedals can be a distraction from what is actually the only essential ingredient in being able to ride: balance. Often, parents will begin with stabilisers as a prelude to cycling, in hope of preventing their child from hurting themselves by falling. It’s a false picture of safety, as balance will have to be learned eventually, and better to teach it sooner rather than later.
Steer into the lean
Balance is a strange concept to teach. Staying upright on two wheels is not instinctive; in order to learn balance the falling instinct needs to be re-wired. If the bike falls one way, the instinct is to steer away from the lean. But to keep balance, the rider must steer in the same direction that the bike is leaning. So if the bike leans to the right, steer to the right. If it leans to the left, steer to the left.
It’s tempting as a teacher or a parent to hold onto the bicycle to prevent the rider from falling – this is a natural instinct to try to prevent them from hurting themselves. But by doing this, all you are teaching is for them to rely on you, not on themselves. Allow them to do it themselves from the beginning.
Get rid of the pedals
Balance bikes are a terrific invention. They are fast, fun, give independence and empowerment to the rider, and teach balance quickly and safely. The key thing about balance bikes is that they don’t have pedals – the rider makes the bike move by pushing with their feet along the ground. Regular bikes can easily be turned into balance bikes, just by removing the pedals. A pedal spanner or regular 15mm spanner is all that’s needed. Just remember the left pedal is reverse threaded, so rotate to the right to unscrew.
Lower the saddle
The greatest barrier to someone learning to ride a bike is fear of falling. Remove that fear and you’ll be amazed at how fast they progress. Make sure the saddle is low enough that the rider can sit comfortably on it with their feet flat on the floor and their knees bent. This removes the fear – they are unlikely to fall, as they can just put their feet down. To begin with, it might mean they tend to not sit on the saddle – don’t raise it though, persevere and encourage them to sit.
Stride and glide
A bicycle will only balance if it has momentum; the faster you go, the easier it is. Encourage the rider to push along with their feet with giant steps, eventually lifting their feet from the floor and gliding along for as long as possible. Pushing with two feet together (“hopping like a frog”) can be another effective way to gain momentum, and will aid them in keeping their bottom on the saddle.
The ten-second challenge
If the rider can glide along with their feet in the air for ten or more seconds, they are ready for pedals. Count slowly out loud, and always encourage – it will take time to reach that magic ten seconds.
There are a couple of options with pedalling, depending on the size/age and capability of the rider.
FIRST once the pedals have been replaced (make sure the correct pedal is on the correct side – they will always be marked with R or L) ask the ride to stride and glide again, then once the glide has started, put the feet on the pedals and go. If they can glide for ten seconds they will have plenty of time to find the pedals with their feet before losing momentum. Encourage them to look ahead rather than down.
SECOND replace one pedal at a time and teach them to properly set it. 1. brakes on. 2. raise pedal to set position (in line with the bottom part of the frame, roughly at 2 o’ clock). 3. look up, brakes off, push, glide. Try to achieve a glide of five seconds with just the one pedal. Important: the push should come from the foot on the pedal, not the foot on the ground. 4. replace other pedal and repeat exactly the same process, starting to pedal after the glide.
It sounds obvious, but the language you use can have a major impact on the success of the lesson. For example, if the rider can glide for five seconds, say, “Well done! Halfway there!” If they pedal three times then stop, say, “Brilliant! Next time let’s do four pedals!”
Good luck! Teaching anyone to ride a bike, no matter how old, is incredibly rewarding. And remember professional help is at hand if you are struggling – feel free to get in touch.
We emerge from the Channel tunnel into hills that roll just as they do in Kent. The rain still falls. Graffiti adorns trackside walls. People stand on station platforms clutching mugs of coffee as we flash by. By being on the ground we see others, the homes they have built, the infrastructure that facilitates their lives, the land they farm. The roofs are different shapes, but they are roofs. The bricks are different colours, but they are bricks. Folk carving a living from the country in which they live. It reminds us that we are all the same.
As we roll from Belgium to Germany the landscape shifts subtly. There is not much to separate the lowlands – this corner of western Europe is small enough to be topographically similar. What shifts more noticeably is the culture. We are greeted in French, then Flemish, then German, the compulsory English translation that follows an uncomfortable reminder that we are far more lazy than our continental neighbours. Futuristic radio towers adorn distant hills. Cathedrals stretch elaborately towards the sky.
We stop at our first interchange, an opportunity for coffee and to breathe the local air. Everything is cosmopolitan, a melting-pot of cultures. Seating stretches outside each bar. Beers are served in elegant glasses. Despite our best attempts, it’s obvious we are English. The waiter switches effortlessly into our mother tongue. In our short visit we have glimpsed a culture that is different to our own, and tomorrow we will hear other languages and meet the people who speak them in their own cities.
As passengers alight and depart the train the make-up of our the carriage changes, one by one, our fellowship morphing until it becomes Danish. By the time we arrive at our destination we will feel less alien, more included, more educated in the culture of the place towards which we have been travelling. Not for us the bubble of recycled air and the shiny welcome gates that parachute-drop us into a new culture.
The continental landmass is huge. It’s important to remember that. We take for granted that we can traverse the globe in a matter of days, but to be travelling overland reveals its true size. We have populated the sky in a way that disregards the true scale of our earth. Surface-level travel takes time, as it should. Air travel is time travel. Our bodies resist it; jet-lag is a rebellion of our being extracted from one location and moved to another at a rate significantly higher to that at which the earth spins.
It’s human nature to focus on the destination, a trait perpetuated by air travel. We want to be there as quickly as possible; we demand instant gratification. Life is too short to waste time in stasis, transiting between places. Such is the message of our non-stop lifestyles. But the journey is how we grow, how we learn. In focussing purely on the destination we miss out on a huge chunk of life.
By the time I reach Copenhagen I have learned, experienced, seen so much more than I would in the inside of an airport lounge and a 35,000ft high metal tube. The experience of that journey has changed me. And as my good friend David Charles once wrote, the only interesting thing that happens on a flight is that it might crash. And you definitely don’t want to be on that one.
This week sees the 104th edition of the Tour de France. A staple of the cycle racing calendar, it is an institution that has been held almost every year since its inauguration in 1903. As a cycle tourer, I’m not particularly a racing fan. Pelotons and breakaways don’t mean much to me. But in researching my book Pedal Power, I came across many extraordinary cyclists who dominated the Grand Tours, and in learning the ins and outs of cycle racing I discovered a new respect and love for the various multi-stage races that take place on the continent. Most interesting is their history. Here follows the introduction to my chapter ‘Grand Tour Masters’, opening with Maurice Garin, the winner of the first ever Tour De France.
With the broad and powerful swing of the hand which Zola in ‘The Earth’ gave to his ploughman, L’Auto, journal of ideas and action, is going to fling across France today those reckless and uncouth sowers of energy who are the great professional riders of the world.
~ Henri Desgrange
Henri Desgrange was looking for a way to boost business. His newspaper, L’Auto, was struggling. A keen cyclist and velodrome owner, he had seen how rival broadsheet Le Vélo had benefitted from its sponsorship of the Bordeaux–Paris and Paris–Roubaix, both long, gruelling feats of the type popular at the time. Desgrange decided to create the ultimate test of endurance: an event similar to the gruesome challenge of the six-day race, but on roads rather than in a stadium, taking place over several weeks around the perimeter of France. He advertised a five-stage race lasting 36 days. Only 15 people entered. Desgrange cut the length to 2,500 km over 19 days and offered substantial prizes. On 1 July 1903, 60 cyclists gathered for the start of the inaugural Tour de France. Among their number was Maurice Garin.
Garin was a popular racing cyclist, nicknamed le petit ramoneur (the little chimney sweep), which he was by trade, or le fou (the madman) because of the speed with which he pedalled around the town. Since his first 24-hour race in Paris in 1893, where he was one of only two people to cross the finish line, he had raced Paris–Roubaix three times, and won both Paris–Brest–Paris and Bordeaux–Paris. Of gruelling length, on unforgiving roads, through inclement weather and through the night, such races drew huge crowds; the riders, who would suffer fatigue, pain and discomfort to reach the end were elevated to the status of supermen. To take part in the toughest race ever conceived was irresistible to Garin. Desgrange had said his ideal Tour would be one in which ‘only one rider survived the ordeal’.
On the afternoon of 1 July, the cyclists set off from the Café Reveil-Matin in a village just outside Paris. Riding through the night, the riders pitted their wits and their strength against each other. Times would be recorded for the completion of each stage; the rider with the lowest aggregate time at the end would be announced the winner. Garin won the first stage and the second. Such were the physical demands of the race that by the end of the fourth stage, only 24 riders remained. After three weeks of riding, Garin won the final two stages to cross the finish line more than 64 hours ahead of the man who would come in last. ‘The 2,500 km that I’ve just ridden seem a long line, grey and monotonous, where nothing stood out from anything else,’ he said. ‘I suffered on the road; I was hungry, I was thirsty, I was sleepy, I suffered, I cried.’
The brutal test of strength that Desgrange had envisaged had proved a huge success. Sales of L’Auto soared. Desgrange announced entries for the following year’s race.
Garin once more took up the mantle, and once again, he won. But the race was marred by reports of cheating; riders were suspected of clinging on to cars and Garin was accused of taking the train. Spectators would conspire to help their favourites and hold back rivals. After being beaten up by a mob, Garin declared, ‘I’ll win the Tour de France provided I’m not murdered before we get to Paris.’ Crossing the finish line in first place, unable to prove his innocence from cheating, Garin was stripped of his title. He never won a race again.
And that was nearly that; Desgrange announced that the Tour would run no more. But by the following year he’d changed his mind, announcing shorter stages, with daytime-only racing to ensure that all entrants would abide by the rules. Apart from during the war years, the Tour de France has run every year since.
Desgrange’s race set a precedent for the Giro d’Italia and Vuelta a España, the two other races that now make up the Grand Tours. The Giro was launched in 1909 to boost sales of La Gazzetta dello Sport, while the Vuelta was instigated in 1935 by Spanish magazine Informaciones. The races are governed by the Union Cycliste International (UCI – set up in 1900 to replace the ICA) and teams race, as they initially did, for a sponsor (though they briefly raced for national teams).
The Tour de France is still the most eminent of all the Grand Tours, and the coveted yellow jersey – the colour of L’Auto’s pages – introduced in 1919 to be worn by the race leader is a recognised symbol all over the world. Over time, the stages have become shorter and no longer run in a continuous loop. The race always follows a different route, consisting variously of mountain stages, flat stages and time trials, and since 1975 has always ended at the Champs-Élysées in Paris.
Fame and fortune still await those who can finish, and win, the most prestigious bicycle race in the world.
‘Pedal Power: inspirational stories from the world of cycling’ is available now
Yet another cyclist has been killed on London’s roads. On the morning of 22nd May, a man in his 50s was involved in a collision with a lorry, suffering fatal injuries. The news of this latest tragedy upset and angered me more than usual. I have just returned from a trip to Copenhagen, a cycling Utopia where the city is built around the bike, a city where, while accidents and collisions are not impossible, their likelihood is far less. How can it be that in London we force fragile cyclists to share the road with multi-ton lorries?
My day job is as a cycling instructor: I teach both children and adults how to use London’s roads safely. The role exists because TfL wants people to cycle, for all the benefits it brings, but they want them to do it without being killed. The style of cycling I teach is, without doubt, defensive. We instruct our trainees to take the lane, to dominate the road, to prevent drivers from overtaking if there is no space to do so. Eye contact is essential to alleviate potential conflict. The door zone should be avoided at all costs. Signalling is clear, purposeful and bold. Cyclists should assert their right to use the road, demonstrating with their position that they are entitled to be there and showing competence and confidence. We teach speed: if you want to ride with the traffic, you should behave as such. Everything, from how to get on and off your bike, is about staying alive.
I love my job and I feel that I do a service to the people of London. But on returning from my little Danish holiday, it struck me just how much the techniques I teach are survival tactics. The style of riding we encourage is balshy, bold and brave. Riders must be vigilant, constantly on the lookout for something that might kill them. The roads are no place for the timid. In my first few years as an instructor, I was keen that everyone should learn this brilliant syllabus and be trained in how to negotiate traffic safely. But why should cyclists have to be taught simply how to survive? Anyone should be able to use the road safely, without ever having had a lesson. It’s akin to training pedestrians in martial arts. It shouldn’t be like this.
My experience of riding in Copenhagen was a pleasure. Even as a complete newcomer (and with limited experience of riding on the right hand side) I could negotiate the city with ease. The style of riding there could not be more different to what I teach. Cyclists make very little eye contact, because there is no need. Signals are subtle; speed is less frantic. No one takes the lane. It is not necessary to employ defensive riding techniques, because the infrastructure never requires cyclists to mix with vehicles for which those techniques are vital. On every road there is a clear, wide cycle lane, with its own traffic light at junctions. Making turns is simple and safe. The cycle lane has priority over motor vehicles turning off the main road, and that lane has sufficient space for the many and varied cyclists who use it: young and old, slow and fast, office worker and school-run parent.
As my time in London has gone on, I have increasingly come back to the infrastructure question. When I first moved to London I thought, it’s fine, we can share the space. But the more experienced I become and now, having seen first-hand a true cycling city such as Copenhagen, I am fully of the mind that we need cycle lanes. I am neither a motor vehicle nor a pedestrian, yet most of the time I am required to share the space with one or the other of these groups. Why can I not have my own space? Infrastructure does not mean the finger of green tarmac that is painted to the side of the road as an afterthought, a way to remove cyclists from blocking the flow of traffic. Cycle lanes in this city are woefully inadequate. Flagship schemes such as the Cycle Superhighways need far more thought. A large portion of our infrastructure is misleading, useless, and might as well not be there.
“Why would a cyclist go up the inside of a lorry?” asks a group of HGV drivers on the Safe Urban Driving course. “It’s common sense.” But it’s not the cyclists that lack common sense, it’s the infrastructure. And until we drastically invest time, money and political will in changing it, cyclists will continue to die on London’s roads.
In the automobile boom of the 1960s, people abandoned their bicycles and began to drive. This miracle form of transport, so quick and easy, dry in all weathers, was a status symbol; to have one was to be rich. But then came the problems: congestion, ill health, laziness. The cycling fight-back was slow, stealthy and incremental – a protest against the dominance of the motor car, a gradual transformation of the streets that put bicycle culture back at the forefront of city planning. Fierce resistance was encountered, but over a period of 40 years, Copenhagen became a cycling Utopia: a city admired by others around the world and a place where 45 per cent of commuters travel by bicycle. To ‘Copenhagenize’ is a recognised verb amongst cycle campaigners.
This is an extract from my new book, Pedal Power, from the profile on Jan Gehl, one of the main architects in building Copenhagen into a cycling city. The book is a series of character pieces on the people who have made cycling what it is today, inspiring and innovating throughout the ages. Gehl was heavily on my mind on a recent visit to the Danish capital.
Because people ride bikes in Copenhagen. The city is a bicycle fanatic’s dream. Everyone rides: tourist and resident, young and old, businessman and student, dad on the school run and granny out for groceries. Outside the school gates sits a queue of cargo bikes after offspring have been delivered to class. Side streets are crammed with bicycles, propped up haphazardly on their stands wherever space can be found. There is no Strava culture here, no Lycra louts. The bicycles are sedate and elegant, as is the style of riding: folk ride sturdy, robust three-speeders, with step-through frames and large, upright handlebars, often adorned with racks, baskets and perhaps a passenger. It’s about facilitating movement, not racing into the office. Bicycles are everywhere. For once, what I do feels normal.
A large part of this is down to infrastructure. The roads are designed around easing the passage of bicycles and, surprisingly, bicycles outnumber cars. There is a wide, often segregated, clearly-signed cycle way along each road. Every set of traffic lights has a separate light for cyclists. At each junction there is a clearly-marked method of turning without having to negotiate lanes of motor traffic. ‘Build it and they will come’ – and they have, in their thousands. High quality infrastructure that works is key to enabling cycling.
But it is not the only thing. Attitude and culture are less tangible but equally important. The system of priority here favours the cyclist: any motor vehicle wishing to turn into a side road must first wait until all cyclists using the inside lane have passed. There is safety in numbers – being a frequent encounter, cyclists are seen as normal rather than a nuisance. Most motorists are also cyclists which helps. The overall effect is a much kinder, less frantic road experience. Drivers wait. No one seems to be in a rush. There is no running the lights. Car horns are rarely sounded.
So entrenched is the cycling culture in Copenhagen that it’s easy to imagine it was always like this. But Copenhagen had its car culture too. It was a steady, sustained effort of investment and political will that slowly changed things until Copenhagen became the world-leading cycling city that we see today. It’s a positive reminder that things can change. There might be hope for London yet.
‘Friends’ Season 7 Episode 9
Ross: If you’re not going to ride this bike, I’m going to have to take it back.
Phoebe: What!? Why?
Ross: Because… because, it would be like you having this guitar and never playing it. This guitar wants to be played. And this bike wants to be ridden. If you don’t ride it, you’re killing its spirit.
Phoebe: OK, Ross (disbelieving)
Phoebe (whispering to bike): Please don’t die!
I have a bicycle that I keep under the bed. It’s my round-Britain touring bike, a Ridgeback Voyage, which only comes out for long rides or touring holidays. It’s safe under there – safe from thieves, rain, damage and the needless wearing of the parts when I only ever use two gears in London. I would be heartbroken if it were stolen.
Instead I ride a cheap Giant hybrid bicycle. It’s not a good bike – at less than a year old there’s a knocking in the bottom bracket and the wheel hubs are wobbling. But it gets me from A to B and I don’t mind if it gets damaged or stolen.
This weekend I’m taking part in a ride from the west coast of Wales to the east coast of England. It’s not a ride that I can do on my town bike. I drag the tourer out from under the bed, dust off the cobwebs, and begin to piece the thing back together: wheels, mudguards, handlebars, pedals. I lean it against the wall and take a step back. There is much to admire with this machine. The frame is a sleek silver, the geometry well-suited to my shape. The group set is perfectly capable of sending me over hills with ease. It’s a reliable ride and looks good. Though an entry-level touring bike, it’s a very well-made one. It has seen many miles and facilitated many adventures. The top tube is pocked with the knocks of long rides, the plastic windows of the gear shifters blistered through exposure to the sun. This bicycle tells stories.
The chain has rusted in patches so I give it a good spray and take it for a quick spin. The wheels whirr across the towpath, silent and smooth. I feel comfortable and safe; this bike is beautiful to ride. With a rush of affection I remember how important it is to love the machine you are riding. Loving cycling alone is not enough.
Guilt-ridden at having left my beautiful touring bike under the bed for so long I realise that, by trying to protect it, I am mistreating it. The cables are sluggish. The chain has rusted anyway, through non-use. Bikes are meant to be ridden, not kept in stasis. Wheels are made to spin, chains to run, pedals to turn. By tucking it away under the bed I am leaving it to decay.
As I spin further from home I call to mind Phoebe’s scene with her new bike. Because it’s not just the mechanics that suffer through abandonment. The sole purpose in a bicycle’s creation is movement, to go, to explore, to facilitate travel, to instigate adventure. Hiding it away robs the bike of its raison d’être and stifles its spirit. By riding it I am benefitting, too: the simple pleasure of cycling has caused a huge grin to spread across my face. It’s joy, satisfaction, freedom and health. I vow never to mistreat it again.
While I can’t guarantee that it will be safe from light fingers or the creeping progress of rust, I can give it the life for which it was built, and in return receive those intangible rewards that riding brings.
In 2014, Irishman Breifne Earley took part in the World Cycle Race, a 18,000 mile non-stop ride around the planet. Overweight and never having been on a bike tour, he was not an obvious candidate to cycle round the world, but motivated by the breakdown of his relationship, his career stalling and a wish to take his own life, he signed up. Against the odds, Breifne won, and returned a new man. His story is included in my book, Pedal Power, along with stories of others for whom the bicycle has helped them get through life’s difficulties.
There simply wasn’t space in Pedal Power to include the full interview with Breifne, so here it is.
Were you a cyclist before deciding to take part in the World Cycle Race?
I hadn’t been on a bike from the time I got my driving licence at 17, in fact I had barely exercised at all through my mid to late twenties. My first attempt at getting back on the bike happened in the gym in late 2010, before hitting the roads in early 2011. It was a swift learning curve through sportives, group rides and some simple duathlon and triathlon events.
What attracted you to cycling?
I was attracted to the cycling out of the triathlon choices mainly due to being a very weak swimmer and having a lack of love with the open water environment. Also my attempts at running had resulted in way too much pain and issues in my joints, my ankles, knees and hips. I found my time on the bike to be enjoyable, fun and made me feel fantastic both physically and mentally.
Have you always suffered from poor mental health?
Through my late twenties my mental health deteriorated in the main due to a poor working environment. Spending 60-70 hours a week sometimes under the very watchful eye of a bad boss or bosses can be devastating to your mental health. As the environment became more hostile on a day to day basis, I found myself struggling to function in other parts of my life. It affected my relationships with my family, my friends and my ex girlfriend.
Was there a ‘crunch’ moment in your life or a time of mental breakdown?
In early October 2010, I made the decision to take my own life. Before I had an opportunity to act on that decision, a text message inviting me to a memorial service for a cousin’s anniversary and watching the movie, The Bucket List, prompted me to set my own list of challenges. As my cousin’s anniversary was the 10th / 10th / 2010, I chose this as my start date. Over the next thirteen months until the 11th November 2011 (11/11/11) I lost five stone, went on fifty blind dates, learned to swim and cook, changed career, performed in ten open mic nights, saved 10% of my salary, cycled around New Zealand, finished open water sea swims, triathlons and a marathon.
The word ‘depression’ is very all-encompassing but probably doesn’t give an accurate picture of your personal situation. How else would you describe the state of your mental health?
I was at the lowest imaginable point the evening I made the decision to take my own life. Now I enjoy every moment I have to give. I spend it in the company of my family and close friends, doing the activities I want to spend my time doing. My mental health and my mental strength have proven to be in good shape time after time. Setting myself and achieving challenges like cycling around the world, recording an album, writing a best selling book amongst other things since have allowed me to increase my mental capacity to deal with everything that life can throw at me.
How does cycling make you feel? Why do you think it’s a good antidote to mental health issues?
Having tried running, walking, hiking and swimming as methods of exercise, it was the cycling that really raised my happiness levels. The idea that I could actually travel meaningful distances under my own steam whilst getting fitter, solo or with great company alongside me really appealed to me. The freewheeling down a hill having cycled up the other side is the best feeling in the world. Cycling is like an drug, but with only positive side effects.
Once you had decided to take part in the race what was your preparation window?
I had established a reasonable base fitness through my initial set of challenges but I started to prepare specifically for the event in early September 2013, a six month leading time with two daily sessions from Monday to Thursday. The morning session consisted of a two hour strength and conditioning session, focusing on my joints, ankles, knees, hips and lower back, sandwiched between two 1 hour cycles to and from the gym. The afternoon / evening session might be a run or a high intensity 40 / 50 km cycle. Each Friday saw me cycle the 170km distance between my apartment in Dublin and my parent’s home in Leitrim. Saturday was my rest day where I’d catch up with family and friends before making the return 170km journey to Dublin. I tapered off about two weeks out as I got my final preparations together.
What were your top 5 challenges during the race?
My top five challenges were finding a place to stay each way along the journey, trying to find the funding to continue the journey when cash was low, dealing with mechanical issues as they arose hundreds of kilometres from any bike shop or mechanic, having to keep moving on from places where I made friends or would have liked to explore a little more and finally the motivation to keep moving forward when all the other participants had withdrawn or been disqualified.
Top 5 best moments
I could probably pick five top moments from each and every day on the road. Overall the top five moments were: climbing Baldwin Street, the world’s steepest street in Dunedin, New Zealand; cycling across Tower Bridge for the second time, 490 days and 18,000 miles after the first time; crossing the Great Divide while cycling along Historical Route 66 in New Mexico; speaking at numerous different events about my journey, including Irish consulate offices, in front of over 22,000 spectators at a Major League Soccer fixture and in countless schools and colleges around the world; meeting so many people who offered me places to stay, food, drinks, company and conversation. Being treated identically by people of all races, creeds, nationalities, colours and religions was a refreshing reminder of the goodness of the entire human race and the manufactured differences between us all.
How has your life changed since completing the race?
My life is completely unrecognisable since finishing the race. I don’t sweat the small stuff anymore – people and things that used to get under my skin, upset me and leave me stressed now don’t take my attention from the important things in life: my family, friends and passions. I put a lot of this down to the self therapy during the hundreds of hours with only my thoughts rattling around in my head in the wilderness of the Nullarbor Desert, the Rocky Mountains and along the many miles of coastline in India, South East Asia, Australia and the Pacific Coast Highway.
What was your feeling on arrival back in London/Ireland?
While it was a little bit anti climactic to have finished the journey, the lessons and friends I picked up along the way have combined to leave me feeling very much a stronger and more confident person. The arrival back in Ireland and my hometown in Leitrim in particular left me speechless. The warmth and support from my community was phenomenal.
The full story of Breifne’s incredible journey is told in his book, Pedal the Planet.
Since a man was badly injured in the process of being removed from an overbooked United Airlines flight last week, there have been several other reported incidents of people being forcibly removed from flights.
I was removed from a train once. It wasn’t my finest moment, but it’s an illustration of what happens when someone is forced to do something that they think is unfair.
I’ve been refused access to a train before when I haven’t pre-booked my bike, so I was careful to have my tickets ready, for both me and my bicycle. I arrived at the gate with five minutes to spare – plenty of time, or so I thought. The ticket man disagreed.
“You need to arrive ten minutes before the train is due to leave. I can’t let you on this train.”
I was surprised. No one has ever said that to me before and I’ve been taking my bike on the train for years.
My first reaction was panic. “But I have a reservation!” I really needed to get on that train. It was bound for the Lake District, the venue of my ironman triathlon for which I’d been training for months. To not be able to get there didn’t bear thinking about.
“You can get on the train but you can’t bring your bike.”
My thoughts were running at a hundred miles an hour. I needed this bike for the triathlon – I simply cannot get on the train without it. And even if I could, I didn’t now have time be able to go and lock it up and get back before the train departs.
I needed to get on that train.
“Thank you, but I have a reservation and I need to get on the train.”
I walked decisively past the man and approached the train that was waiting in the platform. Unusually, but fortunately, the bike carriage was at the rear of the train: right next to me. There were no other bikes in it.
The man had followed me from the ticket gate and now stood between me and the train.
“I can’t let you board this train,” he says. “You don’t have time.”
I looked at the clock. There were three minutes before the train was due to depart. Loading a bike takes approximately 30 seconds.
“But the bike carriage is right there,” I replied. “I have a reservation. Please, let me load my bike.”
It was a battle of wills. He stood his ground, repeating again and again that it would be my responsibility if the train was delayed. I kept saying that this is the train I’m booked on, if he would just move to the side, he is the one now holding up the train, please allow me to board.
He was following the rules. I thought he was being ridiculous. In desperation I pushed past him, boarding the train 20 seconds before departure. Off came the panniers, the bike was hooked in its place, and I was ready to find my seat.
The man remained on the train and continued to ask me to leave. I had been calm and polite throughout the entire exchange, but now I started arguing. “But I’m here now! The train is ready to depart. Can’t we just leave it?” I looked around at the other passengers for any kind of support. Nothing.
I don’t know why the next thing happened. Perhaps it was because I had shown such a flagrant disregard for this man’s authority. Perhaps it was because I was breaking the rules. Perhaps he was on a power trip. Perhaps he was just one of those people who won’t let things go. He left the carriage and called the police.
An off-duty member of the British Transport Police happened to be on board. He bustled down the train and burst through the door. I thought he’d be my saviour; I assumed that the police are there to help, that they will listen to both sides of a story and come to a calm and reasoned conclusion. Wrong. “This woman won’t leave the train.” That’s all he needed to hear. “No, wait, I…!” Without waiting for my response he physically picked me up and forced me off. I didn’t go easily. “Listen, no!” I grabbed the handrail as he bundled me out of the door, my little finger snapping as his bulk easily overpowered my slight frame. I stood fuming on the platform while he removed my bicycle from its rack, then threw my bags off after me.
The stand-off on the train had lasted for six minutes. Every minute cost the train company £100 in late-running fines.
I waited on the platform for more BTP personnel to arrive, then burst into tears. My Ironman plans had been thrown into doubt; I was in agony, my little finger having been broken in the ruckus; I was infuriated and humiliated. The BTP lady on the platform calmed me down and arranged for me to get on the next train, for which neither my bike or I had a ticket. It was a more direct train and I arrived in the Lake District earlier than expected.
My problem with this whole episode was not the rules. Afterwards, I checked Virgin Trains’ policy on bikes and yes, it recommends you are there ten minutes before departure. I spoke to a BTP representative and they told me if a member of train staff asks you to leave and you refuse, they can legitimately have you forcibly removed without having to ask questions. All of this I accept. The incident didn’t bring out the best side of me; few interactions like this would.
My problem was the handling of the whole situation. Had the ticket man said to me, “Sorry, you are too late to board this train, but I can put you on the next one,” I would have said, “Sure.” Had I been told when I booked my bicycle that I needed to be there ten minutes in advance, I would have done so. If it is a policy that’s worth upholding to such an extreme extent, it needs to be a clearly communicated policy at every level and upheld by everyone. To be then allowed onto a train for which I didn’t have a reservation shows that the policy isn’t worth the ticket it’s printed on. To my frustration, on my return journey I watched a man run the length of the platform with his bike with 30 seconds to go before departure. The guard on that particular train allowed this, even encouraged it. I obviously got the wrong man.
I didn’t ever complain to Virgin Trains about the incident, mainly because technically I was the one in the wrong. But I still feel that indignation about the whole ridiculous, avoidable thing; I was mistreated, humiliated and physically injured, and, one year on, my finger still hurts.
Isabelle Clement is the Director of Wheels for Wellbeing, a London-based charity that enables people with a disability to access cycling.
I was inspired by Isabelle’s story after having stumbled across this video, and was pleased when she agreed to be part of my book, Pedal Power. Isabelle’s story appears in the chapter ‘Beyond the Bike’, which explores how the bicycle has changed the lives of those for whom mobility is a difficulty. It features Para-athletes, those who’ve recovered from life-threatening injuries to continue to live full and challenging lives, and those for whom the bicycle is a lifeline to their everyday living.
Below is Isabelle’s story as it appears in the book.
Isabelle Clement – Wheels for Wellbeing
It was trying to keep up with her four-year-old son that caused Isabelle Clement to turn her wheelchair into a bike – and open the door to a new life.
Isabelle had a spinal tumour at ten months of age, meaning that she has never been able to walk very far or run at all. When she reached her mid-twenties, she increasingly used a wheelchair to get about. She had once tried to learn to ride a bicycle as a child, but unable to balance or keep her feet on the pedals, she gave up the attempt. The lid closed on the idea of cycling. So when her son got his first bike, and Isabelle struggled to keep up, she began searching around and came across an adapter for her wheelchair. ‘I realised cycling doesn’t stop at the simple bicycle.’
The adapter has a large wheel at the front, powered by hand-cranks, which raises her wheelchair off its two small casters, making the ride smoother, faster and easier. Using hand-cranks means she can go ‘off-road’ without getting mud up her arms.
Her first ride was a ‘walk’ with friends. With her transformed wheelchair, she left them behind. For the first time in her life, she felt the wind in her hair, the blood pumping round her veins and the whoosh of endorphins flooding her body. It was nothing like she had ever experienced before. That first ride was like crashing through a glass door – she had never envisaged travelling any distance at all under her own steam but suddenly, she could go as far as her imagination would take her.
Turning her wheelchair into a bike was a revelation. It wasn’t just the travel; she also experienced a different attitude in those around her. No longer seen as ‘someone in a wheelchair’, she noticed how people reacted positively to her wheelchair bike: smiling, laughing and pointing in surprise. Their reaction is joy, not pity – even though she is exactly the same person, in exactly the same chair.
Isabelle took on the Directorship of Wheels for Wellbeing, a charity that maintains a fleet of bicycles, tricycles, tandems and wheelchair tandems to enable disabled people to access cycling. She also campaigns for better infrastructure for those with disabilities. ‘Cycling infrastructure is built by people who assume disabled people don’t cycle, and access is often poor,’ she says. ‘The assumption is that disabled people want to drive or need taxis to get about.’ Some disabled cyclists are told: ‘You can’t cycle here. And anyway, if you were really disabled, you wouldn’t be on a bike!’
Mobility is freedom, as Isabelle experienced with that first handbike ride. ‘People don’t realise how enabling and freeing the right set of wheels can be,’ she explains. ‘Powering my bike forwards is like powering my life forwards.’
Last night we held the launch party for Pedal Power. It was a really enjoyable evening with lots of people to talk to, all within the setting of the lovely Stanfords travel shop in Covent Garden. Thanks to all who attended and made the evening possible.
Copies of Pedal Power can be purchased online or in Stanfords branches in London and Bristol. It’s also available in Waterstones, Foyles, Blackwells and whichever local bookshop you ask. You can also download it as an e-book.
I’m not much one for reviews (as my blog on the topic explains) but if you feel moved, please do post a review online – it helps to lift the profile of the book and hopefully inspire more people to read and ride!
I’m about to publish my second book, ‘Pedal Power: inspirational stories from the world of cycling’. It was a remarkably condensed project: two months of researching and cramming as many words into the day as I could, gathering tales from across the spectrum of two-wheeled wonders. The book is about people: the first innovators of the bicycle; the Grand Masters of continental racing; women pioneers; long-haul adventurers; speed demons and endurance racers; those who use the bicycle to seek solace from the demands of every day life, or to seek thrills, or to highlight causes close to their hearts. With each story I studied articles, novels and websites to gather enough information with which to construct my tale. But it repeatedly led to the conclusion: all these stories have already been told. Why is my version going to be any different? Does the world really need this book?
The more I pondered this the more I doubted that there would be an appetite for what I had written. There are a hundred books about cycling, many of which are presented in the same vein as mine, drawing together stories that explore the interesting, unusual, unique and noteworthy that celebrate this most ingenious form of transport. Cycling is loved by many, for many different reasons, but was there such a thing as market saturation? Was I just adding to the pot of works that sits on the virtual shelves at Amazon and gathers dust?
‘I’m worried I’m not saying anything new,’ I wrote to my editor, before scouring iPlayer for a film that might take my mind away from race stats and truing jigs and distance records. Salmon Fishing in the Yemen popped up. I’d read and enjoyed the book, so I clicked ‘play’ and settled back with my glass of wine. Halfway through it hit me: I’m watching a film of a story that has been told to me before. But still I chose to watch it. Why? Perhaps repetition can be a good thing; I liked the familiarity of it. The different portrayal of characters was intriguing, the interpretation charming. It didn’t matter that I knew how it ended (as it happens, the film ends differently to the book). I still enjoyed it; I laughed; I was moved.
So it is with my book. I might not be saying anything that hasn’t been said before, but the very fact that I’m saying it is enough. My book is different from every other book on cycling out there, simply because it is my book, not someone else’s. We all have different styles, preferences and tastes (just check out the polarised Amazon reviews of my first book), and my book might speak to someone in a way that another might not. I have a different audience. And for that reason alone, it is worth writing.
Ultimately it’s an art form, a form of expression. There can never be too many stories, as there can never be too many songs, films, plays, art works. For this is why we write, to inspire, inform and educate. In times like these, God knows we need it.
On Friday, the tragic news emerged that endurance cyclist Mike Hall had died. He was killed in a collision with a car while taking part in the Indian Pacific Wheel Race in Australia. Mike was well known in the endurance racing community, having won the first World Cycle Race in 2012, and founded the Transcontinental Race, an annual non-stop ride across Europe. Mike was also twice winner of the Tour Divide. He had come to endurance racing in his late twenties and had shown great skill, strength and enthusiasm for the sport.
I was fortunate enough to correspond with Mike several times while writing my book, Pedal Power, in which he features. It’s a sudden and shocking loss that has drawn tributes from all over the cycling community. Below is an edited version of Mike’s profile. The book was printed before Mike’s passing.
Mike Hall – Fastest man around the world
It wasn’t cycling round the world like many would know it, but it was my kind of race.
Many people have cycled the world and many have ended up in the record books as the fastest. But in 2012, circling the planet became an official race: the World Cycle Race. When Mike Hall from Yorkshire wheeled up to the start line in Greenwich on 18 February 2012, a passer-by said to him, ‘You look like you’re going to be time trialling round the world!’
‘I am,’ Mike replied.
Mike’s previous experience in endurance racing had been in the Tour Divide, a 2,745 mile mountain-biking race along the spine of the Rocky Mountains from Canada to Mexico: an unsupported, single-stage event where competitors must carry all they need and the clock never stops. The lessons he learned about fuelling on the move, packing light and sleeping little were applied to the World Cycle Race – it would be essentially the same, but on a road bike and much, much longer.
In a bag no larger than a small knapsack, he carried a tent with an inflatable pole, sleeping bag, jacket and sleeping mat, waterproof trousers and a gilet. A change of clothes would have been an extravagance. The kit was strapped beneath the saddle and in the triangle of the frame, in line with his body in order to minimise any drag factor. His bicycle was made of carbon fibre. The whole thing weighed less than 18 kg.
‘I didn’t need to take equipment, I just needed to take risks. The winner will be the one who lives fast, not necessarily the one who rides fast,’ he said. His average mileage was 200 miles a day, with a century ridden before lunch and another squeezed in before bed. On most days he was still riding at 10 p.m., pushing on until he was almost falling from his bike with tiredness; sleep was snatched in bushes, at roadsides, on beaches, beneath bus shelters and in public toilets.
Initially, the biggest challenge was the physicality of all that riding: the strain, the fatigue, the sleep deprivation. As time went on, the mental side became tougher: unfamiliar terrains, alien cultures and the sheer length of the task. In other races, you can just tough it out but in this it was endless: ‘After a couple of weeks you can’t remember when you started and you can’t imagine the end.’
Despite the gruelling nature of the challenge, Mike never lacked the motivation to get up and grind out another 200 miles. Even when the weather was bad or enthusiasm was lacking, he knew it would be just as punishing for the other competitors.
‘You’ve always got to tell yourself, when you’re going through a bad patch – this won’t last. And when you’re going through a good patch, that won’t last either.’
Mike rolled into Greenwich after 107 days, a world champion. He had spent 91 days on his bicycle and ridden 18,175 miles, finishing 5,000 miles ahead of his closest challenger and coming in two weeks faster than the previous record holder. His victory was achieved on the day he turned 31.
The experience cemented Mike’s enthusiasm for endurance racing. In 2013 he entered the Tour Divide again, and won. The following year he won the inaugural Trans America Bike Race – a gruelling 4,400 miles from the Pacific coast to the Atlantic.
His passion for adventure racing led to him founding, in 2013, the Transcontinental Race, an event he described as beautifully simple yet completely ridiculous. Competitors travel across continental Europe from west to east via the Alps, solo and unsupported, with only the start point, finish point and a few check points dictated – the rest is up to the riders. Because of Mike’s enthusiasm, racing on this scale is growing in popularity: although only 30 people registered for the first edition of the race, over 1,000 people applied in 2016.
His passion led him to compete in the Indian Pacific Wheel Race in 2017, which would be his last ride. Tragically, Mike was struck by a car and died. But his legacy lives on: inspiring thousands of others to experience the joy of endurance cycling.
Heavy Goods Vehicles (HGVs), buses, trucks and coaches make up the smallest proportion of traffic on UK roads, yet are involved in the highest proportion of fatal collisions with cyclists. It’s a scary statistic, and one that is being addressed through safer lorry design and advanced training for drivers, as well as an Exchanging Places programme that puts cyclists behind the wheel and reveals how invisible bikes can be from inside the cab.
The best way to avoid collisions with lorries is to keep out of danger zones and blind spots. A driver’s blind spots are these:
However, infrastructure can be misleading. At a typical traffic-controlled junction in UK cities, there is an Advanced Stop Line (ASL), or bike box, for cyclists to use. This can be advantageous: it gives you a head start; it allows you better visibility of the junction; drivers can see you more easily. But it also encourages you into those places where the driver cannot see you. Most dangerous is the feeder-lane into the bike box. The worse place you can be at a junction is on the inside of a left-turning vehicle: this is the position from which you are most likely to be dragged beneath the wheels. But where is the cycle lane? On the left.
So cyclists riding up the inside of the lorry are not always doing it through lack of common sense. Poor infrastructure can hinder rather than help cyclists.
Large vehicles have limited visibility and limited manoeuvrability. Remember this as you ride among them. Turning and stopping requires effort. A good way to maintain your safety is eye contact: a driver who has seen you is very unlikely to collide with you. Also remember that in the UK, cyclists do not have right of way if a vehicle in front of you is turning.
Never go up the inside of a left-turning vehicle, and only pass a large vehicle if you are certain it is safe to do so.
There are safety tips and much more information on the London Cycling Campaign website
Thomas Stevens, a free spirit and explorative soul, lived in San Francisco, where he would listen to the constant whispering of the Pacific Ocean and dream of adventure – and what better adventure than to ride across the United States of America, in search of the opposite coast? In 1884 he set out on his Columbus penny-farthing, whose large front wheel measured 50 inches and heavy frame weighed 34 kg. He carried a change of socks, a spare shirt and a raincoat inside bags lashed beneath his seat, as well as a revolver strapped to his hip. For shelter he planned to sleep beneath his raincoat or rely on strangers’ hospitality. Eastwards he rode, following in the wheels of several others who had attempted the journey, though all had failed and turned back. There followed several months of riding, dragging and pushing his bike along wagon roads, railroads, canal towpaths and the few public roads that existed. Poor weather and rough terrain meant that around a third of his journey was spent walking.
The perils of the journey were many: at one point he escaped a mountain lion by using his revolver; another time he was bitten by a rattlesnake, though the poisonous fangs sank harmlessly into his canvas gaiters. But more dangerous than wild animals was the railroad; though ideal in many ways – a route flat and direct, its network of tunnels and bridges carving a smooth passage through state after state – the rumble of an approaching train would cause Stevens’s heart to beat fast in his chest. Once, he was forced to crouch beneath the tracks to avoid being hit, high above a ravine, his bicycle dangling in one hand.
Once he reached Boston, Stevens had achieved his aim: here was the Atlantic, to whose great waves he could now deliver the message of the Pacific. He spent the winter in New York, writing up the accounts of his travels for Outing magazine. Inspired by his work, the editors offered him sponsorship for his onward journey, if he chose to take it. So in April 1885 Stevens set sail for England for the next stage of what had become a round-the-world mission.
Through England, Europe and the Balkans he pedalled, then across Turkey, Iraq and Iran. In every nation he drew fascinated stares, folk intrigued by this tall, energetic white man with a curled moustache, riding a contraption which had never been seen before. Curious locals frequently blocked his path, asking him to entertain them with his bicycle. Though happy to oblige, this eventually became tiresome: when resting and eating at a cafe in Turkey the proprietor took away Stevens’s unfinished meal, not returning it until he had pleased the crowds. Yet Stevens’s overwhelming impression was of helpful, kind and hospitable people, willing to provide shelter, food and water. ‘Humanity is the same the world over,’ he wrote in his diary – a theme that would become familiar in the tales of generations of world travellers to come.
Thirty-two months after he had departed, with 13,500 miles under his wheels, he arrived back in San Francisco. An article in The New York Times written during his travels said:
‘But how the world shrinks and what a prospect does the adventurous cyclist open up before the eyes of wheelmen! What corner of the world will be left unvisited by the silent riders of the iron steed?… The inventor of the bicycle has done more to revolutionize the religious, moral and social ideas of mankind than all the philosophers of our time.’
Confession: I whacked a car window today. It was the conclusion of a conversation with a driver that had grown more and more heated as we both tried to make our voices heard, a conversation that had no end other than anger. She yelled expletives; I used my fist. Her transgression: daring to suggest I should use the cycle lane.
She was trying to be helpful; I was trying to get where I was going. She thought she was looking out for my safety. But the reality is, I don’t have to use the cycle lane. I can use it if it will help, but this particular lane (and many others) wouldn’t have. It was part of the pavement, a painted line all that demarcated the space between cyclists and walkers. Pedestrians wander across the line, paying scant attention to my passageway, and so they should; it’s easy to ignore. Partway along, the separation ends and the area becomes dual use, with a crowd of buggies and mums waiting for the bus. Here, pedestrians have priority; I have to slow down. Each time there is a side road the cycle lane gives way while on the main carriageway the traffic sails on by.
These are my choices: potentially endanger pedestrians, take longer getting to work, and give up my right of way at each side road, or potentially endanger myself by sharing with motor traffic, but take a fast, direct, well-surfaced, clearly signed route along which I can ride quickly. It’s a positive choice I make to use the carriageway, though the unsolicited advice and abuse is not quite so pleasant.
These are common problems with cycle infrastructure: too narrow, poor surface, unfavourable priorities, disappears just where you need it, doesn’t go where you want, unclear signage. We’re in a stage of transition in London at the moment, where there is plenty of new infrastructure going in, some good, some quite awful, and, at the moment, no legal obligation to use it. Motorists hate it because roadworks cause congestion, the new infrastructure takes away lanes from the main carriageway, and there’s still a bl**dy cyclist sitting in front of you; cyclists hate it because it’s not quite good enough to make use of, yet it encourages people to yell at you for not using it.
The frustration that resulted in my hand making contact with a car window is common amongst all road users. I’ve had my fair share of drivers who scream at me before winding up their window and driving off, offering no right of reply. I’ve also been the one to do the screaming. It’s impatience, frustration, but mostly fear that leads to these exchanges. None of us is perfect, and we’re all just trying to get where we are going. Currently, the infrastructure isn’t helping.
Perhaps at some point in the future there will be a good quality cycle lane along every road, and then I will use it. Until then, we all just need to share the space better.
International Women’s Day is a chance to celebrate the social, economic, cultural and political achievements of women. One of the chapters in my soon-to-be published book Pedal Power is entitled ‘Wonder Women’ and features stories of women throughout the ages who have repeatedly shown that cycling is not just a man’s domain.
One of the most inspirational of these was Beryl Burton, a northern powerhouse who dominated road racing and time trialling throughout the second half of the twentieth century. An amateur throughout her career, she juggled cycling with raising her daughter, often struggling for money, always determined and focussed and with a steely ambition to keep on going. Her time trial performances became legendary, earning her the Best British All Rounder title for an incredible 25 years in a row. In the 1967 12-hour time trial she rode a distance that not only broke the existing women’s record but also demolished the men’s. It’s a record Beryl still holds to this day.
Below is an edited version of the profile that appears in the book.
Beryl Burton – Northern Soul
Road time trials had been the staple of British cycling since the late 1800s, when massed sprints had been banned for being too dangerous. Over distances of 25, 50 and 100 miles, individuals would race against the clock and it was in these events that Beryl Burton dominated, obliterating the field. Dedicated, determined and bloody-minded, she never slowed down. The Best All-Rounder award was given to the rider with the best average score from all of their events over the course of a year. Beryl was crowned the winner every single year between 1959 and 1983.
An amateur throughout her career, she stayed at the top through sheer determination. Training runs would take place in the evenings and at weekends, slotted into gaps between working and raising her daughter, Denise. The family was never wealthy; before they could afford a car, Beryl would cycle to her races, arranging a rendezvous part-way back with husband Charlie, who would ride to meet her with Denise in a child seat. There was no money for the luxury of a track bike; Beryl had just one bicycle that she used for her races on both road and track, switching over the wheels and sprockets as necessary.
Even at the height of her career, whenever Beryl told people that she was a cyclist, they would say, ‘Oh, take it very steady. If the hills get too hard you must get off and walk. I’m sure the boys will wait for you.’
But time and again she proved she was stronger than ‘the boys’. In open events she would consistently beat top class male riders. Known for her gently teasing manner she would pass her fellow competitors with, ‘Eh, lad, you’re not trying!’ In the 12-hour time trial of 1967 she cycled 277.25 miles, beating her rival Mike McNamara and giving him a Liquorice Allsort from her jersey pocket as she passed. He took it with a ‘Ta, love!’ and Beryl went on to set the record. It was two years before a man beat her distance; no woman has ever bettered it.
Even as Beryl grew older, she refused to give up, continuing through illness and injury, her blind determination and sheer force of will keeping her winning titles well into her forties. Doctors advised her to take it easy; friends begged her to scale things back, but she would murmur about having ‘just this race and just that race to do’. She died the day before her 59th birthday while out delivering invitations to the party. After a lifetime of pushing herself to the absolute limit, her heart just stopped. It was a sudden and shocking loss, but in the end she had been doing what she loved: riding her bike.
‘Pedal Power’ will be published on 13th April 2017. Pre-order your copy here.
A recent programme on Radio 4 explored the concept of the Social network bubble – the fact that our Facebook timelines show us only a limited number of posts, using algorithms to determine the information it thinks we would most like to see. These same algorithms are responsible for bombarding you on any web page you ever open with adverts for a product in which you have shown a passing interest, or suggesting books or films you might like based on what you’ve just bought. It has a sinister undertone: we are being fed by machines rather than our own minds, and those machines create a bubble for our lives, presenting us only with the things in which we profess to be interested and thus perpetuating our existing values.
But surely our entire lives are lived in a bubble? We surround ourselves with people we broadly agree with, and with whom we have something in common. We watch the TV channels and buy the newspapers that align most closely with our values. We might have little concept of the worldview and beliefs of others because we have the capacity to separate ourselves from them.
The difference is that, though I live in my own bubble, I choose it myself. I am at liberty to pick the people with whom I want to hang out. Yes, Facebook edits my social circle in a similar way to the editing I already do. But it’s Facebook that chooses, not me.
Long before I heard Bobby Friction’s radio show, I had decided that this kind of choice was not for me. I had been one of those people who used Facebook every day, telling myself that I needed it to stay in touch with my friends, and to remove myself would mean missing out on social occasions. But there remained an underlying sense of dissatisfaction with the platform. The people I saw on there seemed to be having a much better life than me. My group of “friends” included people in whom I didn’t have much interest, from pupils at my primary school to random people from gigs. These connections cease to exist in real life, through age and geography, evolutions that are completely bulldozed by Facebook, whose platform insists you have a perpetual relationship with everyone you have ever met.
Looking at lives we cannot possibly emulate, seeing what all our friends are up to, gives us an unhealthy sense of inferiority (the ‘you’ that is presented on social media is only the ‘you’ that you want others to see – you at your best, your funniest, your most attractive) and FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). It was a moment of realisation at a party of my best friend that finally made me question why I was on Facebook. Sitting in her garden, enjoying a glass of wine on her birthday, I overheard some of her other friends talking about the Facebook invite they had received to the party. Hang on, I thought. Where was my invite?? Then I realised, Anna, you are AT the party. You received a real life invite, in person, from your friend. It’s Facebook that instills FOMO in us. I had ultimate FOMO for the very fact that I was on Facebook. The time had come to hit ‘delete’.
Facebook tried really hard to keep me. “Are you sure?” messages popped up repeatedly. “If you delete your profile you won’t have access to …” I had to give a reason why I wanted to delete, and once I’d given the reason, they tried to answer the reason in order to keep me. Example: I don’t find Facebook useful. ”You may find Facebook useful by connecting with more of your friends. Check out our friend finder.” Example #2: I spend too much time using Facebook. “One way to control your interaction with Facebook is to limit the number of emails you receive from us. You can control which emails you receive here.” I thought about merely deactivating, the half-committal way of feeling good about yourself but still keeping one toe in the social media pool. Until up came a NOTE. Even after you deactivate, your friends can still invite you to events, tag you in photos or ask you to join groups. Read: Big Brother is still watching you.
The process to successful deletion was rounded off by listing some friends who would MISS ME if I were no longer on Facebook. Among them was my best friend (who I only ever interact with in real life), someone I met once, and my ex-boyfriend. I doubt any of them would even notice.
Even so, I hovered over the ‘delete’ button for a long time. What if what they were saying were true? Facebook wasn’t all bad. It contributed to a large part of my social activities. I did have a network of friends that I enjoyed interacting with. There was definite social pressure to be part of it. Even my dad was on Facebook. Did I have the courage to remove myself from this?
As I confirmed my deletion (in about five separate steps, each reminding me there was no going back), I knew I had made the right decision. My life instantly felt more simple. I breathed a sigh of relief. No more pressure. No more wasting hours scrolling through a timeline just to see if the next post would be interesting. I haven’t missed it for a second.
And yes, I continue to live in my own bubble, one I’m unlikely to burst out of any time soon. But at least I am the one to choose it.
My new book, Pedal Power, will be published on 13th April by Summersdale. It’s a collection of stories from all aspects cycling, from professional riders to stuntmen to long-haulers to those who use the bicycle as a form of rehab. It’s available to pre-order here, and below is a taster from the opening of the book.
Pedal Power: Introduction
I recently taught a ten-year-old girl how to ride a bicycle. Older than most of the children I teach, she had passed that stage of innocent abandon, when the stabilisers come off and just a push and some encouragement will do. The feeling of pressure was growing; she felt embarrassed to admit to her friends that she wouldn’t go to the park with them because she couldn’t ride a bike. It was such a simple yet significant thing. In our lesson she was determined and focussed, persevering even though it was hard work and the saddle was uncomfortable and she kept losing her balance. Her smile when she pedalled independently for the first time was incredible. She made me a card saying, ‘Thank you for teaching me to ride a bike. It was the best day of my life. I will never forget it.’
Most people can remember when they learned to ride a bike; I can vaguely recall my own first tentative attempt, wobbling down next door’s drive. Riding a bicycle means freedom. And it’s that freedom that can take us anywhere: to the park with friends, to school, to university or work, to the shops, to the countryside, on holiday. It can take us further afield, following in the footsteps of adventurers such as Dervla Murphy and Alastair Humphreys. It can lead to the world of sport – where speed, strength and skill are nurtured – through road racing, track racing or BMX, finding inspiration in such masters as Eddy Merckx and Laura Trott. It can be used as a way back to health from injury, a respite from mental health problems, or as an adrenaline rush for those who seek the thrill of downhill mountain biking, difficult terrain or extreme height.
The bicycle has huge historical importance, from the women who used it as a symbol of independence in their fight for liberation, to the workers who had a means of escaping to the countryside for the weekend, and the ‘Good Roads’ campaigners who literally paved the way for the road networks of today.
For me, the bicycle has always been important. It was a passport to exploration when I was a child, an independent means of getting to school as I got a bit older and a cheap way of travelling when I was a cash-strapped student. As an adult, it was a way of keeping fit on the way to work and it eventually became my work when I began teaching cycling for a living. It has also been my gateway to adventure: in 2011 I cycled 4,000 miles around the coast of the UK, documented in my book Eat, Sleep, Cycle: a bike ride around the coast of Britain. Through cycling I have met many people and made many friends. I have been on protest rides and leisure rides, I have joined groups who use the bicycle as a tool for social change, and I have raised awareness as well as money.
This is what this book is all about: a collection of stories from every aspect of cycling that have inspired me and many others throughout the ages, and which will continue to inspire people for a long time to come. I hope you too will be inspired.
‘Pedal Power’ will be published on 13th April 2017. Pre-order your copy here.
The curtains in my bedroom hang too long and the sunlight filters through them, nudging me from sleep each morning. Cutting them to size and stitching blackout material to the lining has risen to the top of the to-do list. Not for me the sewing machine, its power requirements too much for my 12-volt boat battery system. I’ll be sewing these by hand.
As I sit in the pale light of the day the stitches progress beneath my needle, a neat line of serrated white which lengthens with each pass. It’s a slow, sedate, methodical job, a creeping progression. It could be achieved in a few minutes using a sewing machine. This will take me several hours.
As I stitch, meditating on the rhythm of my needle, I ponder the worth of completing by hand those jobs that we delegate to machinery. It seems foolish, to dedicate so much time to something that could be completed so quickly. Think of the other things I could be doing with my time. Is this a waste?
The radio is playing, a commentary on life as the cotton rolls between my fingers. Each stitch has care taken over it, a physical effort having been taken to make it. I philosophise as I mark the time with my stitches. It’s not about what else I could be doing in this time, because I am doing this. Sewing by hand is simply that – there is no going faster. It takes as long as it takes. This is the task, and this is what I shall do, steadily working until it is finished. Albeit slow, progress is surely being made, with each stitch the end of the material moving closer.
It’s good for the soul, to understand the worth of what it takes to make things. Machinery is a wonderful asset to our lives but detaches us from ourselves. Don’t get me wrong; if I had a sewing machine I would use it. But to be labouring over this task, to look around my boat once I’ve finished and know that every stitch, every button hole, every hem was made by me, is my satisfaction. My heart and soul is in this boat – my sweat, too.
The fire has gone out. It’s dark outside; the candles flicker in the draught of the window. My neck is tired, my fingers marked from the sliver of the needle. There is still work to do. I will finish this tomorrow.
On 1st January 1938, a young lady named Billie Fleming set off from London to complete a challenge that no one had ever attempted before: to set the women’s record for the most miles cycled in a year. The challenge had been launched in 1911 by Cycling magazine and was initially a competition for the highest number of centuries (100 miles) ridden in a year, but soon morphed into a more general target of overall mileage. The first winner was Frenchman Marcel Plains who rode a distance of 34,366 miles, and repeated attempts throughout the early part of the century saw this mileage more than double. Billie was inspired to undertake the challenge by a simple love of cycling and an interest in keeping fit – those were the days when women were taking more notice of their physical health, rather than being chained to the hearth. Sponsored by Cadbury’s and the bicycle dealer Rudge-Whitworth, Billie cycled each day over the course of the year, averaging 81 miles per day, often ending with a fitness talk at a local community hall. She wrote articles for Cycling magazine calling for ‘A million more women cyclists.’ By the end of the year she had accrued over 29,000 miles to set the first women’s record, a distance that remained unbeaten for 78 years.
It was a remarkable feat to undertake, to commit to something so utterly consuming without really knowing what it would involve. But Billie loved her bicycle, she loved exploring, and she was determined to show what was possible, especially for females who had always been considered the weaker sex. ‘I was young and fit and ready to take on anything,’ she said. Billie attracted a fair amount of attention during her ride and was billed as the ‘Rudge-Whitworth Keep Fit Girl’ in the press. The legacy of her ride lasted throughout her life, with others riding in tribute to her, though there were few attempts to better her record, and none successful in her lifetime.
On 1st January, 2016, Swedish-born Brit Kajsa Tylén set off in pursuit of Billie’s record. Her motivations were largely the same: a love of cycling and a desire to get more people out there and exercising. Instead of sponsorship she collected ‘sweat pledges’ from people who promised to undertake some form of activity. Throughout the year she rode from the UK into Europe, wisely sticking to the largely flat sections that France, Belgium and The Netherlands have to offer. Riding into Scandinavia she pedalled beneath a midnight sun. It was an incredible adventure, taking her through the emotional and physical trials of riding for upwards of 100 miles per day for an entire year, persevering through illness and poor weather, testing her resolve and strength, but giving her experiences that she would never forget. By November she’d equalled Billie Fleming’s 29,000 miles and continued until the end of the year to set a new record of 32,326 miles.
The story of Billie and Kajsa is explored in my new book, Pedal Power, along with around 100 other stories of people who have done remarkable or inspirational things on bicycles. It has been a pleasure researching these stories, tales that range from interesting, unusual and challenging to astonishing and heart-warming. It will be published by Summersdale in April 2017. Copies can be pre-ordered here.
For these are the stories we love to hear, tales that make us gasp, smile, or stir us to get out and explore for ourselves. Bravo to both Kajsa and Billie – what a wonderful thing to have done, to have set a challenge and completed it, to have lived on the road, to have tasted all the excitement and freedom that cycling brings, and to have battled through hardship and emerged triumphant. As Billie said, ‘You have to really want to do it. Whatever the weather is that morning, you have to put your clothes on and get on and ride the bike. You will have bad days, but the good days make up for all of the bad ones.’
New bicycle for Christmas? Here is a simple check that will help keep it road worthy.
A – air
B – brakes
C – chain
D – direction
E – everything else
Pump tyres to the correct pressure – it is written on the side of the tyre the pressure to which they should be pumped. Floor/track pumps are recommended – it’s very difficult to pump a tyre to full pressure with a hand pump.
Riding on tyres below pressure can result in damage to the wheel rim and tyres, and increasingly likely punctures. Soggy tyres absorb your energy – you’ll find it far easier to ride at full pressure.
A common problem when riding on under-inflated tyres is that the tube moves independently to the tyre, slowly being pulled round as the wheel turns, so will become very bunched up at one point and very stretched at another. An indicator that this has happened is the valve protruding from the rim at an angle. Rather than try and shove the pump head on regardless, it’s best to remove the tyre and make sure the tube is correctly laid out inside.
Check brake pads for wear (there are grooves on the inside of the pad, so once these have disappeared, it’s time to replace) and correct placement. The whole of the pad should make contact with the rim, without hanging off the bottom or touching the tyre, and without the front or rear of the pad engaging first.
The brakes should engage instantly. If the brakes feel loose, either use the bolt on the brake callipers or the barrel adjuster on the brake lever. Tightening at the bolt is best, though it’s a bit more fiddly. Brake levers are sprung, so hold them in position while you undo the bolt to prevent them from springing open. Pull the cable through (a tiny adjustment is often all that’s needed) then re-tighten the bolt. The barrel adjuster is more of a temporary fix – it’s only a set length, so can’t be adjusted indefinitely. Unscrew the barrel adjuster to tighten the cable.
Brake levers come in a standard size, and can be adjusted for small hands. Somewhere on the lever housing there is a screw that can be tightened to move the levers closer to the handlebars. (This will also tighten the brakes so make sure you adjust them too.)
Healthy chains are free from dirt and rust, and are sufficiently lubricated. Use an old cloth and a lubricating spray (TF2 or GT85) to clean and remove surface rust. Oil sparingly using a dedicated chain lube. Excess oil will increase the likelihood of the chain picking up more dirt from the road and therefore wear it out more quickly. Wet lube is good for rainy conditions, as it doesn’t wash off, but being thick, it can pick up more dirt. Dry lube is lighter but will need to be reapplied if it rains.
If you buy your bicycle from a reputable dealer, this should never be a problem. If you’ve assembled the bicycle yourself, or it’s from Toys R Us or Halfords, definitely check this before riding.
Gripping the front wheel firmly between your knees and feet, try and twist the handlebars independently of the wheel. Try really hard – it needs to be completely firm. If the handlebars move, the bolt needs tightening. There are two common set-ups: a threaded headset, where there is a single bolt at the very top of the stem and a large nut around the base of the stem, and a threadless headset where there is a bolt holding on a cap at the very top and two pinch bolts on the side. Be careful not to tighten the wrong bolt. With a threaded headset, it is the bolt at the top that needs tightening – typically with a 6mm Allen key. With a threadless headset, tighten the two pinch bolts at the side, typically with a 5mm Allen key. Tighten them both incrementally and evenly rather than fully tightening one then the other. Tightening the bolt at the top will tighten the headset itself, rather than the handlebars, and will restrict the movement of the front wheel.
Give the wheels a spin to make sure they are running true.
Check all bolts are tight, especially those holding the wheels in place
Check the pedals are on the correct side – they will be marked with an L for left and R for right. It’s important to get this right – the left pedal is reverse-threaded to prevent it from unscrewing as you pedal. If they are on the wrong side, they will eventually undo themselves and fall off.
Saddle and handlebar stem should not be raised above the ‘minimum insertion’ mark.
Racks, mudguards and water bottle holders should be firmly fixed.
It’s the idea of my friend Ed, to celebrate the end of British Summer Time by cycling along the Meridian Line from capital to coast. We meet at the top of Greenwich Park, the whole of London laid out below in a blur of early-morning mist, the avenues of trees that lead southwards from the Royal Observatory glowing with the bright yellow of autumn. The four of us, me, Ed, Theo and Alex, roll away from the park towards Peacehaven. Clouds suffocate the sun.
The route is dotted with Meridian markers: a sculpture in a park, a compass rose set in the pavement, a finger post along a residential street. A line is drawn on the ceiling of the pedestrian tunnel at Hither Green station; an obelisk sits squat in a park in West Wickham.
Through the suburbs we meander, the countryside soon emerging as houses recede and farms take their place. The landscape is alive with the rusty hues of autumn, reds and yellows vivid even on this overcast day. We ride beneath leaf tunnels, chasing pheasants, chatting as the miles pass under our wheels.
We pause at the end of a climb for a snack. The sporadic drizzle has once more filled the air with moisture. I replace my jacket while we eat. After the next turn it’s a steep descent, says Ed.
I’m first down the hill. It’s steep, and I’m going fast – faster than usual. I’ve always been a cautious descender, never quite trusting that I won’t crash, but recently I’ve been trying to ease off the brakes a little, to let the bike do the work. The road is narrow and the surface is poor – the bike bumps over a rough patch and I loosen my grip on the handlebars to absorb the shock of the road, though they nearly rattle out of my hands. There is a bend in the road ahead, coming up fast. Gently on the brakes, but the bend is suddenly there, and the drizzle has slicked the tarmac, and my rear wheel skids. I shriek, regaining control for a second, but then it skids again, more significantly this time, and down I go. Knee, hip, elbow crashing to the ground, body skidding with the momentum, then head makes contact with tarmac. It bounces off the road and somehow I’m lying facing up the hill, my bike tangled up with my legs. ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I’m saying as Ed rushes to my aid; ‘I hit my head. Fuck.’ Theo’s a doctor, he tells me, then calls to them: ‘Easy guys, Anna’s taken a spill.’ I’m looking at the sky, hip and elbow burning, the searing sting of ripped skin competing with the throbbing of joints swollen with shock. Theo is beside me: don’t move, he says, and feels my neck, and asks how my vision is, then eases me off the road. My head is cut and there’s a nasty bump, but I’m OK. I sit with my head between my legs, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass as Ed fixes my punctured front wheel. The bike took a battering: bent derailleur, snapped rear light, bashed bar grips, front light in pieces on the road. We pull the derailleur back into place and re-align mudguards, piecing together the front light and checking that wheels are true. The shock is subsiding. Both bike and I really got away with that one.
The crash was 17 miles in and there are at least 40 more until we reach the coast. I would rather keep going – the bike is rideable and moving is good for my bashed-up joints, delaying the inevitable stiffening that will see me unable to move my head properly tomorrow. I berate myself as we ride; I knew I was taking that hill too fast, and in slippery conditions I should have been more cautious. There are certain falls we can’t predict, like the time I skidded in a patch of oil, or when I came down on slippery gravel on the towpath, but here, I should have risk assessed better.
The whole of the right side of my body is in agony – why must I always fall that way? My elbow has barely recovered from the oil crash! I’m annoyed at myself because I wasn’t wearing cycle-specific clothing – I rarely do, because I don’t own much, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t ride my bike in normal clothes. But cycle kit exists for a reason, and had I been wearing my cycling gloves instead of the woolly ones that I removed earlier because it was too warm, my hands would be scrape-free. I wouldn’t have ripped my everyday leggings, or my t-shirt. Heartbreakingly, my lovely new ski jacket now has rips in it, although thank goodness I put it back on – the skin injuries would have been a lot worse had I not.
Mostly though, I realise the vulnerability of my fragile skull, and the terror that went through my mind when it bounced off the tarmac. I wasn’t wearing a helmet. I rarely do, though my family remind me often that they wish I would. I’ve never hit my head before, and now I have, it brings home that the crash could have been a lot worse, and my poor family would have worse news than me limping home. I stand by my previous blog post about helmet use – in my day-to-day life, I probably won’t wear my helmet. But on a ride like this, where speeds are greater and roads less predictable, I will.
Do I regret coming on the ride? Do I wish I had stayed at home today and avoided the whole thing? It’s going to take days for my skin to heal, and weeks for me to be able to sleep comfortably on that side again. But life is the culmination of our experiences – good and bad. If I avoided things that might cause me pain or damage, I would never leave the house. When we get to the end of our lives we want to be able to look back and remember the things we did, not regret the things we didn’t do. And this ride, for sure, is one I’ll never forget.
‘Easy on the speed, Hughes,’ says Ed as we take another descent. Noted. The knee pain has receded but my head is throbbing and my elbow jolts painfully with each bump. The coast is still fifteen miles away. I’m not going to make it that far.
We roll into Lewes and head for the pub. After a pint I’m going to take the train back to London while the boys ride the remaining miles, hopefully arriving at the Meridian obelisk in Peacehaven in time to watch the sun set over the sea. They have been terrific, making sure I’m OK, buying me food and tea and painkillers and now, a pint. We sit down and I raise my glass. ‘Thanks for looking after me. And even though I really hurt myself, I’m really glad I came. I’ve had a great ride. Cheers.’
My sister’s house has been home this week while my boat has some work done in the marina. To say thanks I’ve cooked dinner each night. For a sister and brother-in-law who are both meat-eaters, my vegan cooking has been something of a change for them. They’ve really loved it – James said the roast on Sunday was the best part of his week!
Here’s what I’ve been cooking, with approximated recipes (I’m less of a recipe girl and more of a make-it-up-as-you-go-along girl). Most of it has been made with the contents of the veg bag that I pick up from Growing Communities in Hackney.
Contents of bag:
sweetcorn on the cob
Sunday: mushroom and kidney bean pasties roast
Roasted vegetables are always delicious, and a Sunday is not a Sunday without them. I’ll often just have roast veg but this time I made a Wellington-style pasty as the centrepiece. Mushrooms and kidney beans are pretty meaty when mushed together. The leftovers were delicious eaten for lunch the next day with hummous.
potatoes, cut into wedges
carrots, halved and quartered lengthways
several cloves garlic, whole
corn on the cob
handful mushrooms, chopped
can kidney beans, drained and mashed
fresh herbs, chopped
pastry – I used Just Roll puff pastry
For roasted vegetables:
Heat oil in roasting tin in the oven. Around 170º C is about right. Add potato wedges, carrot sticks and garlic, and toss in the oil. Add salt and perhaps rosemary. Vegetables will take about half an hour to roast, depending on size of wedges. I like the potatoes to go a little broken at the edge – this makes that delicious crunchy roasted texture.
For boiled vegetables:
Place corn on the cob in a pan of water, bring to the boil and simmer for about 20 minutes. Broccoli takes around six minutes – I usually put a tiny amount of water in the pan and place the head of the broccoli in whole (no stalk), so the majority of it steams. Serve with vegan spread or olive oil and salt and pepper.
For the pasties:
Heat oil in frying pan. Fry mushrooms and onions until soft. Remove from heat. Mix together with kidney beans and herbs. Season to taste.
Roll out pastry in an oblong shape. Place the mushroom mixture on the pastry lengthways and roll into a sausage roll shape, sealing the ends and the seam by gathering and rubbing with water. Cook on a baking tray on a high heat until nicely browned. At 190ºC in a fan oven it takes about 20 minutes.
Serve the whole thing with gravy and plenty of salt and pepper.
Monday: pasta bolognese
I love lentils. They are so versatile, and can be surprisingly meaty in texture and flavour. Brown lentils are great when making a bolognese or chilli, or anything that would otherwise have mincemeat e.g. lasagne. They keep their shape when cooked. Buy in health food shops or local shops that sell ethnic cuisine – it’s rare you’ll find them in a supermarket. They are the whole version of the more popular red lentil. This pasta bolognese is rich, flavoursome and stuffed full of protein. A really easy comfort dinner.
handful mushrooms, chopped
one onion, sliced
garlic, chopped/crushed (I usually chop as it means less washing up)
cup dried brown lentils
tin aduki beans, with liquid
flavouring e.g. herbs, paprika, vege oxo cubes, vegan bullion, salt and pepper
pasta of choice
Fry the onions and garlic in the oil until soft. Add the mushrooms and fry until cooked. Add the lentils, aduki beans, tomatoes, flavourings and enough water to cover the lentils. Bring to the boil and simmer until the lentils are cooked – this takes around 30 minutes. Check the pan every so often and add more water if needed – the lentils will absorb the water as they cook.
Add pasta to a pan of cold water (I use two handfuls per person), bring to the boil, then remove from heat. I tend not to leave it boiling – the pasta will cook just as well in the residual heat of the water. It takes about as long as it would if you were to boil it, but saves energy! (I discovered this when I ran out of gas halfway through cooking my dinner one night. By the time I’d switched the gas bottle over the pasta was done.) Drain and serve with lashings of olive oil, salt and pepper, and top with the Bolognese sauce.
Tuesday: Thai curry
Thai curry is super easy to make and is a great way of using up any leftover vegetables you might have.
a good dollop of Thai curry paste (check instructions on jar. A few tablespoons is about right).
one onion, sliced
half aubergine, sliced
mange tout and baby sweetcorn, or any green crunchy vegetable – broccoli, green beans and okra all work well
can coconut milk (get the full fat stuff – coconut milk ‘light’ is always a disappointment)
Fry the onion and garlic briefly in the oil. Add curry paste and fry until it smells toasty. Add the coconut milk and vegetables, and simmer until the vegetables are tender. Serve with boiled rice.
Wednesday: bubble and squeak with garlicky tomato sauce
This was Sarah’s top pick of the week. I took her plate next door to where she was babysitting, then received a text from her saying ‘This is AMAZING’. Let’s face it, anything fried tastes great. Bubble and squeak is often forgotten as a Boxing Day leftovers dish, but there’s no reason not to make it fresh. It’s oh. so. yummy. And not really that bad for you…
kale, stalks removed
vegan spread (I buy Pure sunflower, olive oil or soy spread. Available in most supermarkets. Vitalite is also vegan, and Flora does a dairy free spread)
can beans (I love aduki beans but any dark bean will do)
herbs and spices of choice
salt and pepper
For the bubble and squeak:
Peel/scrub the potatoes (depending on age and quality. Skin-on mash is always good if possible) and cut into chunks. Boil in a pan of water until nearly cooked (about 10 minutes). Add the kale leaves and boil for for a further few minutes until soft. Remove from heat, drain and mash with the vegan spread, salt and pepper.
Heat oil in a frying pan. Fry small cakes of the potato and kale mixture – make sure it is patted together well, or it will disintegrate in the pan. Add small amounts of oil throughout cooking. Serve immediately.
For the tomato sauce:
Fry the onions and garlic in the oil until starting to brown. Add the mushrooms and fry until cooked. Add whichever herbs and spices you require and stir into the onion and mushroom mixture. Add the tin of tomatoes one spoonful at a time, making sure all the liquid is absorbed before adding the next. This is time consuming as it requires constant stirring and attention, but it’s worth it for the rich tomato flavour, succulent onions/mushrooms and thickness of the sauce. Once the tomatoes have all been used, add the can of beans, including the liquid, using the same method. Serve the sauce on top of the finished bubble and squeak with plenty of salt and pepper (I use sea salt flakes rather than table salt – much better flavour and texture, and better for you!).
Thursday: Dhal with kale and cauliflower
This is almost my favourite dish ever. It’s so easy and quick to make, and really makes a superstar of the cauliflower and kale. The ginger and chilli make it deeply-flavoured but not overwhelming. We served it alongside onion bahjis and popadoms from the local Indian restaurant. Creamy, rich and wonderfully spicy. Truly delicious.
fresh ginger (about a one inch piece), chopped
fresh chilli, chopped
spices: fennel seeds, cumin seeds, turmeric (about a teaspoon each)
can coconut milk
vege stock cube
cup dried red lentils
cauliflower, broken into florets
kale, stalks removed
fresh coriander, chopped
salt and pepper
Fry the onion, garlic, ginger and chilli in the oil until soft. Add the spices and fry for a minute. Add the coconut milk, the lentils and some extra water if necessary. Crumble in the stock cube and stir. Bring to the boil and simmer for 10 minutes, lid on, until the lentils are starting to cook. Add the cauliflower and kale and cook for a further 5-10 minutes, depending on how crunchy you want your cauliflower (I like it al dente). Stir in the chopped coriander, season with salt and pepper, and serve with rice or on its own.
Friday: Carrot soup
‘How is this so creamy?’ asks James of a dish that doesn’t have cow anywhere near it. Pureeing vegetables will automatically give a creamy texture and the lentils give the soup substance. It’s wholesome and warming – perfect for an autumn lunchtime.
carrots – as many as you have!
another root vegetable such as parsnip
leeks, sliced, outer leaves removed
vege oxo cube
dried red lentils, approx 1 cup
Fry the onion, garlic and leeks in the oil until starting to brown. Add the chopped carrots and parsnip. Cook for a few minutes. Add water, stock cube, red lentils and any other flavourings you fancy. Bring to the boil and simmer until the vegetables are cooked. Remove from heat and liquidise. Serve with fresh herbs and plenty of salt and pepper.
Saturday: potato salad
This is not just a salad, it’s a super salad. Don’t be afraid to mix everything together – the more mushing together of the ingredients, the better. It’s a great mixture of warm, cooked ingredients and raw, crunchy ones. The dressing brings it all together.
salad leaves, washed and ripped
tomatoes, sliced into thin wedges, or cherry tomatoes, halved
puy lentils, cooked (allow roughly 1.5 oz per person)
any other salad ingredients: sliced radish, ribbons of courgette, olives etc
for the dressing:
loads of olive oil
teaspoon Dijon mustard
teaspoon wholegrain mustard
large dash lemon juice
large pinch salt
Boil the potatoes (halved, depending on size) until just soft. The lentils should take around 20-30 minutes to cook. Add all ingredients to a large bowl. Place dressing ingredients into a clean jar and shake into a creamy consistency. Pour over the salad and toss really really well. Serve immediately.
This is the fifth year of the RideLondon-Surrey 100, one of the legacies of the London 2012 Olympic Games, and the first time I’ve ridden in such a huge sportive. Nearly 30,000 people registered for the event, and I queue up at the start surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of cyclists. The logistics of such an event must be a challenge, but we are moved forwards and somehow leave at our projected start time: 0642. Though this is my first sportive it’s not my first century. I’m riding with a friend who really looks the part with a Rapha jersey and a slick bike. I don’t own a cycle jersey and I’m the only one carrying a backpack: sandwich, snacks, and spares.
ACDC blares from the speakers as we cross the start line and head straight onto the A12. It’s a real buzz to be riding on a dual carriageway empty of traffic, the peleton taking up the whole of the road, heading through tunnels and over flyovers that are normally inaccessible to bikes. “I won’t race,” my riding partner says, although his idea of slow and mine are probably very different.
We head westwards out of London through Chiswick and into Richmond Park, the early morning sun emerging as we flow through Kingston and towards Hampton Court. We’re being carried along by this tidal wave of cyclists at an average of 20mph. I’ve never known anything like it; mostly I ride at touring pace, either solo or in small groups, so the feeling of fast is new, and I love it.
Forty miles in, I start to lag. “How are you feeling?” I ask my riding partner. “Great. Doesn’t feel like I’ve ridden 40 miles. You?” “Definitely feels like I’ve ridden 40 miles! Feel free to drop me if you want to go faster.” I manage to hang on for another five or six miles, but as we near the halfway point he pulls away and is soon swallowed up by the riders ahead. Soon afterwards I pass the ‘Surrey Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty’ sign, followed instantly by the promised hills. It’s a tough climb towards Newlands Corner – the first of many.
I pull into one of the rest stops for a break – the pace has hurt and I need some time to recover. I eat my sandwich and help myself to some energy chews. This is the fourth rest stop we’ve passed, all packed out with drinks, sweets and biscuits handed out by smiley people. There are toilets and plenty of places to rack your bike. It’s all brilliantly organised.
Back on the bike, and back into the hills. It’s absolutely stunning – this is not an area I’ve cycled in before, but I can see why it has its reputation – it’s wonderful cycling, with challenging climbs and long freewheeling downs, winding lanes and picturesque villages. And it’s great day for it, too – the sun gives a rich shimmer to the surroundings. The road is full of bicycles, but despite the numbers it’s flowing really well. I pause for a moment, enjoying the lack of engine noise. Silence but for the whirr of thousands of bicycle wheels.
Soon comes Leith Hill – the steepest and longest climb of the day. The road narrows and cyclists come out of their saddles, weaving across the road. Avoiding touching wheels is almost more of a challenge than the actual climb. “This is the final stretch!” says one of the stewards, misleadingly: there are at least three more false summits and corners before the road finally levels out and the glorious descent can begin.
“Slow down!” the marshals are calling from ahead. There’s an ambulance and some cyclists receiving First Aid, and beyond, two riders lying on stretchers, one with blood covering his face. It’s a scary sight. A little while later I see someone come off and skid along the ground for several metres. It looks really painful. It’s inevitable that there will be collisions in an event with so many people but it’s worrying to hear of the serious crashes that caused chaos later in the day, leading to delays and diversions and two riders being airlifted to hospital.
Ten miles later it’s Box Hill, a famous climb. It’s not nearly as steep as Leith Hill and from having worried since the start line about this section, I really enjoy it. I’m good at steady climbing, and the views as the road creeps higher are astounding. As with any hill, all you need is a low gear and a healthy dose of determination.
With the big hills behind us and 70 miles under the wheels, the final 30 miles are a rip-roaring ride back to London. I’m pumped and stop once more for a sandwich break before the final stretch. “Last climb!” the stewards call as we tackle the hill at Wimbledon, then we pour down towards the river and across Putney bridge. I jump on someone’s wheel and stay there all the way along the Embankment, allowing him to carry me to Parliament Square. I don’t think he noticed. The Mall makes a triumphant finish and I pass beneath the hoarding 6 hours and 5 minutes after leaving. Not bad for my first sportive – I’ll definitely be signing up for another.
14th April 2016. David Cameron was Prime Minister. Boris Johnson was Mayor of London. Roy Hodgson was England manager. Bernie Sanders was giving Hillary Clinton a run for her money in the US Presidential Primaries. Chris Evans was the presenter of Top Gear. Peggy Mitchell was the queen of the Queen Vic. Great Britain was part of the EU. And a Canadian singer called Drake reached the top of the charts with his single ‘One Dance.’
Fifteen weeks later, Drake is the only one who is still there.
If Drake remains at number one for one more week, he will have equalled the record for the longest ever Number One held by fellow Canadian Bryan Adams. Adams retained the top spot with (Everything I do) I do it for you for nearly four months in the summer of 1991, helped no doubt by the song featuring on the soundtrack for Kevin Costner’s swashbuckling romp Robin Hood Prince of Thieves. Drake has already beaten Whitney Houston’s I will always Love You (10 weeks) (which also featured in a film starring Kevin Costner), Rhianna’s Umbrella (10 weeks), Gnarls Barkley’s Crazy (9 weeks) and equalled Wet Wet Wet’s Love is all around (15 weeks).
What is the appeal of this song? Drake has had a string of hits, but none has caused quite such a storm as this. Musically, it is quite strange, a stitching-together of clipped female vocals, Bhangra samples and Drake’s smooth come-on to his girl, held together by a rim-shot dominated drum beat. There’s no rousing chorus, no soaring melody, no classic verse/chorus/middle 8 formula that served Bryan Adams and Whitney Houston so well. Lyrically it’s not particularly moving or uplifting – it neither invokes tears nor inspires joy. There is no video to watch. But perhaps therein lies its appeal: neither divisive nor controversial, it simply is a good song. It doesn’t stick obtrusively in your mind, spinning round and round annoyingly throughout the day, more, it gently sits there like a good friend. There’s nothing particularly to love, but neither is there anything to hate – these other songs tend to split audiences. I remember singing “I wish you would keep your mouth shut!” above Whitney’s warbling “I wish you love.” Even Marty Pello grew sick of his own song and withdrew the record before it became too permanent a fixture at the top of the chart.
With all the turmoil going on in the world, all the political upheaval, the uncertainty in the financial markets, perhaps we just want stability, something comforting, that doesn’t cause controversy one way or another, just a good, classy song that makes you smile each time you hear it because it’s solid and stable and, while politicians quit and establishments fall around our ears, isn’t going anywhere.
As a vegan, I’m often asked, “What do you eat?” One of my staples is lentils – a food I had barely eaten before becoming vegan, but something I couldn’t now live without. Lentils are high in protein and carbohydrates, and a good source of iron, fibre, B vitamins and zinc. They make a natural substitute for meat – high on the list of the questions is, “How do you get enough protein?” so I smugly reply that there is as much protein in the humble lentil as there is in a steak.
Trying to emulate meat in my cooking is not something I really do – if I’m not going to eat meat, I’m not going to eat something pretending to be meat. Tofu and soy are not on my shopping list. But lentils are great at providing a meaty texture if I so desire – especially useful if I’m cooking for non-vegans. Red lentils have a similar texture to shredded chicken, brown lentils make a great substitute for mince, and Puy lentils have a fabulous gamey flavour. Such is the similarity to meat textures, I have been known to question chefs who insist the dish prepared for me is in fact vegan; I’ve even questioned my own cooking, knowing full well animal products have come no where near!
My lentil shelf (yes, I have a lentil shelf) has five types of lentil: red, green, brown, speckled (Puy) and yellow. There’s definitely room for more.
I also have a few beans on my lentil shelf, but dried beans (though cheaper than canned) require forethought (soaking overnight) and energy (lots of boiling time). Living on a boat makes me very precious about overusing my gas stove. Lentils don’t require soaking which means you can buy the dried (cheaper) version and still add them to dishes with very little planning. Typical cooking time: 15 to 35 minutes.
Red lentils cook really quickly and are a great addition to soups and curries. They are good for bulking up a dish and their colour doesn’t fade with cooking. I often use them in carrot soup and always in a dhal.
Brown lentils are my favourite chilli-sans-carne staple. They hold their shape when cooked, and the colour and texture is close enough to the meat mince in my mum’s recipe that I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. They take longer than red (being the whole version of red lentils) so need to be added to the mix fairly early on. I add them to a Bolognese-style dish at the same time as all other liquid, giving a good thirty minutes on the boil in order to soften.
Green lentils are flatter than brown and retain something of their shape when cooked. They tend to lose their colour (though they never start off green – more a dull beige). They are good in stews and salads.
Puy lentils are a revelation. They are just great on their own, which is not true of other lentils. A whole plate of Puy lentils and a dash of soy sauce is just as nutritious and delicious as a steak. OK, only a vegan would say that, but… it’s a good meal. Chuck a few oven-roasted veg in there and some sautéed spinach and you have yourself a gourmet meal. I often add them (pre-cooked) to salads and stir-fries.
Yellow lentils are a new addition to my lentil shelf. They are more a split pea than a lentil, which means they take longer to cook and have the firmest texture of all the lentils. They also look a lot like I’ve poured several cans of sweetcorn into my stew. Tastes great, though, and really gives the dish an extra dimension in flavour and texture.
I used to eat meat three times a day. Now it’s lentils. All praise to the lentil.
This is the mother of all triathlons: a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride, and a 26.2 mile run. In June I travelled up to the Lake District to take part in the Lakesman iron-distance triathlon, an event I’d been training for solidly for 6 months. I’d never run any distance before I started training, nor even competed in a triathlon. I worried in the build-up as to what I’d let myself in for (many tears were shed) which was made worse by a niggling running injury I’d picked up 5 weeks prior to the event. But I got there, I competed, and I completed it. This is what it was like (in post-event bloggy exhaustion)
4am: wake. worry I can’t do it.
5am: try to eat something. Nerves making it hard. I’m worried the water will be too cold, that I won’t complete the things in the time allowed, that it will be hilly, that my running injury will make it impossible to complete the run. Trying not to think about the total madness of the overall event.
6am: swim starts. It’s warm. The lake is beautiful. I find it much easier than I thought and I think of what my swimming coach taught me as I power through the water. It’s far but it takes me just an hour and ten minutes: 20 mins quicker than my best projection.
7.30am: start the cycle. I am an hour ahead of schedule – this gives me a boost. Overcast skies and a tailwind. My team missed me getting out of the water because I was so far ahead. They catch up in the car and we hug. Quiet roads at this time on a Sunday morning – a fast ride along the gently undulating A66 on good tarmac. I’m averaging 18mph, 4mph faster than the speed I need to make it back in time. I’m really good at climbing – every uphill, no matter how slight, I power past everyone else. They then pass me on the downs. First feed station – I take a banana and drink some of the oat smoothie I made.
10am: my tummy feels funny. It’s the combination of bananas, energy bars, my raspberry smoothie, nerves, not being able to finish my breakfast, and having got up so early. There are no loos provided on the route, and this is not something I can do on the verge. I see a man watering the plants in his garden and ask if I can come in and use the toilet. He is bemused but agrees. His whole house, including the toilet, is carpeted in beige.
11am: halfway through the cycle. I feel great. Tailwind, smooth roads, no hills. When they said flat they really meant it. Coastal route with a view over the sea. A touch of rain but mainly dry. My team has been popping up every so often and cheering me on. There is a big crowd here in Allonby holding signs – one says “don’t be shit.”
12.15pm: second time through Allonby on the mini-lap. I’m starting to struggle. My sister bought me some crisps – the ‘real’ food feels great. I chat to them for a while. I’m still way ahead of schedule, but simply being on the bike for this long is a killer. It’s nearly been five hours. I set off, the final flying stretch where I’ll have flat roads and a whopping tailwind soon over as the route reaches its most northerly point and turns southwards, with 42 miles still to go before I get back to Keswick. That in itself is a huge distance, regardless of the fact that I have already been cycling all day. I try not to think about it.
2pm: final twelve miles. Overriding thoughts: PAIN, whose idea was this, no way I can run a marathon now, PAIN, hungry, worry (leg feels fine, but might not last the run), PAIN, headwind, exhausted, hungry, who invented this – it’s a bloody ridiculous idea for an event.
3pm: back in Keswick. It looks like most people beat me to it – from being in the top 50 out of the water I’m now in the last 30. Rack bike, change, toilet, sit down, eat. I find my team and chat to them for a while. Longest transition ever.
3.30pm: start the run. It’s a five lap course – I’ve told myself I’ll do the first lap and see how I feel. Legs feel fine. Body feels great. I can’t believe it. Smiles all round.
5.15pm: onto the third lap. First two were easy, now it’s starting to hurt a bit. Head up, still smiling. It’s raining which is good for refreshment but not so good for the cross-country sections of the course which are slowly turning into a bog. Legs still fine. Body feeling good. Tiring but still going. Water and coke gulped at each station. I don’t even LIKE coke, but today, I love it. I am running faster than most people and have nearly caught up a friend who was a lap ahead of me when I started. Still smiling and getting lots of cheers. “You’re looking fresh!” people are saying. Keep smiling. Everyone else looks fucked.
6.30pm: final lap. My knees are in agony. I am no longer smiling
7pm: I can no longer run. Talking myself through it now. 100 steps run/stagger, 50 steps walk. Eventually I am running 20 and walking 100. I am finding it hard to breathe and I nearly start hyperventilating at a feed station, tears pouring down my face as I try not to panic. Everything in my body is saying STOP but I am so nearly there. Walk 100 paces, run 20. Final strait. I pick up the running again.
7.30pm: I cross the finish line, 13 hours and 28 minutes after I started. I can’t breathe, I’m cold, I can’t walk, I’m going to have to find the medic tent. My hands cover my face to hide the tears from the cameras, although when I look at the pictures later my gasping grimace looks just like a smile. Amazing.
So, there we are. Ironman done. It was unimaginably tough but at times felt great – just goes to show that if you prepare for something and set your mind on a task, you can achieve it. I’m by no means an athlete, and especially not a triathlete. But I crossed that finish line well within the time allowance and now have my Lake District slate medal to keep for the rest of time. Just never ask me to do it again.
For the second time in two weeks, I’ve fallen off my bike. This isn’t a great score for someone who teaches people to ride bikes for a living, but perhaps it’s for a reason; just call me Anna ‘I Have Accidents So You Don’t Have To’ Hughes.
The first fall was a tough one. Rounding a corner, I saw a patch of what I thought was water, but was actually engine oil, and hitting a patch of oil at an angle, regardless of how fast or slow you are travelling, means game over. I stood no chance: the front wheel instantly gave way and the whole bicycle slid along the tarmac, taking me with it. I landed hard on my hip and elbow, the skin scraping onto my clothing which thankfully kept the wounds diesel-free. Bumped, bruised and grazed, I cycled home to lick my wounds and add my oil-covered clothes to the laundry basket. There’s not much you can do about oil or ice: these are two surfaces that, once hit, mean you end up on the floor. Hitting the ground at any speed is horrible – after the skin wounds scabbed over I was left with two sizeable bumps and the bruises to go with it. I’ll certainly avoid similar patches in future. If in doubt about something on the road, avoid it, and if that’s not possible, try not to ride it at an angle, otherwise you’ll likely end up on the floor.
The second fall was less serious but, being a mere week after the first, and falling on roughly the same parts of my body, it hurt all the more. On this occasion it was a gravel path that caused my front wheel to slip – something that I really should have predicted. It’s a path along which I’ve ridden many times, but today it had rained so the path was wet. Gravel can be an unpleasant surface – in the heat it kicks up dust, in the rain it slides under the wheels – but it’s even more unpleasant when you have to pick it out from under your skin. “Exercise caution in wet conditions,” I tell my trainees. It’s good advice.
When it rains, you need to be twice as vigilant on the road. Everything is slippery, especially manhole covers and drains, and even painted lines. Avoid riding over these in wet weather, and if riding over them is unavoidable, be careful not to take them at an angle or in the middle of a turn. Avoid riding through puddles, as these can conceal potholes. Any bumps or changes in the surface become far more hazardous in the rain, so always take kerbs or bumps at a 90º angle to reduce the chance of slips.
Even in dry conditions, be aware of changes in the road surface: gravel, potholes, kerbs, textured paving, manhole covers and tramlines. The best way to ride across any of these is in a straight line and at a 90º angle. Keep your eyes on the road ahead to avoid suddenly swerving into the path of another vehicle if you need to manoeuvre around hazardous road surfaces. Always keep the brakes covered just in case and, if in doubt, reduce your speed or stop.
It’s the second annual Cycle Touring Festival and I’m here in the beautiful setting of Waddow Hall in Lancashire. The weather is gorgeous and it’s very green: trees and long grasses cover the steep slope that leads down to the water. Some local boys have been walking across the top of the weir. A group of us takes a dip in the river – it’s warm.
The festival has an intimate feel to it – ticket sales are intentionally restricted so it doesn’t seem too crowded. There are enough people here that there is a buzz, but not so many that you don’t know who anyone is. Faces quickly become familiar and connections are easily made. It’s a great melting-pot of people, some of whom are seasoned tourers, some of whom are just starting out on their first adventures.
One of my talks was about finding adventure on your doorstep, where I shared stories of some of my travels within the UK: a ride from Liverpool to Manchester along the river Mersey; a voyage of discovery along old railway trails in Somerset; an adventure within London around the Capital Ring; the magic of overnight rides such as the Dunwich Dynamo. My favourite type of ride is cycling to the sea (preferably following a water course to its conclusion), a wonderfully accessible adventure given that nowhere in the UK is more than 70 miles from the sea.
And it’s not just about the short routes: LEJOG is around 1000 miles; around the coast is about 4000, an epic distance in anyone’s book. But the UK can be overlooked as a venue for travels, not yielding all we might expect from adventure. It’s all here: hospitality from locals, foreign languages, new cultures, habits and traditions, rich history, wilderness, great weather (yes, really!), breathtaking beauty, grandeur of scale, epic distance and extreme physical challenge. A ride from Land’s End to John o’ Groats will take you from the luscious, sub-tropical South-West riviera to the pale evening skies of northern Scotland. The variety in landscapes between these points is huge: farmsteads, industry, sweeping plains, cities, hills steep enough to pick up your front wheel and throw you down, buildings made from the earth around them, mountain ranges, lakes, river valleys and moorland. There is much to learn about local customs, cultures and cuisines, and every region has something unique to offer, be it Cullen Skink, lava-bread, or a Melton Mowbray pie. It’s not unusual to be unable to understand a conversation going on in the local bakery – a delightful feeling of displacement within your own country.
Hearing of the hospitality of strangers is common in tales of far-flung travels. Perhaps it’s not so expected within the UK as we don’t think to ask for it. But our neighbours are just as warm, welcoming and friendly as anywhere in the world. In my round-Britain ride I was given a bed and food on an almost daily basis, mostly by people I didn’t know. People frequently stopped me to have a chat or share their own cycling stories, and gave me water and food. It was an incredible and refreshing insight to human nature: we are sociable creatures after all, and we want to help.
There are many advantages to cycle touring here: a common language, common currency, no need for a passport, close to get to, doesn’t require lots of time, money, logistics or planning. It also has great infrastructure, an easy get-out clause and no dangerous creatures or tropical diseases. There is plenty to be discovered within the UK and the adventure and discovery is all the greater for being somewhere familiar.
I love making an ordinary journey into an extraordinary one, simply by using my bike. When I set off on my sailing trip three years ago I rode my bike to the south coast over a course of four days rather than take a four hour train ride. So I concluded my talk with a little story about a ride from last year’s festival to my friend’s house in Manchester, a last-minute decision to make the journey one to remember. I loved every minute.
According to TfL, 77% of accidents happen at junctions. It’s understandable why this can be a hotspot for collision: there are two or more directions of traffic, visibility can be reduced, and confusion is common. For cyclists, the statistics are more scary: junctions are where most fatalities occur, especially when left-turning vehicles are involved.
Taking the lane at junctions (being in the centre) can greatly reduce the chances of an accident. Picture a typical T junction. If the cyclist hugs the kerb they are effectively inviting someone to come alongside them and turn either at the same time or turn in front of them. If the road has parked cars lining it, the cyclist is concealed from view for much of the manoeuvre. Being on the inside of a left-turning vehicle is the last place you want to be, so don’t invite it by sticking to the side. If you hold a central position you will have more road presence, better visibility, and another road user won’t have room to pass without going into the other lane so will have to wait behind – a much safer and more correct use of the roads (according to the Highway Code, if you’re in front you have priority, and overtaking on a junction is not permitted). If you’re turning right, the same principle applies – by placing yourself on the right hand side of the lane you are opening yourself up to being overtaken. Be bold and take the lane, whether you are turning left or right or going straight on, and take this position at all junctions including T junctions, cross-roads, traffic lights and roundabouts. Keep the central position until you have cleared the junction, then return to your normal riding position.
At pinch points or on narrow roads, there is often not room for another vehicle to pass you safely. If you stay to the left, drivers may try to squeeze past, so each time you approach a pinch point (e.g. traffic island), check behind and, if it’s safe to do so, move into a central position to discourage dangerous overtaking. If there’s someone directly behind, wait for them to pass before moving into the central position.
The way you behave on the roads affects how others behave, and your position can encourage others to drive more safely around you. Where you ride is a form of communication in itself; by riding wide and central you are saying, “Please wait before you overtake,” whereas a position to the side says, “Please go around me.” Think about which is safest for you in each situation and alter your position accordingly.
Your Cycle Superhighways are advertised as “safer, faster and more direct” routes into the capital, providing routes for cyclists along the roads they might otherwise drive down – quick, direct routes into the capital that follow trunk roads. The infrastructure for motor vehicles is direct and clearly signposted, whereas for bicycles, it is winding, slow, and, more often than not, poorly signed.
Why, then, does CS1 not follow these guidelines? The original idea was to build a route that followed the A10: a fast, direct route into the capital. The new Cycle Superhighway 1 follows the old London Cycle Network route: a quiet route meandering around back streets from Tottenham to Old Street. Not to be confused with the new ‘Quietways’ scheme, providing cyclists with ‘an alternative to busy main roads’ along ‘direct and clearly signed’ routes. Sound familiar?
I would argue that diverting the Cycle Superhighway from the A10 is slower, less safe, and definitely less direct.
Have you ever tried cycling from Tottenham to Dalston at rush hour? Because that’s when most of your target audience will be trying to get to work. The traffic on those ‘quieter residential streets’ is i n s a n e. Everyone is trying to by-pass the A10, or get to work, or drop off their kids at the many schools along the route. The junctions are narrow, the sight lines are poor, and the traffic is coming from all directions. It’s a symphony of the car horn. It’s impossible to filter safely, people are turning in and out of junctions all over the place, and there is precious little room to pass the queue. Doesn’t sound fast to me.
And as for safety: do you know what the highest cause of accidents is for cyclists in London? It’s being ‘doored’ – hit by a car door as it opens. We teach cyclists to ride wide of the door zone, but what about those riders who are unaware of the dangers, or haven’t had training, or simply don’t have space because of all the traffic? Let’s take a look at these ‘safer’ roads that you’re sending cyclists down. Every single one of them is lined with parked cars.
According to TfL statistics, 77% of accidents happen at junctions. On the CS1 stretch between Tottenham and Dalston, there are 16 junctions at which you have to make a turn. On the A10 there are three.
The signage isn’t great, either. It’s impossible to just follow your nose or the flow of traffic: instead of a straight line south from suburbs to city, it twists and turns all over the place. Wasn’t that part of the point of the Cycle Superhighways? That they would follow those predictable routes?
But whatever I think of the terminology, or the marketing of cycle routes, or the roads that have been chosen, my main concern is segregation. Many cyclists will see cycling infrastructure and think, “Great! This has been put here for me to use by someone who knows what they are doing. This will keep me safe.” They do not think, “OK, this is a cycle superhighway. This is intended for commuters who have some kind of road sense,” or, “Look at this Quietway! What a perfect way to travel for families who don’t have to use the roads at rush hour,” or, “Hmm, that cycle lane is in the door zone. Perhaps I shouldn’t use it.” I once taught a lady who lived on the trunk road south from Elephant and Castle, and was thrilled that a new cycle route had been built outside her house. She merrily went out for a ride on the blue paint, and was passed too close by a bus within minutes. She didn’t try a second time.
All cycling infrastructure needs to be safe for all cyclists all the time. The re-designs of large junctions such as at Pitfield St / Old St are terrific, but until we see large scale segregation that is well-maintained, spacious, and goes where you want it to go, cycling in the capital will not be truly safe.
Chris Stark from Radio 1 doesn’t shower in the morning. Scott Mills thinks it’s disgusting. I don’t shower in the morning; I don’t shower in the evenings either. Often I go an ENTIRE WEEK without washing. But don’t I smell? Well, no.
Let’s start with hair. It’s a fairly common rumour that hair will clean itself if you leave it long enough, though it’s very difficult to imagine how this could be if, like me, you wash your hair every day. Or, I used to. Towards the end of the day I would feel my hair begin to become limp and greasy, and by morning, I would have to wash it. Then, one summer, I went on a camping trip with Otesha, a sustainability and behaviour change group. We camped in the field of a farm house with a composting toilet and no shower. No shower. For. Ten. Days. I have never had such an itchy head. After a week of farm life, we cycled down to the nearest town and begged our way into the leisure centre so we could have a wash – bliss! It was one of the most amazing showers of my life. Then a strange thing happened. My hair felt amazing the next day. And the next day. And the day after that. I didn’t feel the need to wash it again for another week (which was lucky because we were on another farm by then). Toughing it out for those ten days meant that my hair had begun the self-cleaning process. When I returned to civilisation and regular showers, I only washed my hair once a week. Then I upped it to ten days, then every two weeks, then every three. Now, I wash my hair roughly once a month, or whenever I remember (or have to appear at a wedding). My hair keeps that newly-washed feel for at least four days, then it starts to settle down. It looks just about great for a few weeks, then when it starts to look a bit limp after three or four weeks I give it a wash. I could probably leave it for longer, and perhaps I will, eventually. Because the thing I’ve learned is that your hair needs to be washed as often as you wash it. If you wash it daily, it will need washing daily. If you wash it weekly, it will need washing weekly, and so on.
So why are we tricked into thinking that we need to wash our hair all the time? Washing it doesn’t just clean it, it strips the hair of its natural oils, removing all the good stuff as well as the bad stuff so our hair is incapable of coping with not being clean. A ploy by shampoo companies to get you to buy their product? Perhaps. More likely it’s a result of our evolution into the modern era: we no longer live in Victorian times, where only the rich have access to the bath tub. We are all equal; we can all be clean.
It’s the same with skin. If you repeatedly strip your body of its natural oils, it will lose its innate ability to self-regulate. Akin to hair, the more you wash it, the more you need to wash it. Then, because we have removed all the good stuff, we add products. Which then don’t allow the skin to clean itself properly. So we have to shower more regularly. And then put all the oils back in with moisturiser. Etc etc.
The thing is, washing every day is really bad for the environment. Water use, gas to heat the water, chemicals in bathing products getting flushed away into our sewerage system. We are literally flushing clean water down the drain. We shower each day because it’s a habit and a sign of our advanced society.
I don’t shower in the mornings often because I can’t be bothered, but mostly because I don’t need to. I am not going to shower before I go to work today, and I’m certain that my colleagues won’t even notice (and it’s not that they are too polite to say anything). Try it sometime.
When I have taken on challenges before, I’ve shied away from my vegan diet, unsure of whether I would survive intense physical activity on a plant-based diet. This time there’s no question: I’m vegan. Even with such a gruelling training regime, I’m sticking to it.
And it is gruelling: I’m training to swim 2.4 miles, cycle 112 miles and run 26.2 miles. That’s a marathon after having been cycling all day. I’m training six days a week with a day off on Sunday to rest and recuperate before it all starts again on Monday morning.
At first I worried that I wouldn’t have enough energy to cope with all the training, but I needn’t have: my diet works for me in my day-to-day life, so why wouldn’t it work now? As long as I’m eating enough, I feel energised, healthy and strong.
I’ve never really calorie-counted so I won’t start now, but I am eating roughly twice what I normally eat. For example, instead of half a tin of beans on toast, I’ll have a full tin. I usually cook a huge meal in the evening so I’ll have enough for the next day – then I’ll end up eating the lot.
So, what do I eat?
Typical menu for the day
Pre-workout snack: banana and flapjack
Workout: 30 mins strength or 20 mile cycle
Breakfast: beans on toast
Morning snack: fruit and nut bars such as Nakd bars or Eat Natural (though these aren’t strictly vegan as they contain honey), oat bars, apple
Lunch: wrap with hummus, avocado, tomato, and whatever else I have lying around – last night’s leftovers, salad, lentils, kidney beans etc
Afternoon snack: oat cakes with hummus and salad, crisps, nuts
Workout: Run or swim
Post-workout snack: banana and flapjack/nut bar
Dinner: usually vegetables, lentils and beans, with a carbohydrate such as wholewheat pasta, brown rice or mashed potato. A favourite is vegan chilli: onions, garlic, mushrooms, aubergine if I have one, brown lentils, tinned tomatoes, red kidney beans, loads of spices and herbs.
At the weekend I’ll do a long swim or long cycle, which means eating while riding. Fuelling on the road is difficult, but it’s what I’m going to have to do on race day – if I can force down enough food that is, what with the adrenaline of the event playing havoc with my stomach as it did on the Half Iron. Food in liquid form is going to be best for that, such as smoothies and shakes made with fruit, oats, almond milk, bananas, and peanut butter (not all at once).
Yesterday I completed a half ironman. This is something I never thought I’d do – just the name sounds ridiculous. Maybe that’s why they call it that – to put people off. Because actually, I found it easy. Well, as easy as swimming 1.2 miles, cycling 56 miles and running 13.1 miles can be.
This ridiculousness began around Christmas time, when I decided that I needed a challenge this year. I’ve always wanted to do a triathlon but there needed to be something more to it than that – a standard tri seemed, well, too normal. So I started researching the Ironman, and pretty soon decided this was the event for me: a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride and a 56 mile run. Having never taken part in a triathlon before. Long distance appeals I suppose.
So, since Christmas I’ve been training regularly and have been steadily building up the distances (I’ve written about my running journey here). And yesterday I completed the half iron, my test event, with very little trouble. It all goes to show that anyone can do anything, if they put their mind to it. I don’t see myself as particularly strong, or as an athlete, but I somehow managed to run a half marathon as well as cycle 56 miles and swim 2k. It was all in the preparation: I knew what I had to do so I prepared for it.
My training schedule has been: run three times a week (one long run and two short), swim twice a week (I’m a member of a Masters swim club), cycle as much as I can (which basically means to work and back), strength training every day. I’m now going to step up my training to include three focussed cycling sessions a week and some outdoor swimming.
The full Ironman is in June and if I enjoy it half as much as I enjoyed the half, I’ll be doing fine! (again, using the word ‘enjoy’ for an endurance event seems so wrong. But I did!)
These are my times:
Swim: 38 mins 45 in the pool (time allowed: 1 hr 10 mins)
20 mins transition time! Need to work on that!
Cycle: 4 hrs 5 mins on the road (time allowed, 4 hrs 5 mins + whatever is left over from the swim)
28 mins transition time (I needed a rest and to eat!)
Run: 2 hrs 15 mins (time allowed: 3 hrs 10 mins + whatever is left over from swim/cycle)
Total time, including transitions 7 hours 48 mins (time allowed: 8 hrs 30 mins)
The full story is on Twitter here (I even found time for selfies on the road)
It’s 10.30pm when my alarm goes off, waking me from a brief nap. I set my snooze alarm twice before finally dragging myself out of bed and dressing in my cycling gear. It’s pitch black outside, with a few stars and an almost full moon visible between the clouds. I put some food and my waterproofs in my bag and head off, into central London, to meet my friends at Monument.
Why did I get up when I would ordinarily be going to bed? Why have we gathered with our bicycles at midnight when most other people awake at this hour are in the pub? This is the SeaCycles group: every month we ride our bikes to somewhere on the coast, we swim in the sea and we eat fish and chips. Except this time we are doing it overnight.
We eat biscuits, chat, and psyche ourselves up for the 56 miles that lies ahead. Then we set off, south, towards the sea. All around are the sounds of late night London: revellers spilling out of bars, the neon lights of chicken shops flashing to snare their prey, the gentle rumble of the night bus. The roads are less choked with traffic than usual; we negotiate Elephant and Castle and Camberwell with ease, then climb towards Dulwich, Sydenham Hill, and the red beacons of Crystal Palace.
What is the attraction of riding at night? Why have we set out at midnight to cycle all night to the coast? We could be in the pub; we should be in bed; tomorrow will be a write-off. Yet still, we are here.
“But you’ll miss the scenery!” one of my friends had said. We stand at the top of Crystal Palace hill and look down on a blanket of lights, the whole of London sparkling far into the distance. We smile at each other – here, London is a magician’s box, a treasure chest, a mystery. We rarely see it like this. The roads are quiet and the sky black above us.
A few hours later we have shaken off the city altogether and are deep into the countryside. The country lane winds narrow ahead, passing huge estates where houses sit grand behind iron gates, porch lights illuminating neat lawns and Mercedes in the drive. There is the faint suggestion of fields behind the hedgerows, the black horizon punctuated by the blacker outline of trees, and the moon shines above it all. We are privy to the night creatures: the quick dash of a fox, the slow glide of an owl, the shuffle of a badger. It’s a whole new world, one with which we are almost entirely unfamiliar. The roads are all but empty. Few people are awake at this hour, fewer still out on their bikes. I stop riding and an intense peace descends. This is the magic of midnight.
We didn’t see the fields, we didn’t see the folk who live in those houses, we didn’t see the sun sparkling on a lake, we didn’t see the new buds of blossom on the trees. But we saw so much else, things we rarely see, experiences we rarely experience, and that is enough. And, best of all, as we descended into Ditchling, we saw the dawn.
It was three exhausted and sleep-deprived cyclists who arrived on Brighton beach at 7am on Easter Saturday, ready to hit the sack as soon as we’d found breakfast. Unusual? Perhaps. Unforgettable, yes.
It’s possible to cycle round the world. I haven’t done it myself, but I know plenty of people who have (including Al Humphreys, whose map this is). The world might seem impossibly huge – but keep the pedals turning and the miles soon pass. It’s true of any distance – my biggest bike ride do date has been 4000 miles around the coast of the UK. On day one, it seemed an insurmountable, impossible distance, but day by day the miles accrued and soon I was into the thousands. I recently cycled 60 miles to Brighton with a friend – she was worried she wouldn’t make it because it was further than she’d ever cycled. But as we descended the final hill she was smiling widely and said, “Now I’ve cycled here I can cycle anywhere!” Approaching any task is just like cycling – take it one step at a time and eventually you will get there.
I moaned a lot about the weather on my round-Britain trip: It’s too cold / it’s too wet / it’s too windy. None of those things would change. The only thing that could change was my outlook, and only once I had stopped moaning could I deal with it. All I needed were appropriate clothes to keep me dry and an acceptance that the wind would make me go slower than expected, so I needed to throw my timetable out of the window. Once I did that I could relax and enjoy it. Though it being Britain, I never once complained about it being too hot!
Mileage was also a distraction: at one point I passed a sign for the next town which read 8 miles, and the next said 10. I almost cried – 10 when I thought it was 8?! Then I realised that the distance to the next town was the distance to the next town, whatever the sign said, and it would take as long as it took, and I calmed down and started to enjoy the journey rather than focus purely on the destination.
I’m a plan kind of girl, and for my circumnavigation I route-planned to a T. Sometimes I couldn’t go the way I wanted, and it took a lot of courage to let go of my carefully-laid plans and plunge into the unknown. But had I taken the route I’d intended, the ride itself would have been wildly different: I would not have seen what I saw, would not have met the people I met, would not have the memories I had. Each path taken led to the next path – whether I knew it or not. So it is with life. The decisions we make can change the path of our lives massively, and each decision influences the next.
When we take on any challenge we pace ourselves so by the time we reach the end point we have used up all our energy. So it is easy to assume that, on reaching the end point, you couldn’t possibly have gone any further. But distance is psychological; you go as far as you’ve set yourself up to go. When I reached John o’ Groats on my round-Britain trip I had cycled over 1000 miles, and I wasn’t remotely tired. I was less than halfway there, and this was simply one more day in my long bike ride. Yet everyone I met there was at the very end of their stamina – this is the end of the famous Land’s End to John o’ Groats challenge that takes cyclists from the bottom left hand corner of Britain to the top right. The people I met had cycled a shorter distance and spent less time on the road than me, and were absolutely exhausted. But that doesn’t mean they couldn’t cycle 4000 miles if they tried. They just weren’t expecting to.
I have never been an ‘athlete’ – I was quite good at school sports but never excelled at anything. I don’t have the build of an athlete nor the drive to become one. But anyone who cycles 4000 miles by themselves is strong. Perhaps not in the conventional sense, but there are many types of strength: not only muscular strength, but also mental strength and tenacity, and while none of these are things I thought I had before, I realised I do have them simply by virtue of doing what I did. Doing something every day for 72 days makes you very good at it! I returned wonderfully muscular – which didn’t last long, but at least I experienced it! And when the physical strength faded, I could still do things that should be beyond me, simply because I told myself I could.
It’s a year since I became an author, the culmination of three years of hard work putting pen to paper (well, fingertips to keyboard) and scraping together the story of my 4000 mile bike ride around the coast of Britain. I wrote a couple of blogs about the writing process at the time: Writing a book and Which was easier, writing or riding?
In the past year I have given numerous talks about the book, mainly on my book tour, which saw me pedalling from Land’s End to John O’Groats, putting on talks and events in each of the towns I passed through. I have sold upwards of 3000 books – an incredible achievement that surpassed all my expectations.
I’m immensely proud to be a published author – if I never write another book, I wrote this one, and that’s a huge achievement. People ask if I have another in me – I might, but not just yet. Writing a second book would certainly be an easier process, but this one took an awful lot of time and effort to produce, and I’m not ready to make that commitment just yet.
An obvious part of becoming an author is having a public profile – anyone can look me up on Amazon and buy and read my book. They don’t know anything about me apart from what they read online, or the impression they get of the person I managed to portray in my writing. Everyone will interpret that differently. I receive emails and tweets from people who have enjoyed the book, and I am so grateful for these comments – this is why I wrote the book in the first place, so people would enjoy hearing about my travels and perhaps feel inspired to explore a bit themselves.
Of course, there is also the other side of this: the negative reviews. I managed to make twelve 5* reviews before the first 1* review came in. I have a screen-grab of those 12 perfect reviews, and I’m holding on to that! I am absolutely realistic about my book – I know not everyone will like it, and I don’t expect it to be to everyone’s taste. We are all different, and wouldn’t it be awful if it were otherwise? One only has to look at the Amazon reviews of a book they have really enjoyed/disliked to find there are just as many people who have the exact opposite viewpoint.
But when people are writing negative things about something you have worked so hard on, it can really hurt. I started off reading all my reviews – no matter how much you know you shouldn’t, you just can’t help it. I was amazed at how mean people could be! Dismissing my work in just a few cutting words. I wanted to riposte each and every one. I responded to a couple with what I judged to be fair responses, but you risk getting into a debate with someone whose viewpoint you are not likely to change, so I stopped.
I thought about why people write reviews. It’s a compulsion that we should express our opinion, especially if others have expressed an opposing view. You want your voice to be heard, and to present your argument in such a way that will convince others. I’ve done it myself, and I feel awful – I gave a fellow cyclist and adventurer a 1* review for his book. I simply didn’t realise he would read it – I just wanted to express my view. But of course he would have read it. In the end, the only person who really cares about your review is you, and the author. Other potential readers are going to look at the average and use that the inform their purchase, if they use anything at all. I went back to that 1* review and deleted it.
Now, I don’t look at what people say, good or bad. I am pleased with my book and that’s good enough. Other people can take it how they want, and are free to express this however they please. It’s taken a while to feel comfortable with this – it’s so easy to let those negative comments get to you, especially if, as with one man, they are sent direct to your inbox! Why he thought sending me a personal email about how much he hated my book would be productive, I have no idea. It took a while to get over that one!
So, if you’ve enjoyed my book, please, let me know. Not to massage my ego, simply to let me know that writing it in the first place was worthwhile. For this is why one becomes an author – for people to read and enjoy your work. And if you don’t like it, fine – just kindly keep quiet
I’m teaching myself to run a marathon. I’ve never run a marathon before, and this is not just any marathon – it’s a marathon after having swum 2.4 miles and ridden my bike for 8 hours. I am taking part in the Lakesman iron-distance triathlon this summer, something I’d never even considered six months ago. I have wanted to do a triathlon for a while – as someone who can swim and cycle it’s an obvious event in which to compete. But I am not a runner. For years I’ve been saying, “I’ll enter a triathlon this year,” but have never got round to it.
Then, as all ‘good’ ideas start, a pub conversation with a friend sowed the seed of the Ironman. This friend has taken part in triathlons before, and somehow he convinced me that I could do a half ironman without having had any prior Tri experience. So we agreed to both enter a half ironman. But the more I considered it, the more I decided that with all the training I would have to do to complete a half-ironman, I might as well go for the whole thing. It’s a skewed logic perhaps, but long distance appeals. And I’m a bit of a sucker for labels: why would I put ‘half ironman’ on my CV when I could put ‘Ironman’?
So, here I am, two and a half months into my training: bike, swim, run. I am a member of a swim club and I train with them twice a week. I ride my bike every day and I ride long distance as much as I can. I do half an hour strength training each weekday, and I rest on the weekend. All this I find easy.
Then there’s the running.
Before the start of this year, I had never run any distance, ever. I used to run the 1500 metres when I was at school, but I was terrible at it. I would often be on the verge of hyperventilation after the 3 3/4 laps that the distance requires. I think they chose me because no one else would do it.
My training started on January 4th with a 10.5 mile run. Straight off, just like that. I don’t know why I decided to jump straight in at the deep end, but I think part of me wanted to see what I was capable of. I took it really slow. It hurt, a lot: after three or so miles the tops of my quads and my hips were in significant pain. But I kept going, and though I walked a large portion of it, I finished it. It took me two hours and by the end I was in agony – I was unable to walk normally for three days. But it served its purpose – I knew, if I could run 10 miles having never run before, I could do a marathon.
So, I started training, properly, building up the distance, starting at 3.5 miles, and increasing incrementally. The pain in my upper quads returned on the first few runs but soon disappeared completely. I started having knee pain once I’d reached 5+ miles (one night so bad that it kept me awake) but, with a knee support and some strategic resting, that too eased. I invested in some proper running trainers which support my ankles and cushion my tread, and I haven’t felt pain since. The distances steadily increased and now I’m up to 12 miles, and going strong (well, I’m totally exhausted by the end of the 12 miles but at least I am physically able to walk afterwards).
I always resisted running because I thought cycling was so much of a better thing. I am a cyclist – I don’t even like walking that much. Running hurts, there is no resting, it’s slow and it’s boring. But much to my surprise and pleasure, once I’d started running, I found none of these things to be true. I really enjoy my running sessions. I didn’t take long to become run-fit, and for it to stop hurting. Sure, there is no freewheeling with running, but if I’m tired I can reduce my pace or simply walk for a while. Yes, it is slower than cycling, but it isn’t supposed to be fast. And it certainly is not boring. Running has allowed me to discover the world at a new pace, and I like it.
I don’t wear an ipod when I run – instead of listening to music I listen to my body, the breaths, the feet, the rhythm of the stride. The one occasion in which I did listen to music, I found it incredibly distracting, and I didn’t feel comfortable with my run. It’s like long-distance cycling: music is an escape, a blocking-out of your current situation. When I’m touring this is the last thing I want – I want to be in the moment, noticing my surroundings, accompanied by the soundtrack of whichever road I am riding. In all my touring, I find my iPod stays in the bottom of my bag, unused, even though part of my preparation in the last few days before departure is preparing a good playlist to pump me up and encourage me and keep me going when it gets tough. When on the road I find I don’t need it. The sounds of the ride, of nature, and the thoughts in my head keep me occupied.
So it is with running. As I run, I tune in to my body. I notice what’s going on around me. I look at the ground beneath my feet and I look up to the sky. I hear birdlife and traffic. My thoughts wander and I am content.
More than ever, I have to be in the present. It’s taken many miles of cycle touring to learn that I shouldn’t worry about what’s around the corner, or count down the miles to the next town, (things I am still learning). With running I think I am learning this more quickly. Because running is a little more relentless and higher impact on the body, the minute I start thinking about how much there is to go, it’s over. If I start wishing desperately for the end, or for a rest, or torture myself about how hard the next mile and the one after that are going to be, the run becomes impossibly hard.
A significant lesson in this is that physical strength alone is not enough; I must also be mentally strong. I have to consciously avoid thinking about how much distance there is to go, or how much I have already done. I think only about the step I’m taking at that moment. Everything is absolutely in the present. I concentrate on my body – how am I feeling? How are my legs feeling? How are my muscles? How is my breathing? I concentrate on my posture: head up, shoulders back, upright, core muscles tight, no bouncing. It doesn’t matter how I might feel after two more miles – what matters is how I feel now. And as long as I am still putting one foot in front of the next, I am doing OK. I don’t think about how much more I might be able to take. As long as I am taking it at that very moment, I am doing fine. Even at my most tired, as soon as I stop projecting and start thinking about the here and now, I feel better. I try to avoid thinking about distances or halfways or miles. Halfway is a fact, and miles are a fact, that’s all. What matters is how you’re feeling. Each stride will lead to the next, and will add up to be the number of strides I need to finish. And that is all I need to know.
Any Ironman is a culmination of months of training. Mine is going to be in the Lake District – a beautiful part of the world that I’m really excited about running/cycling/swimming in. But I can’t just look forward to that day – more than ever, I have to make the journey there count. Wouldn’t it be awful if my six months of training were just a miserable blur of struggle for the sake of a one day event? What if it rains on that day, or I become injured, or I don’t reach the time targets required to continue? What a misuse of my time and effort that would be! It’s a lesson I’ve struggled to learn in the past – in all my long journeys, it’s so easy to focus purely on the destination and forget that the journey there is a major part of it. It’s not just the achievement of reaching your end goal – it’s all the miles that lead to that point. I am guilty of having spent miles in the saddle staring at the tarmac ahead of my front wheel just to get it over with. It’s a tough lesson to learn, one that I still struggle with, but now that I’m running, I’m getting better at it with each step.
A little while ago I was interviewed by Alastair Humphreys for his Adventure 1000 blog which aims to demonstrate how you can have a big adventure without spending loads of money and without being a super fit adventurer. Alastair has collated that interview along with loads of others in his new book Grand Adventures. The interview appears on Alastair’s website here, and also below.
A 4000 mile epic without leaving home
Bicycle adventures are my favourite, because you can go anywhere on a bicycle, and the riding itself is free. A couple of years ago I cycled around the British coastline – a 10-week, 4000 mile trip, which cost me £1017 – roughly 25p per mile or £100 per week – cheaper than my London rent. (That’s a thought – I could have rented out my room while I was away and the trip would have paid for itself!)
This British adventure was fantastic. I am a huge advocate of exploring close to home, of doing something extraordinary on your own doorstep, of starting the adventure the minute you leave your house (without having to *get* to a starting point). I have often been asked, “What was your favourite part?” and it is easy to pick a place or a time – the time I reached John O’ Groats and could cycle north no further, the time I reached the top of the Bealach na Ba (the highest road pass in the UK), the incredible weather and rich blueness of the sea in Cornwall. But in fact, one of my favourite parts was simply that I was exploring my home country and discovering new things each day, even in somewhere that was so familiar.
Another question that people ask me is, “Did you take a tent?” Camping is certainly one way to travel on a budget. But I don’t love camping – I love cycling. I wanted to go on a cycling holiday, not a camping one. I don’t do well without my home comforts – a hot shower and a warm duvet at the end of the day makes me a happy cyclist.
So, what I did was ask for help. I contacted everyone I knew through work, friends, family, friends of family, family of friends etc. It helped greatly that I was working for Sustrans at the time, a national cycling organisation, so I had a couple of hundred email addresses of people who were all too willing to help!
Of course, planning everything in advance meant I was tied to the schedule (within reason – the people I was staying with knew that things could change on the road, so were quite flexible). This doesn’t work for everyone. But it worked for me. Yes, there were occasions when I had a few miles left in me when I reached my destination (and one occasion when I didn’t make it!), but most of the time, having somewhere to aim for each night was a great help.
I was overcome with offers of help – people who knew people who had a spare bed or sofa or floor space. I used all the networks I could think of – I’m a member of the Green Party, so googled local parties on the coast to fill some gaps. I used the website warmshowers.org – reciprocal hospitality for touring cyclists. It’s a fantastic network and I met some wonderful hosts, many of whom who rode with me for a little way, which was very welcome support. By the time I set off on my adventure, I had about 8 nights with nowhere to stay. My resourceful aunts set to work, contacting long-lost friends, emailing local bike clubs, and in the more remote areas, phoning up the local library and the local primary school. In the end, I paid for a total of 15 nights’ accommodation in the whole ten weeks.
Free accommodation is all very well. But then, why not bivvy, or wild-camp? You don’t have to pay for that either. But the main reason why staying with all these people kept the cost down so much was the food. Almost all of my hosts cooked me dinner, made me breakfast, and filled my panniers with lunch and snacks before waving me off in the morning. One lovely lady wouldn’t cook, but insisted on taking me out for a three-course meal. The generosity of my hosts was overwhelming. And not paying for food was the biggest reason that I spent so little.
My main lesson from all of this (and tip to pass on to others) is to accept, not expect. People want to help. Imagine someone on an adventure came to stay at your home. Wouldn’t you want to give them as much as you possibly could? I worried about this near the beginning of the trip, that I was getting things for free that you would usually have to pay for, and said as much to my sister (“I’m worried I’m just taking things from these people…”). She reassured me that they had offered to help of their own free will, and were more than happy to give me all these things. If you ask (in a non-expectant and non-demanding way) you shall receive. Accept the kindness of strangers. 34 out of 72 nights I stayed with someone I’d never met before, and they couldn’t do enough to help me. Humans are sociable creatures, yet we tend to shy away from this kind of thing. So often our view is, “Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble…” or, “I shouldn’t ask in case I don’t get anywhere.” Use networks that you know – friends and family, colleagues, friends and family of colleagues. Staying with these people rather than on my own in a tent or B&B enriched my journey beyond the physical bed and food – I received companionship, conversation, advice, local knowledge, and sometimes a lasting friendship.
(Disclaimer: I don’t want to downplay the joys of camping, which I have since discovered!)
When I was 18 I moved to Manchester to start a music degree at Manchester University. To get from my student house to campus I had to cycle up Wilmslow Road through Rusholme – the Curry Mile – a busy route shared with vans unloading at the kerb side, buses, drivers in a hurry, and rows of parked cars. One day, as I was cycling home from lectures, a man who’d just parked his car opened his door and I went crashing into it, and was knocked into the centre of the road. There was no other traffic using the road at that moment – thank goodness, because had there been a bus behind me, I would probably not be here right now.
Being ‘doored’ is one of the most common causes of accidents for cyclists in London. Every day I see cyclists riding close to a line of parked cars, in prime position to be hit if one of the doors should happen to open.
The best way to avoid being hit by a car door is simply to not put yourself in that position in the first place. Ride wide of the door zone: at least an arm’s length away from parked cars. The width of a door and a little bit more (otherwise you’ll end up on the floor).
This may mean you are towards the centre of a narrow road, leaving little room for traffic to pass, which can be daunting if there is a car behind you. Stick to your position and look around to make eye contact with the driver – this should encourage them to give you a bit more time and space. In this situation, you actually have right of way: you are the road user in front, and it’s up to the person behind to overtake when it’s safe to do so. If there’s no room for them to pass, they simply have to wait. If there’s someone in the oncoming lane, again, hold your position. Moving over is giving the driver ahead an invitation to pass, potentially too fast and too close. Staying wide means the driver will be forced to slow down, and as you get closer, you can negotiate past each other, in exactly the same way that you would if you were driving a car. Eye contact works wonders – not only does it make you a person rather than a ‘cyclist’, it shows you know what you are doing and the driver behind or ahead is more likely to act patiently towards you.
On wider roads it can be even more daunting to hold your position out of the door zone – traffic will probably be going faster, and there’ll be more of it. But there’ll also be more room for it to pass.
Another advantage of riding wide of the door zone is visibility. A driver is more likely to open the door in your path if you are riding in the door zone, simply because they won’t have seen you. A cursory glance in the wing mirror won’t pick you out if you’re hidden against a line of parked cars. Ride wide and you’ll be more obvious as an object.
More space gives you more reaction time and more room to manoeuvre. As cyclists, we have been historically taught to ‘stay on the left.’ But you must ride in a position that’s safest for you, even if it means taking more space than you think. Other road users will overtake when it’s safe; it is not up to you to get out of the way. Take the space you need.
And always keep the brakes covered just in case!
For as long as I can remember I have ridden a bike. It wasn’t so much a conscious decision to be a ‘cyclist’ but it just so happened that cycling ticked all the boxes. It was the quickest way to get to school, the cheapest way to get to university, the most enjoyable way to get to work. As I became more aware of environmental issues I appreciated more the value of travelling in a way that doesn’t create any pollution. I got a job with Sustrans, encouraging children to ride their bikes to school for all the benefits it brings: health, financial, social, and environmental.
One day I decided to cycle the 26 miles from my home in London to my office in Basildon. It would save me the train fare, it was quite an easy route, and as Mallory said, it was there to be done. I arrived dripping in sweat and completely ravenous, unable to move from my desk for the remainder of the day — that two and a half hour ride had almost been my undoing. My colleagues shot concerned glances in my direction and offered me a lift home. Nevertheless I got back on for the return trip, and persevered over the next few months, eventually getting my journey time down to 1 hour 35 minutes. The benefits were enormous. I was fitter than I had ever been, in the end hardly breaking a sweat. I had saved myself hundreds of pounds in train fares. My commute was no longer a frantic rush to catch the train, sharing a carriage with the elbows and shoulders of my fellow passengers. My carriage was the wide open sky, my track the road stretching out ahead. The time taken was barely more than it had been when I relied on public transport. Even when I felt like I couldn’t be bothered, or it was raining, once I got going I never failed to enjoy it. I was utterly free.
After that I became a bit of a cycle nut. Any journey that looked like I could make it by bike, I would. I cycled seven miles to a friend’s wedding, wearing my dress tucked into my leggings. I refused a lift from a friend when I moved flat, instead shuttling my belongings the three miles to the next neighbourhood by bicycle. I made dinner plans with a friend in Manchester then decided to ride there from Liverpool along the banks of the River Mersey, turning an hour’s train ride into a day’s adventure. I cycled from London to Brighton to meet a friend for tea, and afterwards turned straight around and cycled back again. 120 miles just for a cup of tea! Any distance in London I would cycle, loving the fact that I could ride from east to west in an hour, getting to know my city in a way that you can’t by sitting on a bus. I found all the hidden back roads, the peaceful canals, the grand docks. Everything seems more exciting from the seat of a bike.
These are my everyday adventures — doing what I’d ordinarily do, in a way that is extraordinary.
In 2011 I did my first long-distance bicycle adventure: I cycled round the coast of the UK. I’d always wanted to do a long-distance bike ride, and not just from Land’s End to John O’ Groats, but something a bit more original. The 4000 mile journey took me 10 weeks — it was long, tough, and demanding, and by far the best thing I have ever done.
From here, I have ideas for grander, and in some ways, simpler, adventures. A few years ago I learned to sail, so I can one day travel around the globe by human power and wind power alone. On a daily basis I teach people to ride bikes — the joy of cycling is too good to keep to myself. I also go to schools and talk about my round-Britain bike ride, hoping to inspire the next generation to have an adventure.
I’ve always been fascinated by watercourses, the web of rivers and streams that dissects the land, flowing endlessly towards the sea. I love the path that they cut, both natural and manmade; it’s fascinating to see how we built our societies around rivers as a source of life, of trade, and of transport, and how we’ve built our own version in the form of canals. I love how they connect, how they meander, how they are formed. Being beside a river brings instant calm; even in the midst of city and industry, water is peace.
Liverpool sits at the mouth of the River Mersey; the Mersey flows near my friend’s house in Manchester. Would it be possible to reach one from the other simply by following the water? I decided to find out.
In Liverpool, the Mersey is wide and surging. It flows into Liverpool Bay, the wind and the waves and the tide giving it a ferocious personality. I began my journey at the docks among the huge boats, their bright, bold hulls reflected in the dock water complemented by the deep red bricks of the old warehouse buildings. It was an overcast day, the wind high, the rigging of sailing boats knocking in ghostly rhythm against their masts. I turned my back on the city and the sea and followed the water’s edge, inland; I had no idea where I was going aside from my vague notion of following the river, and this was part of the adventure. To have no plan, no knowledge of the route other than the start point and the end point, and the hope that I would be able to find my way using these ancient forms of navigation.
It soon transpired that this was part of the Transpennine Trail, a Sustrans route that winds west to east from Southport to Hornsea. So I’d be guided by the blue signs that were dotted regularly along the way; not quite the wilderness trail that I was hoping for, but useful nonetheless.
The city morphed into suburbs, then petered out to countryside, and soon the concrete riverside path had become gravel and I was riding along wide cycleways with tall grasses to each side. The river had been growing rather than shrinking as I’d travelled away from the bottleneck at Liverpool and the Wirral, the estuary reaching deep into the land, but it eventually gave way to winding river as the trail reached Widnes. I passed beneath the Widnes/Runcorn bridge, the steel arched in the shape of a pirate’s hat. Upstream the river would become unnavigable for both boats and bikes, the banks overgrown and wild, the river bed shallow and rapids-interrupted. Here, man-made waterways would once have carried cargo further inland, and now they would carry me. Parallel to the Mersey on the opposite bank lay the Manchester Ship Canal; on my side was the St Helens canal, a ruler-straight cut alongside which the river meandered. I joined the towpath and was soon heading for the outskirts of Warrington, where great plumes of smoke rose from power station chimneys.
A squat structure appeared across the water, four steel girder-like legs holding up a flat, straight and short bridge. I stopped. The Warrington Transporter Bridge! One of the trio of transporter bridges in the UK, these ingenious structures constructed in the late 1800s where a high bridge was required to allow shipping to pass but where the approach ramp to reach such a height was impractical. I have used the two other such bridges in the UK, in Newport, South Wales and Middlesborough. This was disused, the industry that had once required the constant shuttling of goods across the water now gone.
The route criss-crossed the meandering Mersey, reaching the south side where the gargantuan Manchester Ship Canal cut deep between cities, wide, deep and long, the bridges passing high above, double in scale to every canal I’d seen before. Here I left the water and followed an old branch-line railway from Lymm to Altrincham through tunnels of trees and over tracks of roots. The place names became familiar, outskirts of the city where I was a student. Dunham Massey, Altrincham, Sale, Chorlton, all drawing me to West Didsbury where my journey would end.
I finally re-joined the Mersey at Chorlton Water Park, the gently rippling water just a few metres wide; a wholly different animal to that which it had been at the start. It snaked its way through manicured golf greens, civilised and calm, the banks smooth and well-kept. I followed it through the golf course then exited through a gate to re-join roads, where traffic and society replaced water. The Mersey continued its endless flow, back the way I had come, where it would become wider and faster, meandering through Warrington and Widnes, into Liverpool Bay and eventually the sea.
It had taken almost six hours to travel the 40-odd miles from city to city. I arrived starving and exhausted, but with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction – I had set out to do something and I had done it, with no more preparation than my (at times questionable) sense of direction. I had breathed great lungfuls of Lancashire air, seen the landscape change through industry and nature, felt the benefit that exercise has on my body, and arrived thoroughly deserving of my dinner. I had spent hours under the wide open sky, feeling with every pedal that I was getting to know my country more and more. I just wouldn’t have got that on the train.
It’s been two weeks since I returned home from LEJOG, but real life starts straight away and this is the first time I’ve had the time (or inclination) to sit down with my laptop. On the road, everything is simple. You wake, dress, eat, and ride. Nothing is more important than the journey you are taking. Now I’m back home, the chaos of life has crept in – earning money, housework, friends, catching up with those tasks that were put aside in the lead up to the ride because they were not important then. It’s exhausting, and I’ve had neither mental space or time to tie up all those loose ends.
Ten days ago I was standing at the top right hand corner of Britain, in front of the famous signpost at John O’Groats, four weeks and over 1000 miles after leaving Land’s End. It was a bright, sunny, warm day – perhaps surprising for late September on the north coast of Scotland, but not surprising for a trip in which I’d had to wear my waterproofs only twice. That final day was wonderful – a relatively short journey from my camping spot in Thurso out to the northwest tip of Scotland and back, a round trip of around 50 miles if you include the long-awaited detour to Dunnet Head. This was one compass point that I’d by-passed on the round-Britain, not having had the chance to ride to the tip of the peninsula then, the most northerly point of mainland Britain. But here I was, striking out across the windswept farmland, the sun at my back, each pedal stroke overflowing with excitement to finally be there. I knew what I’d find: one of Stevenson’s lighthouses sitting squat near the edge of the cliff, and a headstone letting me know that I was as far north as I could possibly be. And there it was, exactly as I had imagined, predictable yet extraordinary, with a breathtakingly clear view of Orkney across a rich blue sea. I wanted to sit on the crumbling wall that had once hemmed in the lighthouse keeper’s garden, alone in my thoughts, deafened by the distant crash of the waves on the rocks, but I had to share it with other tourists, those who had driven there, those who took my picture badly, those who asked me where I was riding and where I lived and what I did for a job, questions that I had no desire to answer. Finally, I was tired of talking.
The approach to John O’Groats was less euphoric – exhaustion had begun to set in and the road seemed never ending, each village that came and went a teasing prelude to that which would signal the end of my journey. But eventually it came, and down to the water’s edge I went, thinking I would ask them to write “Eat Sleep Cycle book tour” on the signpost. I’d neglected to have my photograph taken at Land’s End, but I would definitely get it done here. Except, the signpost that I had anticipated had been replaced, several years ago it transpired, by a different signpost, a permanent one which was free for all to photograph. It explains the background to the story here. I was disappointed – as much as I thought paying for your photo was a bit cheeky, I was looking forward to getting it personalised with my book name. I liked the old signpost. It looked simpler. This one is a bit grand, and of course, open to graffiti – stickers and signature scrawls were all over it, along with a t-shirt from someone’s charity ride that had been wrapped around the bottom. I thought it a shame. Thousands of people do this ride every year, mostly for charity, so why should your cause be more important than anyone else’s?
I sat in the tea rooms eating my soup, feeling something of an anti-climax. That was it. All over. This point had been in my mind since day one, whenever anyone has asked where I was riding, whenever I wrote my blog or arrived at a venue with one of my posters displayed on the door: “Anna Hughes is riding from Land’s End to John O’Groats!” Well, I was, but not anymore. Now what?
It’s an interesting place, John O’Groats, a tiny settlement named for Jan Der Groot who used to ferry passengers across the treacherous Pentland Firth to the Orkney Islands, now largely overtaken by tourism, with hotels, restaurants, and holiday lets reaching down to the seafront. It can appear quite dismal but thankfully has been spared the theme park treatment of Land’s End. I sat and watched travellers of all kinds stand beneath the signpost for a photograph, before making my way back along the now familiar coastline to Thurso.
The following day the Great Unravelling began, and I sat on the train as it chugged south from Thurso station through Lairg and Ardgay and Dingwall to Inverness, all places I’d cycled through, remembering how I’d felt in each. Then an overnight train from Inverness, and suddenly I was back in London. The roads were overwhelming. A taxi driver shouted at me. I sought the solace of the canal, riding as slowly as I could while those around me raced to work. I reached my boat, stepped on board, and cried. Happy tears – tears that showed how much I’d missed my home. Then I noticed all the maintenance work that needed doing and I stopped crying.
People ask me how it was. They mainly want to hear about the weather, because that seems to be the mark of whether the trip was good or not. Well, the weather was great, and the trip was great. But it was wholly different to the round-Britain trip, a trip in which excitement and discovery was to be found in every pedal. I was wide-eyed then. Now, I am seasoned; I know what I am doing. In practical terms the trip was a success. I arrived at each venue without a hitch and every night (bar one) I had an audience. I sold 200 books and earned almost £1000 (though I spent £1400). I achieved my goal of riding from Land’s End to John O’Groats, I revisited some familiar parts of Britain, and I discovered some new ones. I returned fit as a fiddle and with a glowing tan. And in personal terms, it was fantastic, though not without its challenges. People ask what’s next. My answer: I’m going to have a rest.
Knowing what to take on a cycling tour can be the trickiest part – you don’t want to take too much, as it ends up being dead weight, but you don’t want to take too little because you’re bound to need that one thing you omitted to bring.
Looking back at my kit list for the round-Britain trip makes me laugh. I certainly packed a lot, mainly clothes, and much of it contingency packing (why on earth would I need four pairs of gloves?!), but lots of it for comfort and because, being my first long tour, I didn’t really know what to take. I read others’ kit lists and took their advice, but mainly I just took what I thought I’d need. I wasn’t too far off – a few things made their way back home in the post, but I did use most of it.
This tour is entirely different. I’ve packed far fewer clothes and far less bulk. Let’s compare kit lists:
underwear (6 pairs), socks (6 pairs), padded shorts, normal shorts, leggings x3, cycling tops x2, hoodie, cycling shoes, cycling gloves, buff, baseball cap, waterproof jacket and overtrousers, sunglasses
Thin jumper, top x2, flip-flops, swimming costume
allen key, chain lube, puncture kit, spare tube, pump
tent, sleeping bag, roll mat, blow up mattress, wash bag, small first aid kit, towel, LEJOG guidebook, laptop & charger, iPhone & charger (no need for a separate camera), posters for my presentations, books (I sent boxes of books ahead to each venue then carried the spares or sent them on). And 30 flapjacks and cakes from Riverbank Bakery.
It probably weighs around the same, but feels far more simple – everything has a definite purpose, I know where everything is and I’m not scrabbling around in the depths of my panniers trying to find stuff.
However, the purpose of the tour is twofold: not only am I cycling from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, I am also giving talks to the public. Wearing sweaty cycling clothes to give my talks is perhaps not the best idea. Neither do I want to wear the same thing every day, dahling!
So, in each place I reach, I have been buying a dress in a charity shop, which I then donate to the next place. It’s been a great way of having a different outfit each night, something clean to wear (!) and doing my bit for charity.
So, I present, The Charity Shop Tour.
So, this was it: the final push to John O’Groats and the end of the tour. This was to be the longest week in terms of mileage (340) but the shortest in terms of events (only two). Without the pressure of a schedule, it really was all about the cycling.
And what fabulous cycling there is to be had in this part of the world. The week started with a ride north from Glasgow tracing waterways: the River Clyde, followed by the Forth and Clyde canal, then the River Leven, then finally the expansive and beautiful Loch Lomond, where the West Lomond cycle path led me for 17 wonderful traffic-free miles along its banks. I pitched my tent in Crianlarich in a perfect spot to watch the sun rise.
But the next morning, it was rain clouds that greeted me, rainclouds that started seeping shortly after breakfast and grew heavier and heavier throughout the morning. It didn’t stop raining for two days.
This was the section described in my guidebook as having some of the finest views in all of Europe. I had little chance of seeing those views. The rain clouds hung low, almost to the ground, swallowing up the peaks on either side. I rode over the pass of Glen Coe, the road creeping out of the mist ahead, unable to make out much of the scenery apart from the base of mountains as they rose into the white. But this in itself was a unique type of experience: ghostly, atmospheric, magical. I descended from the clouds into the valley of Glencoe, where the mist dissipated to reveal the Three Sisters rising spectacularly into the clouds.
A few miles past Glencoe I came across two boys taking pictures on the bridge. I stopped and asked if they’d take mine, then asked where they were heading. John O’Groats too, it seemed. They were just two of the many End to Enders I had come across, but most I’d waved on as they’d zoomed past with their road bikes and support van. Tom and Kevin were the first two who were riding a similar pace to me, so we set off into the (thankfully lighter) rain, the remaining ten miles to Fort William passing in a flash as we swapped stories of our respective trips and lives. It was wonderful to have such terrific company, and as we sat eating haggis (vegan, I might add) and drinking ale in the pub, I realised how much I had missed this. This had definitely been a solo tour – many people had offered to ride with me, and I had thanked them for offering their support, but had preferred to ride alone. I had been happy with that choice but now, nearing the end, sharing the trip with others was just what I needed.
I bumped into them again the following day after descending from General Wade’s Military Road at Loch Ness, probably the most difficult pass of the whole LEJOG ride. I was absolutely soaked to the skin and my extremities were frozen from battling with horizontal rain for two hours, but there they were, equally soaked but smiling. We rode the final miles to Inverness together then parted ways again so I could find a hostel and warm up before my final talk of the tour, at Waterstones Inverness.
My plan for the final stretch was to ride from Inverness to the Crask Inn, then reach John O’Groats on Saturday evening. Then I’d have a day in hand before my return train from Thurso on Monday. It would be two long days in the saddle. I woke early on the Friday morning and set off.
I’d barely left Inverness before I found a tick in my leg. I’d never had a tick before but I know about them, mainly that there is a risk of disease with any blood-sucking mite. I panicked and phoned everyone I knew, including two doctor friends and my doctor sister, to find out what I should do. I settled down with my tweezers to remove it but the head snapped off. Now, every article I’d read on tick bites are very clear that you should NOT LET THE HEAD SNAP OFF. But none of them tells you what to do if the head does, in fact, snap off. Between finding a GP and pharmacist who could tell me what to do, buying some magnesium sulphate cream to draw the head out (which didn’t work, by the way), and plastering the thing up, it was gone lunchtime by the time time I left Dingwall. My dream of reaching John O’ Groats by Saturday evening (and having a pint with the boys) was slipping further from my grasp.
So, that was the moment I decided that, for once, I wouldn’t have a plan. I always have a plan, whether that be a booked event or a pre-determined route or booked accommodation. So, this time, I wouldn’t. I had a day in hand. Why not use it?
So I set off, calm, relaxed (apart from the underlying panic that I’d just contracted Lyme’s disease), and without concern for miles or hours. There followed two absolutely wonderful days of cycling. From the top of a long pass north of Dingwall I saw the sea; the first glimpse since leaving it at Exmouth. I watched salmon leap in a waterfall at the Falls of Shin. I rode through deserted mountainous landscapes where sheep were more plentiful than cars. I crossed Strathnaver, a barren yet richly historical landscape which had once housed a huge population before they were booted out by the Lords in the Highland Clearances. I swam in the sea at Bettyhill, bobbing amongst the surfers and being drenched by the breakers as they crashed over my head. I traversed the incredible coastline of northern Scotland, the ever-present skyline of peaks a dramatic backdrop to the snaking road as it ascended and descended, ascended and descended all the way to Thurso. I pitched my tent for the final time under the light of the full moon and listened to the waves of Thurso Bay lulling me to sleep.
And then, there it was: the last day, where I would reach John O’Groats. The perfect weather had returned and I rode the final stretch in my t-shirt – a round trip of around 50 miles if you include the detour to Dunnet Head – arriving in John o’ Groats where the famous signpost indicated I’d just cycled 874 miles from the opposite corner of Britain.
The arrival promoted a mix of emotions which I’ve explored here, euphoria and exhaustion among them. I sat eating some snacks as I looked out to the Orkney Isles and up to the lighthouse at Duncansby Head, where I’d sat eating my lunch on my round-Britain trip. Such a lot had happened since then. On that visit, I had been barely a quarter of the way into my 4000 mile ride around Britain’s coast. I was a touring novice, naive in many ways, with the whole of Britain yet to be discovered. John O’Groats was simply a turning point in my journey, neither the start nor the finish, just one more day in my long ride.
But it was the reason I was here again: I have spent the intervening years talking and writing about my trip in a bid to inspire others that adventuring by bicycle is one of the best ways to see the world, and that the UK is a great starting point. The whole point of riding LEJOG was to promote the resulting book. It was a wonderful trip, and a success commercially – I sold around 200 books and spoke to around 400 people, hopefully inspiring others to get out there and discover a little more of this wonderful island on which we live.
Yesterday I spent most of the day tracing waterways, from the River Clyde to the Forth and Clyde Canal, to the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. The West Loch Lomond cycle path led me loch side for 17 glorious traffic-free miles, with absolutely beautiful views across the loch.
I pitched my tent in a little meadow in Crianlarich, not far from the West Highland Railway. This was the view as the sun rose this morning:
Since then it has rained pretty much non-stop.
My guidebook promised me that, on this stretch, “there can be finer views in all of Europe.” The views today were mostly like this:
and occasionally like this:
although I did see this:
I am now in Fort William, settled in a pub (which serves vegan haggis in a quesadilla!), my tent and belongings draped around the place while I wait for them to dry sufficiently so I can go and find the campsite. More rain tomorrow.
Anything can happen when you’re out on the open road, and here are a few tips of how to cope when things go wrong.
Prevention is better than cure
The main thing I’ve learned in all my touring is that things are less likely to go wrong if they are set up properly in the first place. Spend time with your bike before you set off, learning how everything fits and which part does what. Take it to a shop for a once-over. A basic maintenance course is also a good idea. Anything rattling or rubbing will get worse as you ride – a quiet bike is a happy bike.
The dreaded puncture
Limit the number you get by: using tyres with puncture protection; pumping your tyres to the correct pressure; checking the tyre frequently for shards and stones and levering these out (I carry a tiny screwdriver for this)
Punctures are more common in the rain and you don’t want to be taking your tyre off for the first time in a torrential storm, so have a practice at home first!
Check the inside of the tyre for stubborn shards of glass/thorns/pieces of flint otherwise you may make a new hole straight away.
Most cyclists swap their punctured inner tube for a fresh one straight away – it’s quicker and you can patch the old one at your leisure which you can then use as a spare. But don’t be afraid to patch – with touring, you have all the time in the world. Wait for the glue to turn tacky before putting the patch on – it will take far longer to stick if you rush. A patched inner tube, when done right, is just as good as a new one. I find glueless patches less effective. Again, when touring, you’re not so in need of efficiency.
If it’s a blowout you’ll need to use your spare tube, and you can use the old one as a ‘boot’ (a small piece of rubber that prevents the inner tube from bulging outside the tyre). Use a folded over section of the old tube to line the inside of the tyre.
Chains and gears
Be nice to your chain — avoid changing gear when standing up in the pedals, and keep it as straight as possible (e.g. if you’re in a high gear at the front you should be in a high gear at the back). Carry a Quick Link in case of snappage — remove broken link using a chain-breaker and snap the Quick Link in place. It’s possible to fix the chain without using a quick link, by pushing the rivet out most of the way, then pushing it back in once the broken link has been removed. This requires care and practice. Something to try out at home!
If the derailleur itself breaks, remove completely and shorten the chain so it sits on one of the middle rings — you’ll only have one gear but at least you’ll be able to ride.
Racks and frame
Bolts in racks can rattle undone as you ride so check them regularly. Cable ties can be fed through the bolt hole, but they break easily — string or twine is much better.
If the rack itself breaks, see what’s in your luggage or by the roadside that can be used as a splint. A spoon handle lashed in the right place can be very effective. Check for cracks in the frame as well. Use Milliput: ‘moulds like putty — sets like rock’. Amazing stuff.
There are some great youtube videos of how to straighten out a bent wheel – entertaining if nothing else! Check regularly for loose spokes and learn to tighten them with a spoke key (righty does not mean tighty with spokes… the nipples turn the opposite way to usual). Carry spare spokes. Broken spokes in the front wheel can be replaced without even taking the wheel off. The rear is more difficult because you have to remove the gears which needs a specialist tool. A broken spoke will cause a buckle in the wheel and put more pressure on the remaining spokes, so replace asap. Loosen off the surrounding spokes and the brakes if necessary to allow the wheel to turn.
Brake pads will wear as you ride, especially in wet conditions. Turn the barrel adjuster periodically to ensure the brake is still engaging (unscrew the barrel adjuster to tighten the cable). Keep an eye on the pads to ensure they don’t go beyond the wear line.
Broken cables are easy to replace with a little intuition (and of course a spare cable). Typical path of brake cable: Hook inside lever, through barrel adjuster, outer casing (may be two separate pieces of casing or one single), noodle (curved metal part – only on V brakes), bolt.
Multi-tool — Topeak do a good one with a range of allen keys, a chain breaker and a screwdriver.
Puncture kit plus tyre levers
Spoke key and spare spokes
Chain Quick Link
Electrical tape/duct tape
This week has seen me travel from the metropolis of Manchester to the Lancashire hills, through the grand scenery of the Lake District and onwards to the flood plains around the Solway Firth. I’ve crossed the border into Scotland and now I’m in the bustling city of Glasgow. The cycling is getting easier (or I’m getting fitter) and the weather has, yet again, held up so, while my friends back in London have been suffering in a downpour, I’ve been riding through the sunshine in my T shirt.
I’ve given talks to 70 people, sold 42 books, camped twice, cycled 200 miles and taken the train once (shh!). Find out why here.
The week began with an event at Popup Bikes, Manchester, a little coffee shop and bike store hidden away under the railway arches near Victoria Station. While in Manchester I called into both Waterstones stores to sign copies of the book and I was greeted at the Deansgate store with a stack of 11 books and a cup of tea while I signed them.
My Lancaster event was fab – armed only with a microphone (no projector to rely on) I spoke to a crowd who listened intently as I told the story of my round-Britain ride and read three short passages from the book. It’s always a challenge to rely only on my words, but I feel I’m developing as a story teller the more talks I give (and I hope the audience agrees!)
From there it was on to Kendal and the Lake District. It was in the Lake District that the book had been born: I took a ten day holiday back in 2012 to begin the process of turning my blog into a book, thinking that I would be done within a year. It wasn’t until three years later that the manuscript was finally finished and I was ready to publish. Photographs from that trip are on my Flickr page.
From Kendal I rode to Keswick, really enjoying being back in the Lake District; the scenery is breathtaking, the peaks are awesome, and the cycling is not as challenging as the terrain suggests, the roads following the banks of the lakes for much of the time with the occasional pass thrown in. From Bassenthwaite Lake it was an ascent of several hours to the Uldale Commons, that wild, rugged landscape where the wind roams freely and sheep wander across the path. There followed a ten mile descent towards Carlisle, the final stopping point before crossing into Scotland.
My first stop in Scotland was in Moffat, where the Moffat Bookshop had arranged for me to speak at the Baccleuch Hotel. A small crowd filled the small room, and I didn’t realise until halfway through that among them were Alec and Anne, who hosted me in Dumfries on my round-Britain trip! Alec is mentioned in the book – in fact, in the very passage I was reading out (thank goodness I didn’t attempt to put on his accent). It was fabulous to see them again as I remain indebted to the folk who offered me food and shelter on that trip.
I’m now in Glasgow where I’ll give a talk tonight at Tiso Outdoor Experience before setting off for Tyndrum tomorrow. My final event is in Inverness on Thursday, then it’s the last big push to reach John o’ Groats, which I hope to do on Saturday.
I’ve been vegan on and off for around five years. I don’t see anything wrong with humans using animals as a source of food per se, but it’s the way we do it that I don’t agree with. The environmental impact of the meat and dairy industry is something to which I don’t wish to contribute:
“…from crops and water required to feed the animals, to the transport and other processes involved … The vast amount of grain feed required for meat production is a significant contributor to deforestation, habitat loss and species extinction… This land contributes to developing world malnutrition by driving impoverished populations to grow cash crops for animal feed, rather than food for themselves” (from the vegan society)
I spent a few years being ‘mostly’ vegan, but I would eat meat and dairy if I couldn’t find anything vegan to eat. But after a while I decided it’s not just about the consumption (surely by cutting down I was doing my bit?), it’s the concept. I would profess to be vegan then go out and eat a pizza. It was easier to just eat what was on the menu – I didn’t want to make a fuss. People didn’t take my diet or my beliefs seriously so I decided to go the whole hog (so to speak).
I’ve now been 100% vegan for almost two years, and I love it. Most of the time, it’s easy. I have a diet rich in beans and vegetables, I feel healthy, happy and energised, and I’m rarely hungry. I feel satisfied to be doing something I believe in. I tend not to eat tofu or soy; if I’m not going to eat meat, then I don’t want to eat something that’s pretending to be meat.
Now, when I go out, I’ll ask what can be adapted from the menu to be vegan. Most of the time, the chef is happy to make something. Sometimes there is even a separate vegan menu. I’m increasing awareness of veganism by asking, rather than taking the easy option and eating something I’d rather not eat. And pizza without the cheese can be really delicious!
But it’s much harder being vegan on the road. When I cycled around Britain I didn’t restrict my diet at all; when you are relying on people’s hospitality, you eat what you’re given, and I didn’t know if I’d reliably be able to source enough food to keep my energy levels up. This time, however, I really wanted to try sticking to my vegan diet. I thought it would be fine – I’d get by on bread and hummous if necessary. But it’s much harder than I thought. Veganism isn’t always catered for in the far reaches of the UK. I am restricted by what I can find – which sometimes isn’t much.
For breakfast I can have beans on toast, tomatoes, mushrooms, hash browns, tattie scones now I’m in Scotland, and veggie sausages – whatever combination I can eat from the Full English menu. Or porridge made with water (yuk). Lunch tends to be soup, or salad with bread and hummous, or jacket potato with hummous, or anything with hummous – I try to eat as much hummous as I can, as it’s full of fat, carbs and protein, and it’s delicious. I’ve found some fantastic cafes, some of them dedicated vegetarian or vegan cafes, that have fed me richly. For dinner I’ve been eating curry or burrito or beany stew or veggie burger or chips.
The trouble on this tour has not been finding food to eat. There’s lots I can eat. It’s been finding enough food to eat, and eating enough variety. On the road I need to eat roughly twice as much as usual, and while in the past that has meant popping into a bakery or shop every couple of hours, those places typically don’t stock much of a range for vegans. Sometimes I can’t find a breakfast stop for the first 20 miles or so, by which time I’m exhausted. Sometimes I’ve gone without dinner, because the evenings are focussed on the talks, and by the time I’ve finished all the food places are shut. As I’ve been riding, I’ve been steadily using up my reserves, such that it came to the point last week when I couldn’t ride; I was too fatigued. I was feeling hungry all the time and no amount of eating would fill me up. I desperately didn’t want to give up my vegan diet, but I started to seriously worry about my health.
So, I took the train for leg 16 – Manchester to Lancaster – and made a concerted effort to eat as much as I possibly could that day. Since then I’ve been making sure that I stop every hour or two and eat something substantial (yesterday I ate three breakfasts before I’d even gone anywhere!) and I am starting to feel better. I have a lot to thank Riverbank Bakery for; they supplied me with a huge pile of flapjacks and cakes before I left (they are my favourite vegan cake-maker) which have been a real life-saver when I’ve not been able to find my next food stop. My bags are getting noticeably lighter as I go through the stash!
I’m going to stay vegan, but make more of an effort to eat properly at each stage.Today I had two breakfasts and a big lunch, and I’m about to have my second dinner, then maybe something else after the talk. It’s not easy being vegan… but I’m doing it.
It’s raining in London. While the roads that I usually ride down are surging with overflowing drains, I am pedalling from Lancaster to Kendal under a piercing blue sky. I feel exceptionally lucky: out of the 16 days that I’ve been on the road, there’s been only one day that I’ve needed my waterproofs.
My route follows the River Lune from Lancaster, the riverside path soon reaching the disused railway line at Halton where a derelict station building stands, the decorative overhang above the platform reminiscent of grander days. A narrow steel bridge crosses the river, and from there it is up into the hills and into the Lancashire farmland. After a couple of steep climbs I am rewarded with a fabulous view of the endless peaks of the Lake District, the silver glimmer of Morecambe Bay at their feet.
I pass into Cumbria, the final English county through which to travel before I reach Scotland in a few days’ time. The ride along Cumbria’s coast of Outstanding Natural Beauty during the round-Britain trip sticks in my memory as a time of Outstanding Rainfall and Wind, but today it couldn’t be more different; the skies are clear and blue, the wind gentle, the visibility across the fells fantastic. I ride at the foot of slopes with peaks of light brown and grey, the green fields below spotted with a scattering of grazing sheep and a grey scribbling of stone walls. Grey stone farmsteads sit nestled in the folds of the hills.
The route criss-crosses the Lancaster canal which once transported Lancashire coal to Kendal and limestone south (earning it the nickname “the black and white canal”). Just outside Lancaster I’d passed under a magnificent aqueduct carrying the canal over the Lune, a design of John Rennie’s. The stretch north of Tewitfield now lies largely derelict, its use becoming less important as freight moved first to the railways and then to the roads (the M6 physically blocks the water at points) and it’s the aim of the Lancaster Canal Trust to bring the canal back into use; maybe one day I’ll bring my own narrowboat up here.
The sun starts to drop to the level of the hills, painting their tips in a rich gold. The view on all sides is huge, three-dimensional, the landscape having been steadily building since just south of Manchester. I pitch my tent in a campsite just out of town, and by the time I’m ready for bed the sky is as black as tar, and a hundred thousand stars shine within it.
I’m now halfway through the LEJOG book tour: 13 days down, 13 to go, 490 miles down, around 500 to go. The halfway point on any tour is potentially difficult – I have as much to do as I’ve already done, and it seems an awfully long time ago that I left Land’s End. But the events are going well and the cycling so far has been terrific, so here’s hoping it continues.
I started this week with a short ride from Wells to Bath, tracing some of the old railway lines that once weaved their way through the Somerset countryside. I’d purposely planned a circuitous route that would take in the newly opened Two Tunnels Greenway, a Sustrans/Bath & NE Somerset Council joint venture that saw the reopening of two railway tunnels on the former Somerset and Dorset line. Approaching the tunnel entrance was fairly daunting (at over a mile long, the Combe Down tunnel is the longest cycling and walking tunnel in the UK) but lights throughout and a music installation partway through made it a pleasant, if eerie, experience.
My event in Bath was at Johns Bikes; I spoke to a small but attentive group, then headed off to the Bristol-Bath railway path to find a good spot to pitch my tent. A clearing by the River Avon partway along the path was perfect.
The next morning I continued along the disused railway path to arrive in Bristol, making it nearly 30 miles since I’d had to cycle amongst motor traffic. In Bristol I held two events, one at Roll for the Soul cycling cafe/workshop, and the other at Stanfords map and book shop. Both events were exceptionally well attended (60 people at Roll for the Soul and 40 at Stanfords!) and great fun.
There followed the most enjoyable day of cycling yet. The River Avon led me out of Bristol where I passed under Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s spectacular Clifton Suspension Bridge perched precariously halfway up a cliff, then onwards to Avonmouth where the Avon flows into the Severn. This is a heavily industrial area, and gives a wholly different experience to the traffic free riverside path of the earlier part of the day. I followed the Severn towards the older of the two Severn bridges, the ever-growing view of both the suspension bridge and the Second Severn Crossing (cable stayed bridge) a source of constant delight. Crossing the Severn by bike was utterly spectacular, if slightly terrifying!
From there the road ascended out of Chepstow, then descended towards Tintern to follow the luscious Wye Valley all the way to Monmouth; a delightful route of easy cycling and beautiful scenery.
I stopped overnight in Hereford then it was on to Shrewsbury where my event had a very small but very lovely audience, and after that it was on to Chester where I met Sarah who had just caught a train up from London. I had an afternoon signing at the Waterstones then we were free to explore Chester – which was packed with people in posh frocks who’d been at the races.
Sarah and I rode to Manchester on Sunday, picking up the Transpennine trail just south of Warrington and following it along a disused railway line almost all of the way to Sale. Sarah then headed home on the train while I settled in at Jackson’s Boat pub, where I later gave a talk to a lovely group of cyclists, one of whom had arrived on a Penny Farthing!
A lovely week overall. I’m enjoying the events and the cycling has mostly been great, and there’s only been one day of rain since I started – not a bad score for 13 days on the road!
Many people helped and supported me during my round-Britain bike ride by offering a bed for the night, a meal at the end of the day, or by riding with me for a section. Regretfully, many of these didn’t make the final cut of the book; restricted by a word count, I didn’t have the luxury of being able to introduce and develop each of them as characters, and simply mentioning their names would have been perfunctory.
One of those characters was Simon Wallis, a Sustrans colleague who supported me greatly, by hosting and feeding and riding with me. It was with great sadness that I found out that Simon passed away last year. He was a fabulous colleague, always bursting with mad-cap ideas of how to get more children and families into cycling. He would always sign his emails “Happy days”, and a memorial to him has been installed by Sustrans on the West Kirby waterfront where he lived, fittingly inscribed with those words.
I feel doubly sad that he was one of the characters that didn’t make the final cut, so I’d like to publish his brief role in the story here, from an early draft.
From the conclusion to Day 42: Tarleton to West Kirby
Across the Mersey, the Liverpool skyline stood in an endless panorama of cranes and docks and cathedrals and skyscrapers and warehouses. I was to meet my colleague Simon just outside Birkenhead station and I waited by the railings, the wind whisking my hair into my eyes with unpredictable gusts.
Simon soon appeared from around the corner, riding his old pack-horse mountain bike.
“Hello, Anna!” he said as he hugged me. “How was your ride today?”
“Very windy!” I replied, trying to control the strands of hair that danced across my face.
“It’s not quite over yet I’m afraid,” he replied. “Come on,” and off we rode, following the wide, traffic-free cycle way that traced the edge of the blunt-headed Wirral peninsula towards his home in West Kirkby, struggling to hear each other speak over the roar of the wind.
Simon was one of those people who always seemed to be smiling. Like Graham, he was one of the older Bike It officers, but he never acted that way; at work conferences he would have us in stitches with his comic routines and his off-the-wall fancy dress. “Always give them something to remember,” he would say of his assemblies – whether or not that was simply that he’d worn a swimming costume for no apparent reason.
“You know, this is a journey that I did in my early twenties,” Simon said as we rode.
“You mean cycling around Britain?”
“Yes. It feels like only yesterday,” he said, “though it’s coming up for thirty years now. It’s a fantastic journey, Anna. You are very lucky.”
“That’s brilliant! I had no idea!”
I’d known Simon for years yet had never spoken to him of this, so to find out that I was riding in his tyre tracks was a delightful discovery.
“I didn’t take a tent either,” he said. “I negotiated a great deal from the YHA which filled in lots of the gaps and I spoke to the local radio stations along the entire coast and put out a request for one night stop overs in areas where I was really stuck.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m asking too much from people when I stay in their houses.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Anna,” he replied. “I think the key thing is to accept, not expect. People want to help you; we’re certainly happy to do that!”
We had reached the northern edge of the peninsula, the tide low, the wind roaming freely over the sand which stretched for miles.
“I also sent some treat parcels ahead to half a dozen Post Offices marked To be kept for Simon Wallis – journeying around the coast” he said. “They were really welcome!”
We were ravenous by the time we rounded the north west tip of the Wirral and came inland, out of the wind. It had taken Simon only 30 minutes to reach Birkenhead where he’d met me, yet we took almost an hour and a half to return.
“Sorry we took so long,” Simon called as he opened the door. “We’ve been having a good old battle with the wind!” The smell of roast lamb came wafting through the house. “I hope you like roast,” he added.
“Yes, lovely!” I had forgotten it was a Sunday, the days passing with no significance other than where I was aiming for each night.
We sat round the table, his wife and two children warmly welcoming me to the family meal. “Help yourself to more,” Simon said as I polished off my plateful in half the time it took for the others to eat theirs. “You need the strength! There’s not that much of you to start with.”
I grinned as I tucked into my second helping, feeling part of the family for one night, blessed with the generous hospitality that had shaped so much of my ride as I had journeyed forwards.
I was asked at a recent talk if I got lonely on the road and how I coped with it. I don’t often get lonely – I am very content being by myself – but sometimes you feel that you need some kind of comfort. I’ve written a few tips on what to do if loneliness hits.
Posting photographs and experiences onto social media sites is a brilliant way of receiving instant feedback and messages of support from your loved ones back home.
2. Surround yourself with people
Whether this is friends by pre-arrangement, or cycling enthusiasts, or the people propping up the local bar. There are always communities to seek out, wherever you are. This can be a physical community or an online community – try warmshowers.org for a worldwide network of cyclists. Strike up a conversation with someone, even if you don’t quite understand what they’re saying. Some of the most moving tales I’ve read of other’s travels are sharing a cup of coffee with someone who doesn’t speak their language. Signs, smiles and laughter are the same, wherever in the world you are.
3. Make a list of the good stuff
It’s easy to let the bad stuff get you down, and it will keep you down if you let it. There are amazing experiences wherever you are – sometimes you just have to find them. Write down the things that make this trip special: If I hadn’t come on this trip I would never have swam in the Pacific Ocean/ had my apple eaten by a peacock/ seen a puffin diving/ learned to navigate by the stars
4. Have that one luxury in your pack
Travelling light doesn’t mean travelling miserable. Make allowances for yourself – take that one thing that you know is going to make life a little easier on the road, whether it’s a real feather pillow, your most cosy leg-warmers, or your iPad.
Music is magic – a motivational playlist can work wonders. Ask friends to suggest songs in advance, or ask the people you meet to let you know their favourite track and add it to the list.
6. Small steps = big adventure
If you’re finding it particularly tough, set yourself small targets. The big distances can seem overwhelming, but the miles accrue 10, 20, 30 at a time, and suddenly you’re in a new place, with a new adventure ready to greet you.
7. Enjoy your own company
You like you, right?
8. Have a chat with a cow
Animals are great at listening. Tell them your woes. Name them. They won’t be able to talk back, but a good chinwag with a bovine could make you smile for the rest of the day.
9. Remember it truly is a once-in-a-lifetime trip
Tough times are bound to come. You might feel miserable and lonely right now but there will, at some point in the future, be a high to compensate. It’s hard to tell yourself this when it’s raining and there’s a headwind and you’re ill and you’re missing that one special person and you’re wondering why you ever came. Don’t worry. You never have to do this again.
In 1963, the Government published a report entitled The Reshaping of British Railways, written by a certain Dr Beeching. It recommended the closure of around 5000 miles of railway line and over 2000 stations that had ceased to be profitable in the New Age of the Motor Car, and over the subsequent years these railway lines were duly closed.
One such railway was the Cheddar Valley line, running from Yatton railway station near Clevedon to Cheddar and Wells, and known as the Strawberry Line because of the volume of locally grown strawberries it carried to the markets at London.
Another nearby line was the Colliers Way, a tram line that carried coal from the Somerset collieries, built to replace the Somerset Coal Canal which had originally transported the coal but soon fell prey to the more profitable and convenient tram line.
The Colliers Way eventually became part of the Somerset and Dorset railway which ran from Bath and Bridgwater to Poole. Like many railways established in the late 1800s, much of this network was built for the transportation of industry, but soon became more commonly used as a passenger line for the workers who would travel to the coast on their days off.
This, too, was the case with the Midland railway which once rolled between Bath and Bristol, an amalgamation of many smaller lines along which horses had once pulled coal carts. When the route closed as a result of the Beeching Axe, a group of Sustrans volunteers began work to convert the trail to a shared-use path for cyclists and walkers – the very first route on what was to become the National Cycle Network.
Now all of these railways are part of that network, having been resurfaced and way-marked as leisure and commuter routes. From the short section of the Strawberry Line at Wells, to the sweeping Colliers Way that glides along the hillside while the neighbouring roads struggle up and down the gradients, to the Two Tunnels Greenway where the bed of the Somerset and Dorset railway disappears under the huge hills at Combe Down and Lyncombe, these Sustrans routes mean that, for nearly 30 miles, I barely encountered motor traffic. The approach to the Combe Down tunnel was daunting to say the least (at over a mile long I would be underground for at least 10 minutes) but the engineers had done a terrific job: well-surfaced and well-lit, with music to accompany the ride.
The conclusion of this section was the Bristol & Bath railway path, a well trodden and familiar route, and I freewheeled into the City of Cycling on a beautifully hazy morning, surrounded by ordinary people riding ordinary bikes. Thank you, Sustrans, for that memorable section – and keep up the good work.
The first week of the Eat Sleep Cycle book tour is drawing to a close. I’m sitting in a field just north of Wells, laptop on knee, eating the leftovers of yesterday’s curry, having pitched up in a campsite.
The tour started last Sunday with a cancelled train and a broken toe, then took a turn for the better on Tuesday when the cycling proper started. I had a wonderful first day, cycling in the bright sunshine down to Land’s End from Penzance, then making my way back towards Truro, along the coast initially then leaving my old constant to travel inland. The last time I went to Land’s End was on my round-Britain trip; it was neither the start nor the finish, just one more day in my long ride, and my colleague Nick and I ate our Cornish pasties at the last bench in England, the sea haze hiding even the Longships lighthouse just a mile offshore. This time, the visibility was fantastic; approaching the tip of the peninsula I could clearly see the lighthouse beyond, and even the Isles of Scilly perched on the horizon, 28 miles offshore. A large crowd of cyclists was there, ready for their End to End ride, with their lycra, their road bikes, and their luggage safely stowed in the support van. “Are you riding to John o’ Groats?” they asked. “With all that stuff? Rather you than me!”
From there it was a lovely 15 miles to Penzance, along the coastal road. I’d ignored the NCN on the previous trip and therefore missed Mousehole, so this time I was careful to follow the blue signs; not careful enough as it turned out, as I missed one of them and ended in a dead end at Lamorna Cove. Damn! I hate going wrong, especially as this had led me down a very steep descent. I stood halfway down the hill, grumbling to myself, trying to muster the strength to make the climb back out. But then I decided to make something of the mistake; why must I be that person who adheres so rigidly to the plan? Why can’t I go off-piste once in a while? So I freewheeled the rest of the way, parked my bike on the rocks, and went swimming. Day one: sea swim. Now, that didn’t happen on the round-Britain.
In Penzance, I popped into the Edge of the World Bookshop to sign some copies of my book, then headed off for the rest of the journey to Truro. I had forgotten just how hard cycling in this part of the world is; those hills are tough, especially so laden with luggage. I arrived in Truro with just an hour before I needed to be at my evening event, so it was a quick dash to the Waterstones there to sign the book, then a hurried meal, then a half-hour cycle back to Bike Chain Bissoe where my first audience awaited. The event had drawn a small but lovely crowd, and I gave my presentation then read Chapter One of the book – fitting for Day One of the tour.
Day Two passed in a blur of hills and ferries: I took the King Harry Ferry (a chain ferry) across the River Fal, then another ferry at Fowey, then a final ferry across Plymouth harbour from Torpoint to Devonport (another chain ferry). I was familiar with much of the route, having ridden it in part on the round-Britain trip, and also on the Penzance to Brighton ride that had taken place a couple of years prior to that. But despite visiting places I knew and loved, I really struggled. The hills were just so tough, tougher than I had remembered, and I realised just how fit I must have been the last time I was there – it had been eight weeks or so of cycling that had led up to the South Coast section, and those eight weeks had stood me in excellent stead for the brutal climbs that feature on this stretch. I tried to enjoy it, but it turned into a misery plod to the next location; something that I had been so keen to avoid (I’ve explored that in more depth here). I was also a bit sorry that my Plymouth event hadn’t drawn a bigger audience, but those few that came were really supportive and seemed to enjoy it. A swim off Plymouth Hoe before the event was a definite highlight and made up for the negatives.
Day Three: a shorter, flatter ride but a much less enjoyable one; I took the A road for speed and ease, which meant this definitely was a misery plod! But arriving in Totnes was fantastic – it’s a place I have visited before and loved, and I had time to wander the steep High Street, and unexpectedly spied my book on the shelf in an independent book shop! My event at The Curator Cafe couldn’t have been better: a lovely, cosy, quaint venue, with a vintage bike hanging on the wall and a large and appreciative audience. Best of all, I had been contacted by Lucy, someone I’d met at the Cycle Touring Festival, who lived a few miles away and put me up in her house, right on the banks of the River Dart. A swim the next morning made three swims in four days. Not a bad score.
From there I rode to Dawlish, once more along a familiar route, passing through Newton Abbot to pop into the Waterstones there and sign books, and arrived in Topsham for my evening event where I was greeted by a fantastic crowd with a few familiar faces. Route 2 Cafe were brilliant hosts – a lively venue in a really pretty village, right on the River Exe, with loads of boats and a great waterside pub. I gave my talk and, after a couple of beers, I returned to the family flat in Dawlish for a good sleep.
Day Five: it’s a 45 mile ride to Taunton, and with the event not starting til 7pm there’s no need to rush. I ride the Exe Valley trail alongside the river – a wonderfully flat and picturesque route made more enjoyable by the sunshine. At 2pm, however, I am still in Exeter, having cycled only 12 miles. It took a while to get going after my late night on Thursday, and the Exeter Green Fair has provided a significant distraction. I gather myself and set off towards Taunton. Puncture!! It only took four days for my bike to fall prey to a thorn or stone or similar, so I limp towards the bike shop for a fix (I have all the parts to fix it myself, but it’s best to save my spare tube for a wilderness tube change if the need arises). So, it’s almost 3pm by the time I finally leave Exeter for the 33 miles to Taunton. Suddenly the 7pm start seems ominously close.
I’m following the route suggested by Nick Mitchell in the Cicerone End-to-End guidebook. It’s a lovely route north east of Exeter, along country roads and through pretty villages, until I reach the edge of the Blackdown Hills. “Ascend sharply for 1.5 miles” says the guidebook, nonchalantly. This is going to be tough.
But, thankfully, the climb goes smoothly and soon I am out of the wooded hills, the remaining eight miles taking me soaring above the tree line on a quiet and mercifully flat road. The descent into Taunton is exhilarating, and I arrive at Brendon Books for my evening event with 45 minutes to spare. Here, I am welcomed warmly by Lionel and Jo Ward, who not only offer me a bed for the night, but take me out for a curry after the event, which is well attended and a real joy.
It’s a pleasure to ride the 35 miles from Taunton to Wells through the Somerset Flats the next day, the landscape north of Glastonbury giving fabulous views back to Glastonbury Tor and ahead to Wells Cathedral. In Wells I sign books in Waterstones for a couple of hours before finding a campsite in the surrounding hills.
It’s been a full-on week, with all the highs and lows one must expect at the beginning of a tour. I have relished being back on my bike, despite a few niggles, and I am enjoying being a ‘jobbing’ author – using the proceeds of book sales to pay for the tour. But this is only the beginning: here’s to week two!
Anyone who’s familiar with my round-Britain trip will know I’m not the camping type. Perhaps it was the forced nights-under-canvas on family holidays, perhaps it was the cold, wet, and fitful sleeps I suffered as a festival-going 20 something, or perhaps it was simply that a duvet and a shower at the end of the day make me a happy cyclist. Whatever the trigger, I reached my late 20s a self-confessed canvas hater.
So, when I cycled round Britain, I spent the six months leading up to the trip making sure I had a bed to sleep in each night. I contacted everyone I knew, and many people I didn’t know, arranging my accommodation for each place in advance. I would sleep in comfort each night, and the kindness and hospitality I received from my hosts was a wonderful part of my ride. Knowing where I was staying each night helped me when the going got tough, and I could travel relatively light without all that camping kit. I relied so much on the luxury of people’s homes, I didn’t even take a towel!
But I couldn’t help feeling that, despite the advantages, I was missing out. I found myself envious of others who had the confidence to just pack a bag and go, leaving the details of the trip to beautiful chance. And planning to such a degree meant I spent a lot of time unnecessarily worrying about what might happen if it went wrong. On the few occasions when the planned accommodation fell through, it was hard to enjoy the journey, anxious instead about where I might stay that night.
It was in 2012, the year after the round-Britain trip, that I went on my first Otesha tour. And part of the tour was camping. If I am going to camp, I’m going to do it properly, I thought. So I spent real money on real camping equipment, and took my luxuries, including a REAL FEATHER PILLOW. And, to my surprise, I loved it. I was amazed that this thin little layer of canvas could be such an effective shelter; I mean, it was warm inside! And with my roll mat, my blow-up mattress, a cosy sleeping bag and my proper pillow, I had a comfy and satisfying sleep each night.
Since that tour I have gone on other trips with varying degrees of organisation, and over time I’ve learned not to worry about the minor things. You never know what might happen on the road, and planning things in too much detail can take away some of the beauty and freedom of touring. I now have the confidence and desire to just pack a bag and go – I know how to tour; it will be fine.
Now, I am cycling from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, promoting my book as I go. So in fact, the planning for this trip has been almost more difficult than any other, as I’ve booked and promoted an event at every stopping point along the way. The wonderful thing is that the cycling itself hasn’t worried me at all. I haven’t been concerned about what to pack and where to stay, or about what to do if I get lost. I have a simple guidebook to the ‘LEJOG’, and I have a tent and a sleeping bag, and I have a small collection of clothes. It’s so freeing to know that I will cycle to the next place and when I get there I can work out where to stay.
So far, I have ‘wild’ camped (camping without the express permission of the landowner) in the picnic area of a National Trust property, stayed in a hostel, had two beds offered at the last minute (from people who’ve attended my talks) and now I’m set up in a campsite. I’m hoping to do more wild camping as I make my way northwards; I have truly come to love my cosy sleeping bag and tiny little tent, that does an amazing job of keeping the elements at bay, even in high wind and rain. Perhaps I didn’t really hate camping before. I probably just never did it right.
Day Four of the LEJOG book tour
Last night I gave a talk at The Curator Cafe, Totnes. It was the third talk on my Land’s End to John o’ Groats book tour, having started the tour at Bike Chain Bissoe near Truro, and spoken at Rockets and Rascals in Plymouth the previous night. This was my best event so far: Totnes is a vibrant town, full of green-minded people, and I managed to draw a crowd despite it all being a bit last minute (I only confirmed the venue two weeks ago). The crowd were friendly and attentive, and the cafe were fabulous hosts, putting on a special menu and providing wine and the great coffee they are famous for.
Ordinarily I show a slideshow of pictures and structure my talk around that. But at this venue, there was no projection equipment, so all I could rely on was me. Gulp.
And it turned out to be great. It was nice to be able to expand on a story if I felt the crowd were responding to it, and I could skim over parts that turned out to not be particularly interesting. I read three passages from my book, from three contrasting sections of the ride, and I really enjoyed sharing my written word as well as interpreting it through my spoken word. I sold a good number of books, but most of all people enjoyed the talk and told me how it had inspired them to be more active on their bikes and in exploring Britain – the very reason I wrote the book and decided to take it on tour in the first place.
Even though this is a book tour, I’m trying hard not to make the ride just about the talks. I am, of course, cycling from Land’s End to John o’ Groats; a significant ride in itself, without the added factor of presenting the book. The tour itinerary must go on (if anything were to go wrong with the bike, I would get on the train), but I need to make sure I enjoy the ride as well. It’s a lesson I’ve struggled to learn in the past, to focus on the journey rather than just the destination, and it’s one that I still struggle with. On the round-Britain trip, I had pre-planned my accommodation each night so had my destination in mind with each pedal, and when the riding was particularly tough I could think of nothing else. I am in danger of letting that happen on this trip, too – even more so, as I MUST get to my destination by a certain time each day for the event to go ahead.
The ride today (Plymouth to Totnes) was short, and I chose the A road rather than the hillier but quieter side roads. I am not nearly as fit as I was last time I cycled here, and the hills of the past two days have been a massive struggle, especially with a box of books in tow! So I compromised scenery for ease of travel, which meant that the cycling was almost solely a means to an end and was a real drag. It wasn’t until I reached Ivybridge (a quaint village around the river Erme) and stopped for tea that I made a conscious effort to stop pounding the pedals, take a look around, and enjoy the ride. I started saying hello to things (roadside streams, trees, pretty brick houses, sheep), and looking at the surrounding landscape (happy that I wasn’t climbing those hills but could still have a good view of them), and talking out loud to myself about where I was, and sure enough, the remaining miles flew by and I found myself in Dartington then Totnes before I knew it, having really enjoyed the last section.
I have already cycled through some stunning landscapes and there will be more to come, and many places that I pass through will be unfamiliar to me; though an expert on the coast, I haven’t done much cycling up the middle. So, my aim is to not worry about the venue, the audience, the talk, and the books while I’m riding… and just enjoy the cycling for what it is.
It’s the day before the LEJOG begins: in twelve hours I’ll be setting off from Penzance and pedalling to Land’s End, before turning back on myself and heading north west for that far-off destination of John o’ Groats.
I’ve never ridden LEJOG before, but this is a special kind of tour: as well as cycling, I’ll be promoting my book, Eat, Sleep, Cycle: a bike ride around the coast of Britain. I’ve planned an event in twenty venues along the way, where I’ll be giving a talk and reading from my book. It’s been a hard few months securing venues and promoting the events, and I’m looking forward to getting down to some good old cycling.
Except, the cycling nearly didn’t happen.
A few days ago I received a phone call from First Great Western: “Hello Ms Hughes, I’m calling to advise you that the sleeper train to Penzance has been cancelled due to strike action…”
I went cold; I can’t not be there! All my plans!
“…so would you like us to book you into a hotel in Paddington on the Monday night, then on the first train on the Tuesday morning?”
Oh dear. That won’t work – my first event is on Tuesday night so I need to start pedalling that morning.
“No, I’m an author,” I explained, “and I start a book tour on Tuesday so I need be there.” (I’ve decided my author voice needs to be posh).
“Certainly madam; I can book you a First class seat on an earlier train on the Monday, and issue a full refund.”
Wow, this author thing is paying off!
“And I’ll need a hotel when I get to Penzance,” I continue.
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” she says.
I feel like royalty as she gives me all the details and I hang up. Disaster averted: I’ll get to Penzance after all. And free First Class travel and a hotel when I get there! Brilliant.
Then, a day later, I dropped a D lock on my foot and broke my toe.
After the initial pain had subsided I started to *really* panic: my tour! I can’t ride 1000 miles with a broken toe – can I? Fortunately it’s not the big toe so it turns out I can still ride a bike – whether I can ride 1000 miles or not is yet to be seen.
I sincerely hope that bad things don’t come in threes!
Yesterday I met with Claire Taylor, author of Detour blog, a project that tries to open up adventurer culture in London. We spoke about what it’s like to go on that first tour; what you need to know, and how you learn it. As an experienced tourer it’s easy to forget what it was like to hit the road for the first time, and make all those mistakes that everyone does (like not carrying a spare tube, for example). The thing is, with touring, you kind of have to learn this stuff yourself – people can advise you, and share how they learned their lessons, but you never really get to grips with touring until you get on the road and do it.
Nonetheless, thinking back to my first tour (a five day ride from Penzance to Brighton), I learned a few things I’d like to share.
- Ride at the pace of the slowest rider
It sounds obvious, but I had never ridden in a group before. I led the way, setting the pace and expecting everyone to follow. But before we’d even go to the station where we would catch our train to Penzance, one of the group fell off his bike on the canal towpath (thank God he didn’t go in) and really hurt himself. It took me at least ten minutes to realise no one was following me – I hadn’t checked over my shoulder the entire way along the canal. It just didn’t cross my mind that the others in the group wouldn’t be there right behind me, following like good little ducklings. That was a tough lesson, and didn’t help with group dynamics!
2. Be realistic about mileage and terrain
My commute at the time was 10 miles, which I would ride in less than an hour. If I could ride 20 miles per day in less than two hours, then if we had all day to ride, 60 miles would be fine. 60 miles is a good distance to actually get somewhere.
I didn’t even consider that we would want to do anything other than just cycle. I didn’t appreciate that touring is about looking at things – it’s not about getting your head down and getting on with it. A commute is a very different type of ride.
60 miles quickly turned into 80 by the time we meandered, got lost, and realised I hadn’t quite planned the route correctly. It took us a very long time to reach our destination on day one – I hadn’t factored in breaks, lunch, weather, wind or terrain. The stretch from Penzance to Looe is very punishing and we arrived at our B&B absolutely exhausted.
This pattern continued on day two, three (where the projected mileage of 80 ended up being 100) and four, where I finally joined the others in taking a train to our destination rather than face more cycling (they had already been train-hopping for the past few days). I had broken myself along with three full-grown men.
3. Take a map – an actual map of the area you are actually riding (unless you are happy to follow your nose)
We relied on a road atlas and some printed-out instructions based on my online research of the National Cycle Network. The NCN signposts don’t always point the right way, though, which we realised having cycled in a large circle just outside Truro. The road atlas was pretty useless – when you’re in a car, you want the fastest, most direct route, and on a bike, you most certainly do not, as we found out while blundering down the A390 dual carriageway from Truro to St Austell in the hammering rain.
4. Take time to enjoy it
Cycle touring is supposed to be fun, but this trip was very much, “Follow me everyone, we have to get there!” Four of us started the trip and none of us completed the whole thing. It was too difficult, too demanding, and mostly, not what cycle touring is about. I have fairly miserable memories of that trip – I felt guilty for imposing ‘my’ ride on the others, and because of the poor planning, it meant that we were constantly at our limit and had nothing left to see us through the simple things, like the rain. The riding was awful and I can’t remember much about the landscape that we cycled through (other than that it was hilly). It was all about the destination and none about the journey (though that’s a lesson I think I am still learning).
Now, my touring is much more balanced. It’s good to go far and fast sometimes, just as it’s good to meander and stop and stare. It’s good to allow time for unforeseen set-backs or for extra push-ons if you have the energy. I do much of my touring alone, and I only have to answer to myself about the ride I am taking. When I am riding with others I allow lots more time to chat!
In September 2015 I shall be embarking on the famous End-to-End ride, from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. It’s a distance of 1000 miles, and I’ll take a month to ride it, because as well as enjoying the cycling and exploring new places, I will be promoting my book: Eat, Sleep, Cycle: a bike ride around the coast of Britain. I’ll be giving talks, readings and signings in various locations along the way, in cycle cafes, bookshops and community venues.
Any suggestions for venues, please add a comment below.
I never much liked the idea of organised bike rides. They seemed to make too big a thing of cycling, like it’s not something someone normal would do. I always baulked slightly at the forced sponsorship. The sheer number of people would spoil the enjoyment – I am much happier alone, determining my own route and speed. And the BHF London-Brighton bike ride was certainly not on my radar – who would sponsor me to ride to Brighton? I do that for fun!
But my friends were taking part so I agreed. I paid my entry fee. My start time arrived in the post: 6.30am. 6.30am!! I have to get up at 0430 to take part in a ride I don’t really want to take part in? No chance.
But everyone was doing it, so I went along with the plans. Arriving on Clapham Common at 6am, none of my misgivings were resolved. All around me was a sea of lycra and sparkling road bikes – Team Oddball stood out like a sore thumb. Charity shop clothing. A couple of single speeds and my ancient pack-horse mountain bike. There were too many people – I wouldn’t be able to ride up Ditchling Beacon among such a crowd.
It took two hours to cover just 13 miles to the first rest point – battling our way out of London on roads congested with cyclists, I felt a rare pang of sympathy for the drivers. All this for what? To make them hate cyclists even more? At this pace it would take 10 hours to reach Brighton.
But as we stood at the rest stop drinking our tea, I had a word with myself. I was cycling through beautiful countryside surrounded by my friends. The sun was shining. The pace was slow enough we could have a proper conversation – something that comes all too rarely in the city. Everyone taking part was there for a good reason – perhaps they had lost someone to heart disease, or perhaps they simply wanted to undertake the challenge. Most had probably never cycled this far before – 54 miles is not something to be sniffed at. So what if it takes all day? It was a great excuse to be out on my bike.
And once I relaxed, I really did start to enjoy it, and appreciate the value of rides like this. Once we had passed the 20 mile mark, the ride had spread out enough that we were free to ride at our own pace. All the participants, whether experienced or not, were supporting and helping each other. The people manning the rest stops and the marshals on the road were smiley and enthusiastic even though it would be a long, repetitive day. With over 22,000 participants, the charity would have raised an enormous amount of life-saving money. And even though these were not ‘my type’ of cyclists, and many of them would reach the finish line, strap their bike to the rear of their car and drive home, at least they were doing it. The joy of cycling is something that should be shared as widely as possible; who am I to judge?
That first glimpse of the sea from the top of Ditchling Beacon was as exciting as any of the times I’d previously stood there. And to my surprise I had been able to pedal all the way to the top! A unique buzz passed through the crowds, riders euphoric from having made the climb or relieved that it was over. One by one they took the descent to Brighton – the organisers were right – it was downhill all the way.
A glorious sea swim and two pints later, I was ready to go home. My friends were sticking around in Brighton but I decided to head back to the Big Smoke. I hadn’t booked onto one of the organised coaches and the trains weren’t accepting bicycles. How to get back? Cycle, of course
One of the panel sessions at the recent Cycle Touring Festival was entitled ‘Cycling as a Woman’. I was asked to sit on the panel alongside touring aficionados Emily Chappell and Helen Pike. We covered many issues in the discussion that I thought would be useful to revisit here, especially as I often receive emails from women wondering about the practicalities of their cycle tour, or from worried parents wanting reassurance that their daughters won’t be subjected to sexual harassment.
(Short answer to that final point – I get more sexual harassment from van drivers in London than I do on a tour)
- How to I keep my hair clean/tidy?
My unhelpful answer to this at the time was a smug, “Well, I don’t wash my hair,” so here is a much more useful and detailed response!
I used to wash my hair regularly, even daily on my cycle around Britain (easy when I was using someone else’s shower…). A year later I toured with Otesha around the South West of England. We camped and stayed on farms and in people’s back gardens – our shower was usually a solar shower (a rubber blister pack of water that you leave sitting in the sun until it warms up then dangle from a tree), or we’d beg our way into the local leisure centre. I really struggled in the first days and weeks – I’d never been without running water before, and I felt dirty and itchy and uncomfortable. This is one of the reasons I am such a reluctant camper! I’d heard the rumours that hair starts to clean itself if you leave it long enough, and not having access to reliable cleaning facilities, together with all that I was learning through Otesha about the environmental impact of using too much water, I decided to try and be more natural with my body. I trained my hair gradually, going from washing it every two days to every three, to four, five, six etc. This was four years ago and now I wash my hair roughly once a month, or whenever I remember. It doesn’t itch or flake (I used to have terrible dandruff, which has now gone), it doesn’t smell, and it looks fine. And, when I go on tour, it makes life so much more simple!
Of course, that was a sustained and concerted effort, but one I would definitely recommend as a long-term solution.
As a short-term solution, use a Buff or bandana to cover those greasy locks – Buffs are amazing at tidying everything away and come in a range of colours and designs. Dry shampoo is a great way of freshening you up. Try and get used to not washing your hair quite so often in advance of your tour, if you can. Or you can always shave your head…
2. How do I keep myself clean and tidy?
Two separate changes of clothes, one for cycling and one for when you’ve finished cycling, are great for keeping the sweaty smell at bay. Once you’ve parked up at your destination, off come the cycling clothes and on go the clean ones. I always have some sort of wash before you go to bed – even if it is just a baby-wipe shower. There’s nothing worse than climbing into your sleeping bag with filthy feet and sticky arms from all the suncream you’ve inevitably been slathering yourself in. Any source of water will do; on one particularly hot day on the Otesha tour we arrived at our farm destination with no shower facilities, so I sponged myself down using the water in the butt that the sheep drank from! I felt amazing afterwards.
3. Dealing with your period
I use Mooncup – a reusable menstrual cup. The benefits of Mooncup are on their website here, and I find it fantastic for touring – it packs lighter than a box of tampons, and there is no waste. If you insert it properly, you shouldn’t feel anything while sitting on the saddle. If you’ve never used one, I recommend getting one now. I swear by them and would never use any other form of sanitary ware. The difficulty is finding places to empty and clean it. Public toilets are fine – I often wait in my cubicle until I can hear the sinks are free, then come out, rinse, go back in and insert. If you don’t have access to proper toilet facilities, empty it in the bush – it’s organic matter so there’s no problem in doing this – then give the cup a rinse with your water bottle.
4. Personal security and sexual harassment
None of us had ever experienced any issues with personal security and sexual harassment. In fact, we found it to be the opposite – people the world over will offer help to a solo female, whereas the solo male will be left to fend for himself. A solo male will often also be a target for thugs, which tends not to happen to a female. It was very telling that Kevin from the ‘Cycling as a Man’ session told a story about having to use his wood-chopping hatchet to defend himself against would-be thieves. Dervla Murphey only ever used her pistol once, and that was on a bear.
Emily remarked afterwards that it had been lovely that the session focussed much more on the practicalities of cycling as a woman, rather than focussing on the ‘can I do it?’ mentality. It was much more popular than the Cycling as a Man session!
If there are other questions about cycling as a woman, please do email me or leave a comment below, and I’ll add them to the article.
Bank holiday weekend was spent in the Ribble Valley at the Cycle Touring Festival – a gathering of cycle tourers old and new organised by round-world cyclists Tim and Laura Moss. It was a melting-pot of ideas from over 200 cyclists, some veterans, some novices, the young, the old and everything in between. Everyone had something to share and the willingness to listen to the experiences of others. I saw some old friends – including the indefatigable Emily Chappell who’d cycled non-stop from London – and made some new; it’s always lovely to realise halfway through a conversation that the person you’re speaking to is such-and-such on Twitter and you’ve been following each other for ages. I also met two other round-Britain cyclists – James Harvey and Bill Honeywell. It’s a joy to meet others who have followed the same route that I rode almost four years ago, the memories as fresh as if it were yesterday.
After two and a half chocca-block days full of talks, workshops, panel discussions and lots of cake, the festival came to a close. I was to spend the night in Manchester with friends, and I decided to cycle; the sky had brightened so it seemed a shame not to take advantage of being in such lovely countryside, although I wasn’t best prepared – no ‘proper’ cycle clothing at all, just some leggings and plimsoles and a vest, no socks, no cycling gloves. I wobbled off with my tent strapped to the rear rack, my waterproof boots dangling by the laces, one from each pannier.
From Clitheroe my chosen route went straight over a pass – no warm up, no ceremony, just upwards, thank you very much. I overtook a solo male riding a road bike with no luggage and full lycra, wondering what he thought as I zoomed up the hill past him looking every bit the amateur. Who needs the kit when you have a healthy dose of determination? The landscape fell away as the road climbed, views over farm houses and lakes and viaducts framed with the endless hills on all horizons, hills with rain-heavy clouds snagged on their tips, waterlogged fingers reaching down from the heavens to the green, green earth. Each inching ascent was followed by the thrill of the down, the dare-devil speed accompanied by a niggling worry that part of my haphazard luggage might fall.
North of Accrington I joined the Leeds-Liverpool canal, route 6 of the National Cycle Network that would lead me the rest of the 40-odd miles into Manchester. A couple of villages then a disused railway line, following a slow upwards drag into Baxenden. I climbed from Helmshore following the ridge of the hill as the traffic on the M66 rushed far below on the valley floor. Farmsteads clung to the hillside and villages gathered around the waters of the Irwell, once centres of industry, their cylindrical brick chimney stacks elevated high above the rooftops. I saw Manchester about two hours before I reached it, its unmistakeable skyscrapers settled into the valley around which these old industrial villages spread. Another disused railway descended steadily to Bury, a tarmacked remnant of a branch line of the old East Lancashire Railway. Grand columns made of red steel lined the path, once having held the railway tracks aloft the river running beneath, now holding up the sky.
I approach Manchester through Prestwich where I bump across the roaring M60 on a narrow cast-iron bridge and enter the beautiful solitude of Drinkwater Park. The route criss-crosses the River Irwell as it meanders towards the city centre. Soon I enter Salford, uniform rows of clay-coloured houses behind low brick walls taking me back to my university days. It’s all so familiar, even in a part that is wholly unfamiliar. The rain had so far held off but, as one might expect, now I’m in Manchester the clouds are seeping. Whally Range, Withington Road, Princess Road. I’m hungry and nearing the end of my energy – why do I never pack enough food? I’m grateful to Lucy, the other vegan at the festival who had brought some vegan brownies with her – I have one left in my pocket and gobble it hungrily. She’s going to try to stay vegan on her next cycle tour – much better than I’ve achieved on previous tours (every time I cycle to the sea I seem to eat fish and chips…)
I could’ve taken the train and been there in an hour and a half. But I would much rather be on two wheels, breathing the fresh air, travelling slowly, earning my journey. I’ve seen a different view of Manchester, a city I thought I knew so well. I’m exhausted but energised; I had an idea and I followed it through. And as I stand on Princess Road scoffing chips (no fish) I feel glad to be a cyclist.
It’s the kind of outlandish idea that is conceived at the end of the night when too much booze has been drunk. We decide I’ll swim down to Jonny’s boat, then we’ll both swim back to mine. We are moored about 15 boats apart.
I wake and instantly remember the promise we made.
“I’ll do it if you do it.”
“You won’t do it.”
My insistence is going to be my downfall. No one wants to lose face.
I dress in my bikini with a t-shirt over the top. I know it’s going to be cold; it’s early April so the summer heat has yet to warm the river, and there is a chilly wind blowing downstream. The sky is overcast.
The longer I wait, the worse this will be. I step from my boat and sit on the concrete shore, my feet dangling in the water. My toes recoil at the chill. I lower myself in, steadily but decisively, knowing a tentative approach will only delay the horror. It is gaspingly cold and my chest contracts as the water seeps through my t-shirt. The cold shock is instant, my breathing shallow and panicky, and I cling to the shore for a few seconds to acclimatise, 1, 2, 3, then push myself out into the water.
I tread water for a while, trying to regulate my breaths which continue to come in short, shallow snatches. I remember swimming in the Firth of Forth when I was on my sailing trip: one of the requirements of our training was to be able to swim around the boat. It was a sunny day in May, but the water felt arctic, the cold rising from the depths beneath my feet. This feels just as cold, and instead of swimming around my boat I have to swim fifteen boat lengths, and there seems to be more river between me and Jonny now I’m in the water. I’m still struggling to breathe, and start to think about the process my body is going through. I know from my sea survival training that cold shock can lead to cardiac arrest. It’s little comfort telling myself the first 60 seconds are the worse.
I move out into the middle of the river and start breastroking downstream. Every so often I try to take a deep breath but the cold won’t allow it. I swim in rhythm with my shallow breathing. My arms and legs are soon losing feeling, and my skin feels as if it’s being pierced by needles. I stop for a second to clench and unclench my hands, seeing if I can coax some warmth back into them. The fingers move as if in slow motion. I can feel my heart struggling to beat the blood round my body, and my breathing has still not settled down. What am I doing?
Stroke, breath, stroke, breath. I have reached halfway. Someone is on their back deck and spots me in the water. “You’re brave!” they say. My reply comes out as a gasp: “It seemed like a good idea at the time!” Onwards I swim.
As I pass under the bridge, I start to seriously doubt if I’ll make it. It’s a two minute walk down the towpath between the boats. I have been in the water for around fifteen minutes. My body feels under tremendous strain and I keep imagining that, as I swim, my heart will decide to give up on the pressure of having to beat warm blood around my body, and simply stop, leaving me to sink like a stone. I haven’t told anyone I’m here. Will anyone notice if I just disappear?
I can see Jonny’s boat. There are five boats to pass until I reach it. Even though I’m within reach, I decide that I cannot swim that far – it is simply too cold. I turn for the bank and catch onto one of the mooring posts on the concrete. The bank is high: my weakened arms have no chance of being able to pull me out of the water. I am shivering violently and at last I can catch my breath. But I can’t climb out. There is no option but to continue swimming.
I return to the water with a steely determination – there is no way I will allow myself to die on this stretch of water. Each boat seems to pass more slowly than the last, my weakened muscles dragging me pathetically onwards. At last I pass his bow, and lift an arm to knock on the hull, then struggle to the stern and grab one of the rails. It takes all my strength to haul myself onto the deck and I lie on my front, dripping water, gasping deliriously. He opens the door.
“Jesus Christ! I didn’t think you’d actually do it!”
He gets me a towel and makes me a cup of tea. By the time I’ve finished it I am shaking like a leaf. My jaw is chattering to such an extent that I can’t speak, and my legs seem to have a life of their own. Half of the tea has ended up on the towel. Outwardly I laugh, but inwardly I’m bloody thankful that I didn’t drown.
We do not swim back.
Part of my job as a cycling instructor is to deliver SUD (Safe Urban Driving) courses to lorry drivers. The SUD was introduced because, while HGVs make up the lowest percentage of vehicles on London’s roads, they are involved in the highest proportion of fatalities. The course involves taking a group of drivers (almost always men, and often large) out on bikes and showing them another perspective – what it means to be a good cyclist, and why there are so many bad ones. It’s an excellent programme – nearly every burly trucker who takes part says something along the lines of “I’ve been dreading this all week,” but by the end they are beaming and thanking us sincerely for a great day.
It’s just as educational for us to sit in their cab and see what they really can see, to see how tiny the bike looks in comparison to their vehicle, to get a feel for what it’s like to have several tonnes of truck behind you and to have to check all those mirrors.
I drove a white van once, along the same streets that I usually cycle down, the heavy tyres and suspension absorbing each blip, pothole and rough patch that I usually have to keep my eyes peeled to avoid. What scared me most (apart from the fear that I would hit a cyclist — imagine!!) was the number of bicycle riders that pulled out round parked cars or buses without looking. Nearly every one. I just wouldn’t feel safe on my bike if I didn’t check behind me before each manoeuvre. What surprised me most was how few cyclists there were. There seem to be more if you’re one of them. They’re much easier to ignore if you’re in a large vehicle. And what also surprised me is how little I envied them. Even the ones who sailed through the traffic, easily getting to the front of my queue. They just looked so cold! All wrapped up in scarves and gloves! And it looks so dangerous! All that traffic! They seem so vulnerable! Rather them than me. Even though I know how wonderful it is to be on a bike, warm as soon as you get going, reliably making your journey in the predicted time regardless of how heavy the traffic is, much less dangerous than it looks, the freedom of powering yourself an utter joy. I used to wonder why car users didn’t feel more tempted to join us cyclists. But having changed places for just a few hours, I’m now not surprised that more drivers don’t ditch their vehicles for two wheels.
So changing places really is vital for people to empathise with the other side. Make cyclists realise that being more aware and following the Highway Code is so important. Let van drivers see why that cyclist is riding so far from that car door, why they are sitting in the middle of the lane at junctions, or why they are not looking round all the time, and why they filter down the inside even though that’s the danger zone. It should be mandatory for all professional drivers on London’s streets: buses, taxis, delivery drivers. There’ve even been suggestions that a cycle lesson should be part of the standard driving licence. Perhaps that day will come, and hopefully it won’t take another cyclist death to make it happen.
Having cycled 4000 miles then written a book about it, many people ask me which was easier.
Before I started the cycle trip, I thought I knew a lot about cycling. I was a daily cyclist and had been my whole life – how hard could it be to turn that love of cycling into a 4000 mile adventure? Turns out I didn’t know much. I was underprepared and naive. I learned most of what I needed to know on the road, or from asking the advice of people who knew what they were talking about.
Before I started writing, I thought I knew a lot about writing. I’d blogged, I’d written articles and essays, and my written English was pretty good. I thought I could churn out a book in a couple of months. Turns out I didn’t know much. Knowing how to use a semi-colon didn’t really cut it. I learned most of what I needed to know through actually writing, or from asking the advice of people who knew what they were talking about.
Cycling around Britain was, at times, wonderful. There were days when the sun shone, the wind was at my back, and nothing went wrong with the bike. The views and the sense of freedom and the simple joy of cycling were irreplaceable. There were times when I wondered why I would ever choose to do anything else, and mourned the day when it would all be over.
Writing was, at times, wonderful. There were days when the words flowed from my fingers, falling in just the right order to capture the image that I wanted to portray. I would read back the words I’d written and think, yes, this is good! I would sit in coffee shops with my laptop and feel like a true artist, and I’d think forward to the time when the book would be finished, and I would feel sad. I loved those pyjama days when all I did was write.
There were times when cycling was terrible. It was boring, arduous, hard work, and made me question my sanity. The headwinds were strong. It rained. The miles passed agonisingly slowly. I thought each hill would never end, and all I wanted to do was give it all up.
There were times when writing was terrible. Boring, arduous, hard work. The words wouldn’t say what I wanted them to say. I couldn’t think of how to express myself in a way that would make the reader want to keep on reading. I couldn’t type fast enough to capture all my thoughts on the page, and by the time they’d caught up I’d forget what I had wanted to say. I would read back what I’d written and think, god, this is awful. I spent many hours staring at the screen. I drank too much gin. I thought I’d never finish the damn thing, and many times I thought I should just give up.
Eat/sleep/cycle. Eat/sleep/write. Both things were the most simple thing I’ve ever done. Both things were the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Both things were the best thing I’ve ever done.
Cycling around Britain took 10 weeks. Writing about it took 3 years. I think that was the only difference.
The terms of my boat licence mean I’m not allowed to stay in any one place for longer than 14 days. The Canal and River Trust specify certain areas that you’re supposed to move between but as long as you move a reasonable distance they tend not to mind. If you stay in one place for too long, or stay around the same area for too long, they give you notice – then you have to move otherwise you’ll receive a fine.
My boat is quite easy to drive, once you get the hang of it, despite its length (60ft). I didn’t have to prove that I could drive it before I was granted a licence. It seems anyone can buy a boat and set themselves loose on the waterways. You learn pretty quickly how not to crash.
Moving the boat can be a pain (poor weather, have to go to work, can’t be bothered) but it’s also one of the best parts of living on the river – why have a boat if you never go anywhere? If I decide I don’t like my neighbours I can move on to the next spot. If I need to be in a particular place for work then I can move my whole house there. I tend to cruise with a group – we’ll all park our boats near each other. Most of the time friends will come on board for the ride – I appreciate the help and they love the adventure. The most people I’ve had helping me was seven people on board – with nine bikes on the roof.
I’ve been as far north as Hertford, as far south as Limehouse, and as far west as Little Venice (Paddington). I love mooring up in new parts of London that then become home for a couple of weeks.
My favourite part of cruising is waking up for the first time in my new place, and stepping onto the deck in the morning with a cup of tea to see my new view.
The book ‘Eat, Sleep, Cycle’ has been in the writing for two and a half years. I never thought I would write a book, but I had lots of positive feedback from the readers of my blog, so about six months after I returned from my adventure I decided to go for it. I went on a writing holiday – ten days in the Lake District – to start to turn my blog into a story. I thought it would take a few months. A year later I went on another writing holiday – ten days in Oban and the Isle of Mull – to complete what I thought would be the finished manuscript. It was fifteen months later that I actually finished it, and it has taken a further six months to reach the stage where the manuscript is ready for proof reading.
I owe a lot to Jennifer Barclay who was working for Summersdale when she contacted me: “I’m enjoying your blog. Is there a book in this?” I responded saying, yes, as it happens, there was. I excitedly sent her my first draft. “Unfortunately as a book manuscript, this doesn’t really fit our bill, I’m sorry to say,” she wrote. It was too ‘bloggy’ – too much chatter about the practicalities of the ride, and not enough development of the characters, least of all me. There began two years of soul-searching – how do I write about myself? Making my voice come across in a meaningful way was the hardest part of the writing, and the thing that most of my test readers throughout that time highlighted.
I had some very candid and useful feedback from my friends, most notably Richard Gibbens, who had the unenviable task of trawling through some very badly-written early drafts and trying to tease out a sense of character and narrative from my writing. My friend David Charles (a proper writer) gave me some very useful tips on character and dialogue. My dad was my first copy-editor. I had never before used the terms “as if” or “fewer” or “bored with” and I’d ended far too many sentences with a preposition. I’d always thought I had a good grasp of the English language, but writing has taught me so much, and my spoken English is better because of it.
About three further drafts were rejected by Summersdale (Jennifer had left by this point, so I was liaising with Claire Plimmer), and after much to-ing and fro-ing I was finally offered a contract in June 2014. When I read the email I jumped up and down squealing on the deck of my boat.
One of the clauses of the contract was that the manuscript should not exceed 60,000 words. I had already written 110,000 and wasn’t quite finished. I negotiated 80,000 as the final word count. The final submission was 85,000.
Cutting that many words was hard work, but very useful. I really had to put myself in the reader’s head – some parts that I loved were deleted because, though they meant a lot to me, they would be inconsequential to someone who didn’t know me. And that process was essential for turning it from a barely-readable door-stop to something that people might pick up from the shelf and actually reach the final page. I found it similar to what I imagine film editors must go through – I’ve watched the deleted scenes of many of my favourite films, and though the scenes are enjoyable, they are by no means essential to the story. Making that distinction when deeply involved in the writing is very tricky.
Many characters didn’t make the final cut. I felt terrible about doing this but I had to be brutal: I met so many people during the course of the ride that I couldn’t possibly work them all in to the book in a way that was meaningful.
So, apologies to Sarah Wise, Wendy and Michael Norman, Laura McGinty, Chantel and Andrew, Julien Masse, Flora Lawrie, Martin and family from Arran, Frank and Judy Brzezinka, Jan Rees, Mary Kelland, Simon Wallis, Marianne and Sandy in Llangrannog, Andy Ashman, Huw Evans, Tim Anfield, Julie and Alan Frecknall, Tom Sutcliffe, Nick Ratcliffe (and extra apologies to Nick because he hosted and rode with me and I’ve omitted all that!), Adrian Balletto, Mr and Mrs Sherratt, Hannah and Nathan Gardner, Graeme Willgress, Colin and Kenny who I met in Acharachle, Tristan who rode with me to Western-super-Mare, and all of the people who rode me out of London on the first day: Will Smith, Dad, Georgie Fyfe-Jameson, Andy Casson and Juanita Hard.
I changed a couple of names to avoid repetition, so Martyn Wells, you are now Matthew, to avoid confusion with my ‘uncle’ Martyn, and Pete, you are now Patrick, to avoid confusion with my colleague Pete, and Sarah Varney, you are now Libby, to avoid confusion with my twin sister.
Once I had the manuscript down to a workable length, I was assigned an editor. I was thrilled that this was to be the now-freelance Jennifer Barclay – a lovely symmetry given that it was she who had initially introduced me to Summersdale. She gave me guidance on the continuity of story lines, the development of characters, and clarity of some of my descriptions (what do you mean here, give us a little more detail here, etc). Her input was brilliant and I am tremendously grateful to her, for both her excellent editing, and for contacting me in the first place. Had that not happened my book would probably not have been published (I sent the MS to many companies, but very few accept unsolicited manuscripts). I could always have self-published, but now the world would be burdened with a very dry and un-imaginative 110,000 word-long book.
The manuscript was then copy-edited (which involved checking LOTS of facts, including the spellings of all the place-names, of which there were many) and is now back at Summersdale for final proof-reading. Then the whole book will be finalised: cover design, acknowledgements, illustrations and endorsements – ready to hit the shelves in March.
It has been an interesting experience, to constantly re-live something that happened quite a long time ago now. It was August 2011 that I set out on my bike ride around Britain. It was a relatively short adventure (ten weeks) but has taken up so much of my life since. I’m really excited to be finally sharing my story in a proper book. Many people have asked, “What will you write next?” and I have been adamant that I’m not going to write another one – while enjoyable, writing this has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But then again, I didn’t think I’d write this one – so watch this space!
As a cycling instructor, I am frequently asked about helmet use. Many of the comments I hear from frustrated road users conclude with, “and they’re not even wear a helmet!” It seems that most drivers would prefer it if cyclists wore helmets – those who don’t are deemed irresponsible.
It’s a tricky subject, and one that has a huge number of arguments on either side. Some studies show that helmets can reduce injuries sustained when hitting your head; some show the opposite result, that a helmet can make injuries worse. Some studies suggest that wearing a helmet makes you feel more safe, and therefore less likely to use the roads sensibly, as if putting on the helmet ticks the ‘safety’ box and your risk assessing ends there. It can also cause other road users to drive less carefully around you.
Helmet wearing is not compulsory in this country. Cycling is, on balance, a safe activity, the benefits of which far outweigh the risks. Compulsory helmet laws may well discourage current or potential cyclists, which would have a negative impact overall.
I often don’t wear a helmet. Mainly because I would rather not – in the cold I’d rather wear a woolly hat, if it’s sunny I’ll wear a baseball cap, and if it’s raining I’ll wear a hood. I don’t have to wear a helmet so I don’t. It’s not what I wear, it’s how I ride that will keep me safe, and it’s very unlikely I would be involved in an accident in which a helmet would help.
My students often say to me, “I like that you don’t look like a cyclist” – I don’t have all the kit, I wear normal clothes, and I want to promote cycling as a normal, everyday activity that doesn’t require a huge amount of safety equipment in order to take part.
For me, the biggest consideration in this debate is that the helmet question detracts attention from other road safety measures which are more effective in reducing accidents. Helmet use often dominates discussions of road safety at all levels, whereas there are many more things that will improve safety on our roads. Infrastructure is one, training is another. If I become trapped on the inside of a left turning lorry (the biggest cause of deaths on London’s roads last year), it matters very little whether or not I am wearing a helmet. What would help me in that situation is: a) infrastructure that doesn’t encourage me to filter down the left hand side at traffic lights; b) training to make me aware of the dangers of filtering on the left; c) training for HGV drivers; d) better designed lorries that increase visibility of cyclists and won’t drag a cyclist under the wheels.
I recently had an accident, in which I flipped over my handlebars and landed on the floor. I smashed my chin on the ground and fractured my jaw. Having a helmet on would not have helped me in the least, yet the first question that I was asked by the ambulance man was “Were you wearing a helmet?”
I recently went to the Netherlands on holiday, and was absolutely bowled over by the culture of cycling. I knew that the Dutch are world leaders in cycling, but you have to see it to believe it.
Everyone cycles. Young, old, black, white, cool, geeky, students, office workers. Riding a bike is just, well, normal. The provision for cyclists is incredible, from the acres of bike storage at the station to the infrastructure – they have their own lanes, their own lights, and, mostly, right of way. In the Netherlands, the bike is king.
But why is cycling in the Netherlands so different to cycling over here? Is it so impossible to have what they have here in London? The style of cycling is completely different to London and the idea that adults or children can’t ride is unheard of. Cycling in the Netherlands is simply how people get around – it’s easy and safe and an attractive form of transport. Everyone does it, so there is no reason not to. The infrastructure is extensive and functional. People don’t jump red lights, because there’s no need. Traffic (of all kinds: motorised, two-wheeled, and pedestrian) flows. There was a massive investment in cycling around 30 years ago, which has created a culture of cycling which works.
Everybody rides a bike. All drivers take care of those on bikes, because they ride a bike too.
Bikes have priority at junctions, and if they don’t, there is a separate light for them.
Lights don’t stay red for long (for either bikes or motor vehicles)
All roads have infrastructure for cyclists – if it is a main road, there is a separate cycleway, either clearly marked at the side of the road or separated by a verge. Side roads or roads in town centres are often closed to motor traffic. If it is a dual carriageway, there is a parallel road for bikes.
It’s just as easy to get around by bike as it is by motor vehicle – just as direct, with signage.
No one wears a helmet
People rarely signal
Everyone rides a bike, regardless of age, creed or social position, and they all ride the same kind of bike. They are mostly sturdy upright bikes with baskets or crates or bags on the rack.
People ride in the rain. Many hold umbrellas.
You’ll often see two people on the same bike – either on the rear or on the handlebars
The cycle paths are wide and clearly marked, and they all go somewhere.
People leave bikes chained very loosely or with a wheel lock.
No one is in a hurry.
Bicycle ownership is 1.1 bike per person in the Netherlands, as opposed to 0.4 in England. There are 5 thefts per 100 bicycles.
Road transport makes up 36% of total transport emissions in the Netherlands, and 69% of those in the UK
The Netherlands has a relatively low rate of obesity levels and heart disease
As bike use goes up, accident rates go down: 1.1 fatality per 100km cycled in the Netherlands (with 26% bicycle use) and 3.6 fatalities in the UK (with 2% bicycle use)
From the Dutch website http://www.dutchcycling.nl
The arguments pro-cycling are overwhelming: it is sustainable, healthy, has zero emissions of everything, is silent and clean, cheap both in purchase and in providing infrastructure, is space and traffic efficient, enhances urban traffic circulation and provides more liveability to residential areas. Despite all this evidence, none of these are the reason for the Dutch to cycle. They just enjoy it.
I’m standing at the top of a hill in Richmond Park with four new friends, about to embark on a microadventure. The plan is to cycle from the confines of the city until we are surrounded by the Surrey countryside, to eat, drink and be merry, then sleep under the stars. It’s about 15 miles to the country pub where we’ll have dinner, and we’re armed with tents and Bivvy Bags – we’ve no idea where we’ll sleep, but with bellies full of food and ale we’ll seek out a quiet spot under the blanket of night. We’ll then watch the sun rise and be back at our desks in the morning.
Our little trip has been organised by Anna McNuff, an irrepressible bundle of enthusiasm who recently cycled all 50 US states. In real life she works as a marketing consultant. The rest of the group are Laura Penhaul, a physiotherapist who is one quarter of Coxless Crew, an all-female four hoping to row the Pacific Ocean in 2015, Sophie Radcliffe, aka Challenge Sophie, an Ironwoman and lover of hard-won fun and adventure, and Jo Pickard, a TV presenter, producer and actor. Jo doesn’t even own a bike. She arrives with her beautifully styled hair, the most glamorous among us, unable to contain her excitement because we’re about to have an adventure on an otherwise normal mid-week evening. We’re all ordinary women really, who choose to do extraordinary things.
Micro-adventure is the brainchild of Alastair Humphreys, round-the-world cyclist and adventurer extraordinaire. Tired with people saying, “I don’t have time to go on an adventure,” he came up with the concept of fitting adventure into daily life. “We are defined by our ‘9-to-5’ but what about the 5-to-9…?” Al asks on his website. “Too busy, too broke, too unfit…” – these excuses don’t mean much when it comes to microadventure. What would you choose to do? We choose to cycle into the sunset.
We nearly don’t make it before the pub stops serving food. We nearly get trapped on the wrong side of a road block. We nearly get stung by an electric fence trying to find our camping spot. We nearly get found by the farmer. We’re tired the next day. But none of this matters – we did it, something unusual, something exciting, something daring. The next day my colleagues asked me what I did last night as I hang my dew-sodden sleeping mat out to dry. “I cycled into the sunset then camped in a field” I reply. How often do you get to say that?
If you’re touring, you’ll be on that bike for hours, days, weeks and maybe months at a time. While there’s no such thing as a ‘right’ bike (people tour on town bikes, road bikes, recumbents, mountain bikes, even Bromptons!), it’s important to have a bike that’s right for you.
- The frame
Steel frames are great for touring, as they are strong, springy, and easy to fix. Aluminium is lighter and cheaper, but doesn’t absorb bumps and won’t take a load quite as well. Titanium is an option – it’s lighter than steel and just as strong, but much more expensive. A standard touring bike will most likely be made of steel.
- The handlebars
Most touring bikes come with drop handlebars. Drops aren’t for everyone, and a good alternative is butterfly bars or wide-sweep bars which can give a more upright posture. The important thing is being able to vary your grip position, as you may well develop vibration and pressure problems in your hands and wrists if you are in the same position for hours at a time. Drops offer at least three positions (bar, hoods and drops), and are good for climbing as you can pull upwards on them.
- The pedals
Pedals with toe clips, or clip-less pedals where a fitting on the pedal attaches to the cleat in your shoe, can be fantastic for touring. Hill climbing is easier, and you become less fatigued, as your pulling muscles are utilised as well as your pushing ones. However, clips usually mean that your foot remains static, which can cause problems in the knee. Make sure that you are unclipping every so often and shaking your foot out. Also there’s the danger of the comical fall while clipped in! I prefer pedals with a standard platform on one side and SPDs on the other, so I can use a variety of footwear.
- The saddle
Some people swear by Brookes, but be careful to buy in advance of the tour – they’re only comfortable if they’ve been worn in. The key is making sure you are comfortable, so whichever saddle you go for, make sure you’ve ridden on it a fair amount before setting off. You can adjust the saddle forwards and backwards as well as up and down, and also tilt it to get the best possible position for you. Use in combination with padded shorts and chamois cream.
- The luggage
One advantage of a ‘proper’ touring bike is that it will have plenty of fixings for taking racks, bags and bottle cages. There are hundreds of options: rear panniers, low risers on the front, saddle bags, handlebar bags, frame bags, backpacks, even trailers. Weight distribution side to side doesn’t matter too much once you’re riding, but front and back does: too much weight on the front and you’ll find steering very difficult, but too much weight on the back and you’ll find the front wheel lifting each time you go uphill. Trailers can be a terrific way of keeping the weight off the bike, but they increase the drag factor when climbing and in strong winds, though they push you down hills which can be great fun!
- The fit
Whichever bike you choose, it must fit you. Take the time to check this before you leave – it will prevent problems later on. A bike shop will be able to advise you. General guidance: the crossbar should be 1-2 inches below your crotch when standing flat on the floor; your leg should be fully extended when your heel is on the pedal at the bottom of its stroke, therefore just bent when the ball of your foot is on the pedal; with legs level in the pedals, your forward knee should be directly above the pedal spindle.
- The make
Ridgeback do excellent entry-level and mid-level touring bikes (the ‘World’ range). Expect to pay between £800 and £1250. Surly makes the fabulous Long Haul Trucker which comes in at around £1000. Dawes Galaxy can vary from basic (£600) to top-of-the-range (£1800). The more you pay, the better quality the components, and the more durable and versatile your ride.
Free from coots, I decided to travel as far up the River Lea as I could. The Navigation ends in Hertford so that is where I aimed – 15 miles away, which is only an hour and a half by bicycle, but approximately 10 hours by boat.
Start: Enfield Lock
This was my first single-handed cruise. I was worried about travelling by myself, but I really enjoyed it; this was the autonomy I had sought when I’d bought my boat. I was actually better at handling it than I thought, and the canal north of Enfield is gorgeous – all wide straight stretches surrounded by rich green countryside.
But it was hard work. Between Enfield and Hertford there are 13 locks, and going through a lock single-handed starts to become tedious after the fifth. Luckily I had a few boaters to lock-share with, and a few passers-by who couldn’t resist giving a hand to the skinny girl heaving at a lock gate. They all asked me, “Do you live here?” I was happy for the attention, until a male cyclist who followed me for a couple of locks kept asking, “Are you doing this by yourself? Are you really?’
“Yes!” I finally snapped. “Why is that so hard to understand? Now either help me or bugger off!”
Travelling upstream, you enter the lock when it’s empty, close the gates behind you, then open the upstream sluices to bring the boat up to the level of the next pound. The benefit of doing it this way is there is no chance of getting stuck on the dreaded cill (a concrete shelf at the upstream end of the lock that has the potential to sink a boat if your stern gets caught on it) but it does mean that, with each lock, I was clambering up slime-covered ladders with the centre line in my teeth.
It was 8pm when I finally passed through the last lock and arrived in Hertford. I’d made it without any major dramas (apart from crashing into a small plastic boat in one lock – oops. I cycled back down the towpath later to check it hadn’t sunk). I love it here – a quiet, Tudor market town with some beautiful parks and really good pubs. This is the county town of my birthplace, Hitchin, so it’s quite special to have brought my home here to live for a couple of weeks.
Toilets on boats are usually either a pump-out toilet, where the waste is kept in a holding tank until you can pump it out (either by taking it to a marina or waiting until the pump-out boat comes by), or a chemical toilet, where the waste is held in a small cassette which can be taken away to the disposal point. The chemical flush is necessary to keep the odour down.
The boat I bought didn’t have a toilet, so I decided to go for a composting toilet.
I’ve used composting toilets before, at festivals and on camp sites, and they are always so much preferable to chemical toilets. It is much more of a natural process and if they are managed correctly they don’t smell.
Since I made that decision I’ve done a lot of research into toilets, and the results in terms of waste and pollution make scary reading.
A conventional toilet in a house uses an average of 3 litres of water per flush. Unless there’s a grey-water recycling system in place, that’s clean water that we could drink, going into the sewer so we spend time and money cleaning it again. Only 1% of the Earth’s water is drinkable, yet we flush 40% of that literally down the toilet.
A sewage system requires a huge amount of water, chemicals and processes to make our waste environmentally safe. Our sewers are often full of run-off water, oil and grit from the roads, and chemicals from industry and agriculture, which complicates the cleaning process. Yet our human waste has been used for centuries for agriculture as a fertiliser – only in the second half of the 20th century did we stop reusing our waste. Our farming industry spends millions of pounds on artificial fertilisers that contain nitrogen, potassium and phosphorous – the very chemicals that are found in urine! It makes no sense to flush away something that can be so beneficial to us, especially as that then creates a pollutant.
The composting process is a much more natural process. I have a bottle that holds the urine, which I can discard in the bush, and a bucket that holds the poo. After a year or so the ‘humanure’ is safe to be used as a regular fertiliser.
Most people I talk to say, “But doesn’t it smell?”
As long as the contents of the toilet are kept dry, there is no detectable smell – it’s liquid that causes anaerobic bacteria to build up, which is what creates the smell. I dry the contents out by adding sawdust. The bucket itself is open so there is a constant flow of air.
There are many companies that make and sell composting toilets for boats. But that would have set me back around £800, so I made my own.
My toilet is the first thing I show my guests when they come onto the boat. I’m sure they are thrilled.
Building the toilet
Then covered it with a plywood board with a hole cut to one side:
Panelling and a toilet seat are added for comfort and professionalism:
Urine is filtered into an old milk bottle, with the bucket for solids behind.
I love my toilet. It’s comfy, odourless, and I love that it’s natural. I don’t like using normal toilets now – I’d far rather use my own.
The only negative thing is working out what to do with the poo buckets while they mulch down to compost. As a continuous cruiser, I don’t have a set place that I can leave things. It takes about two months to fill a bucket, so by the end of the year I’ll have six buckets of poo sitting around on my boat. The other thing is that small plastic buckets aren’t really conducive to making compost – it needs a bigger space that can drain. So far, I’ve been burying the waste in the woods. Every so often I go back and check on the ‘patch’ – it doesn’t appear to have done any harm. Phew.
Two coots have taken up residence in one of the tyre fenders on my boat. For some reason they have decided that this is a good venue to start a family. This means I’m legally not allowed to move the boat until they have finished nesting, which could be up to eight weeks.
At first, I find the coots very sweet. They are shy, and make little cooty noises in the mornings. I like being a mother to a pair of little birds.
A week later, I am starting to like them a little less. They make loud cooty noises in the mornings. They wake me up. Some of their noises are metallic banging sounds – I’ve often woken up thinking, “Who is mooring up at this hour?!”
But, they are still very sweet. I like being a mother to a pair of little birds.
A week later, I am starting to like them a little less. They are still building the bl**dy thing, which means I still have at least six weeks here for the laying, hatching and fledgling period, and though every boater loves a good excuse for why not to move, I am starting to worry that I won’t be able to go and fill up my water tank.
But still, they are very sweet.
A week later, I am starting to like them a little less. They have nearly (but not quite) finished building the nest. And now they like to protect it from visitors. There are a couple of Mallards nesting nearby who often come and have a nosey, and the coots are having none of it. They crouch low in the water and pelt at their adversary like some kind of torpedo, cooting noisily the whole time. The noise is almost like a bark. It goes on day and night. I am beginning to regret having tyres hanging from my boat.
A week later and the eggs still haven’t appeared. Four weeks and no eggs! But still, they are sweet. I like watching them take a bath and climb into the nest to preen.
Two weeks later, they have finally started to lay! Well done Mrs Coot. Here she is… not sitting on the egg.
Two weeks later… the egg hasn’t hatched. The coots are making as much noise as they ever have. They haven’t laid any more and seem to be ignoring their only child. I’m carefully monitoring the nest, as I need to move my boat, but don’t want to disturb them.
In the end, I move the nest off the boat. I’m not really allowed to do this, but I’ve spoken to the conservationist, and it seems that the coots have abandoned the nest. I really hope it wasn’t my fault. A week later I see another little cooty family cooting around. They are very sweet. Noisy though…
Rules for living on a boat:
- use a cork ball float as a keyring
- always put keys in zip-up pocket
- don’t have animated conversations when stepping on board
The evening that you’re entertaining guests is probably not the best time to ignore the above rules and loose the keys overboard. But that is what has happened.
So, I’m talking to my friend in an animated way as I step on board, keys in hand, and see them fly into the canal and plop as if in slow motion, slowly sinking to the bottom.
We look at the water in horror.
“Where’s your boat hook?” she says.
“Um, I don’t know if I have a boat hook…” I reply. (Another rule for living on a boat: find out what a boat hook is and find out if you have one.)
“Oh, yes, here it is!”
I take the boat hook from the roof. It is 7ft long. Briony dips it down into the canal.
“Er, I haven’t touched the bottom yet…”
Damn! It’s dark, we can’t really see what we’re doing, and the water is too deep to go paddling. There’s not much chance of us picking up the bunch with the hook. We are locked out.
“My aunt has a spare set. Let’s go,” I say. It’s a 35 minute walk up the towpath to her house.
As we walk, I wish that a) I had followed the above rules, b) I had hidden the spare in one of the lockers and c) I was still in the last place I’d moored where the water was approx two feet deep, and where my aunt’s house was only a five minute walk. Bri says she doesn’t mind. We keep walking. Thank goodness my aunt is home.
An hour and a half later we are back at the boat, able to get in and have dinner. I’ve written off the keys – I can get replacements cut, and I have spare keys for my bike. It could have been a lot worse.
The next morning, I ask a passing boater if he happens to have a magnet – one of those sea searcher things that yachties use to find missing winch handles. He does! I rig it up to my boat hook and start the search. I dredge for a long time, not quite sure exactly where the keys fell. I try to re-construct the incident (in thoughts, not action) to pinpoint the spot. At least there is no tide here, so the keys will not have moved far. The biggest problem is that they were flung, they didn’t fall straight down, so they could be anywhere within a couple of metres.
Twenty minutes later I am convinced I will never find them, but keep trying. I have brought up lots of weed from the bottom, but nothing made of metal. Then, something snags, and up come… my keys!
I remove the keys that I never use (they are just dead weight) and put the remaining ones on my cork ball. Lesson learned!
I had the recent privilege of being interviewed by Roz Savage for her Adventure Podcast. Roz is a record-breaking ocean rower – the first woman to solo row the world’s three big oceans: Atlantic, Pacific and Indian. She has written two books about her ocean rows: “Rowing the Atlantic: Lessons Learned on the Open Ocean” and “Stop Drifting, Start Rowing: One Woman’s Search for Happiness and Meaning Alone on the Pacific.” I’ve read the second of these books, which is excellent. I’m pleased that Roz has taken a sneak peak of my (as yet unfinished) book and is similarly complimentary!
The podcast can be found here, on Roz’s website: http://www.rozsavage.com/2014/01/08/adventure-podcast-17-anna-hughes-round-britain-cyclist/
Thanks to Roz for the opportunity, and the lovely chat.
Frosty mornings on the river are beautiful. I especially love it when the rowers are out.
I’ve moved onto a narrow boat on the River Lea. She’s called Slow Gin and she’s 60ft long with a 6ft beam. I moved in on 31 December and saw the New Year in on the water. “You’re brave,” people say to me. “This is the hardest time of year to move on to a boat!” Thankfully the winter is fairly mild, and if I can cope now then imagine how great it will be come the summer. The thing that I struggle with the most is the short days — it’s almost impossible to do any work on the boat after dark, which means my moving in and decorating time is limited.
“Why did you decide to buy a boat?” people ask. There are loads of reasons: alternative lifestyle, love of the water, cheap way to live, having lived on a boat for three months when I sailed around Britain.
The money thing was important — I was desperate to move back to London, but couldn’t find an affordable room that I could rent. Working freelance means I don’t have a regular amount coming in each month, but I had £30k in savings, which is a good deposit for a flat, or enough to buy a boat outright. It was a bit of a sudden decision — I didn’t consult with anyone over it, I just decided one day that I would have a look to see what kind of boats were available on the market, and less than a month later I’d bought one and moved in.
The boat lifestyle really suits me. It’s very peaceful here on the water, and the community is very open and friendly, with everyone helping each other out. I love living off-grid – from generating my own electricity with a solar panel to my composting toilet, it’s a low-impact lifestyle. Having finite resources on board encourages me to be even more frugal than I might have been in the past. This can be the most challenging part as well, though – I can’t necessarily get home from a night out and flick a switch – if the batteries are flat which they often are at this time of year, I have to run the engine for the electrics to work. Running out of gas halfway through doing the cooking is always annoying too.
It is a big challenge — I’m now a home-owner with all the concerns and considerations that brings, and I have yet to sleep through the night without worrying that the thing is going to sink!
ON 1st August 2011 I cycled from London to Southend — the first step of a 4000-mile, 10-week journey round the coast of Britain. The route is fairly flat, tracing the River Thames from the confines of the city to the salt-tainted air of the coast. At the time I was eager to let others know that it’s a journey worth trying: “Everyone should cycle from London to Southend,” was how the first draft of my book began. I wanted desperately to share my experience: the beauty of cycling to the ocean, the relaxed pace of travel, the satisfaction of covering a substantial distance by relying solely on your own power. It’s far enough that it’s a good day out, but not so far that it would be beyond the occasional cyclist.
Last weekend, I repeated the journey, and it reminded me of how much I love cycling, and why exploring this country by bike is the best adventure I know. Knowing more about my home with each pedal stroke, feeling connected to the landscape in a way that doesn’t happen zipping through on a train or car. It’s magical to cycle to the sea, to pedal until you spy that massive body of water that holds our island in its grip, to ride until you can ride no further. The sea is so compelling, so full of mystery and the promise of adventure. We have over 10,000 miles of coastline just waiting to be explored, and every inch is different. Nowhere in Britain lies more than 70 miles from the coast; a long ride, but not impossible. I can’t recommend it enough. Make it a day’s ride, or a weekend trip. Take food, take breaks, eat cake. Find out where the train stations are along the route if you want a get-out clause. But get on that bike and do it.
London-Southend, Sunday 8th December 2013, riding with Laura
Our route starts in the hidden waterways of east London: the Limehouse Cut canal, Bow Creek, the Greenway (built on top of a sewer). Then alongside the deafening traffic on the A13, before reaching Rainham, crossing the railway line and entering the marshes. A Eurostar rattles its way to Paris, a yellow and white caterpillar speeding through the countryside. The Queen Elizabeth bridge that carries the M25 across the Thames stands like a regal gateway above the water. The skyline of London steadily recedes, but it’s not far, really; even beyond the M25 we can still see the skyscrapers at Canary Wharf. Soon we’re deep in Essex, riding down country roads surrounded by fields and hedges and farm buildings. Villages come and go, a collection of houses and country pubs gathered around the squat Parish church. We reach the top of Bread and Cheese hill, a famously testing hill for a county that’s mainly flat. The gradient is 10%, and it’s long. We turn to look back at the industrial areas that not so long ago looked unreachable. But now they are behind. Keep the pedals turning and the miles soon pass.
It’s 3pm when we get our first glimpse of the sea, from the top of a hill in Hadleigh. We both shriek: “The sea!” “Amazing!” “This is the most brilliant day!” We’ve been looking forward to this moment for six hours, the magic of arriving at the seaside something that never fades, even in adulthood. It’s more exciting that we’ve cycled here, that we didn’t do anything other than pedal in order to achieve our goal. There are 45 miles behind us — not long miles, just lovely miles with the wind carrying us eastwards to the coast. Tankers float in the middle of the channel, and we can see the masts of boats moored at Leigh yacht club. Across the water lies Kent. The sun is low in the sky and at its richest, the grass and the water and the road itself blazing. We approach the seafront, clutching firmly at our brakes — the roads here are built into the cliff, and it’s a steep descent to the water. The pier stretches far into the estuary, seeming to almost reach the other side — at a mile long, it’s the longest in the country. The chilly waves suck at the shingle with great breaths; we aren’t tempted to paddle, this time. Huts sell hot donuts and ice cream, and packs of seagulls squawk in the sky above. We sit down to the best fish and chips we’ve ever eaten; we earned these. The rapidly dropping winter sun paints the sky the most impressive shade of orange. It’s a daily miracle that we often forget about, surrounded by buildings in the city. But here, the sky is wide open, and the water reflects the colours, and the sunset goes on forever.
It’s dark by the time we set off home; these short winter days fade fast. Laura finds the station but I still have a few miles in me so start pedalling back to London. I pause in the middle of the countryside somewhere past Basildon. It’s pitch black. The crescent moon is bright but it’s too cloudy for stars. I can hear nothing apart from my own breathing. I feel as if I’m wrapped in a bubble, standing in the middle of the darkness, the silence pressing down. Ahead, I can see London, the big city going about its business, a long line of lights spread from horizon to horizon. There is the white blink at the top of the pyramid at Canary Wharf, there the red spots on top of The Shard. Planes hang in the sky, landing lights glaring as they wait to come into Heathrow. Tall chimneys of power stations shine like red beacons in the darkness. All of it bustling, and here I am, surrounded by nothing. I stand there for a moment, breathing it all in, letting the silence fill me; once I pass under the M25 the lights will return, the road will become wider and the traffic heavier. We cycled to the coast today. We went to the seaside. There are hundreds of other things we could have done, but we chose fish and chips and chose to earn them the hard way. It’s cold, and my legs are almost done, but I’m smiling.
That was a question asked to me by my elder sister, who’s been told by her husband that he doesn’t want her riding a bike anymore. The statistic is terrifying — six deaths in thirteen days! — but, to put it in perspective, in total there have now been an equal number of cyclist deaths on London’s streets as there were last year. That many of them have come so close together has vaulted the issue into the public awareness. The sudden spate is horrifying and tragic, but the fact that it’s therefore hit the headlines could be seen as a good thing. Perhaps now something will change.
James Walsh asked on the Guardian bike blog, ‘Have you had a near miss owing to poor infrastructure?’ My response: no. But I assume that is because I am a better-than-average cyclist (you’d hope so, given that teaching people how to use the roads properly is what I do for a living); I cycle assertively, prominently and predictably and I know how to use the infrastructure I’m presented with safely. Too many people do not, and might see the left-hand cycle lane as somewhere they should be, and will use it even if it’s not safe to do so, and perhaps filter up the left hand side of a left turning lorry. Cycle lanes that are badly implemented lull cyclists into a false sense of security, and simply confuse road users — cyclists feel they have to use them, drivers yell at you when you don’t.
Is cycling more dangerous than it used to be? Statistically, no. Perceptionally, yes.
The debate rages about how we should improve things to make it safer for cyclists. Campaign organisations such as the LCC point to continental countries and ask why we can’t have similar provision for cyclists. Boris retorts that “there’s no amount of traffic engineering that we invest in that is going to save people’s lives.” It is the Cycle Superhighways that have come under scrutiny the most — this is where the majority of deaths have occurred, and these are the flagship, big-money, high-publicity cycle routes. I know a nervous, novice cyclist, who was thrilled when a ‘cycle path’ was built outside her house. She hired a bike and set out one morning, hoping to breeze from Kennington to Colliers Wood. When the first bus passed her, she shrieked and nearly fell off. She was expecting a safe, protected space that she could cycle happily and calmly in, and got a strip of blue paint at the side of a bus lane (thankfully, she signed up for cycle lessons as soon as she got home and is now cycling confidently).
Boris’s comments are madness; of course improved infrastructure will help save people’s lives. But until it improves, what we can do now is improve awareness — educating cyclists that the blue paint they see won’t physically protect them, and educating drivers about how to react to us vulnerable road users.
Even though I have never had a near miss owing to poor infrastructure, I have had hundreds of near misses because people don’t look properly. Almost every day. Drivers pull out from side roads without having seen me, pedestrians step out while looking at their mobile phone, people turn left in front of me, people change lane without checking that the lane they’re trying to join is clear. Sometimes I have unpleasant and intimidating exchanges with drivers. More often it’s the odd toot and a couple of words of abuse, which is equally frustrating. Drivers see me as “in their way” when I ride out of the door zone (I’ve been doored before and it’s not something I wish to repeat.) My response varies between, “You don’t ride a bike, do you, Sir?” and, “No I will not ‘get on the left’ — it’s my road too!”
I will never stop cycling. I love London, and I love cycling in London — yes, it’s smelly and busy and at times, dangerous. But my bicycle gives me the ultimate freedom to go far and fast for free. The roads frustrate me, but riding my bike is always a joy. I just hope that we can educate enough people — both cyclists and drivers — that everyone can use the roads as they were meant to be used: safely.
N.B. Please don’t let this post put you off cycling in London. Cycling in London is (most of the time) brilliant — quick, easy, free, enjoyable — and I find most drivers to be courteous and considerate. Then there are the unfortunate few…
This happened as I was on my way to teach a cycling lesson on Saturday morning.
Coming along Coldharbour Lane towards Brixton, a red traffic light shows at the junction with Atlantic Way. There is a bike box at the lights. A cyclist is waiting on the left hand side of the box, and I come alongside the traffic behind the cyclist, noticing a guy revving his engine to my right. He has stopped behind his stop line, but starts to slowly edge into the bike box even though the light is red. I take decisive action: the bike box is there for bikes, to keep cyclists safe, not for rev-happy drivers. I come into the bike box, in a central position, right in front of him. This is the way we teach people to use the bike box, to prevent dangerous overtaking.
However, on this occasion, it is a mistake. Note to self: *Do not anger an angry driver*
As the lights turn green, I go. Revvy-driver revs. I stay in the centre of the lane so I can safely overtake the cyclist on my left. Revvy-driver beeps. I stay in the centre of the lane until I have overtaken the cyclist on my left, then pull over into my normal riding position. Revvy-driver pulls alongside me and winds his window down. “What the f*ck are you doing?! I’m trying to overtake you!” he shouts. “You were in the bike box!” I reply. “You can overtake me when it’s safe to do so.” He zooms off. Then stops at the next lights ten seconds later. Then opens his car door.
“Oh, here we go,” I say to myself, pull my sunglasses off, and fix my face with my nicest smile.
The man walks back down the street towards me, leaving his car in the middle of the road.
“What the f*ck do you think you’re doing? Why are you getting in my way? Get out of my lane! Why are you in the middle of the road? You don’t know how to use the road! I’m trying to get home to my kids. You’re holding me up! Pull over! You should be riding on the left! You’re making me wait behind you! Learn the rules of the road!!”
This man is aggressive, and angry. I look around at the other road users for help, but I can’t tell if they’re on my side or his. I know what he’s saying is rubbish, but I can’t get a word in edgeways. I try to interject with “I’m not trying to get in your way… I was overtaking this other cyclist (other cyclist looks terrified, and I feel sorry for her)… You had plenty of room to overtake… The centre of the lane is the safest place for me… I’m sorry I added 10 seconds to your journey…” I don’t have time to even begin to explain that, as a cyclist, sometimes I need to ride in the middle of the lane, and the whole point of doing that is that I therefore make this car wait behind me. I’m intentionally holding him up until it is safe for me to pull over, or it is safe for him to overtake. I don’t think he would take too kindly to this.
I then point out that it’s the red light that’s now holding this man up, not me.
But I refrain from adding that I’m a cycle trainer, and that of course I know what the f*ck I’m doing. I’ve learnt that responses like this only lead to “Well you should bloody well get retrained.”
The exchange is unpleasant. He is intimidating, and won’t stop shouting about how he has to get home. His rant goes on. The traffic lights are now green, and he is late home for his daughter, but he’s still standing there, shouting at me. The traffic behind starts to get impatient.
Finally I shout at him, “YOU WERE IN MY BIKE BOX!!”
There. I said it. An eye for an eye.
“You sanctimonious piece of shit,” he hurls at me. “Learn how to use the roads.” He stomps back to his car, and I try not to hear the C-word thrown my way.
As I ride past, he takes a swipe at me, causing him to narrowly miss his exit and swerve back into his lane to catch it.
I cannot believe I’ve been yelled at by someone who drives like that.
I’m shaking as I cycle away. I run through his complaints in my head: “Why are you riding two abreast?” I tried to tell him I wasn’t riding two abreast, that I don’t even know that terrified-looking cyclist, that I was overtaking. Anyway, the Highway Code says “Never ride more than two abreast,” meaning that it is perfectly ok for me to ride two abreast if I need to. “What are you doing in the middle of the lane?” The middle of the lane is the safest place for me — I’m at the head of the traffic, I’m asserting my position as a legitimate road user, I can accelerate quicker than a car anyway, so by the time he’s caught me up I am back in my normal riding position. The Highway Code says “Advanced stop lines allow cycles to be positioned ahead of other traffic. You MUST stop behind the first white line. Allow cyclists time and space to move off when the green signal shows.” “I’m trying to overtake you!” Well, overtake me then — when it’s safe to do so. The Highway Code says “Overtake only when it is safe to do so”… oh Jeez, I sound as if I’ve swallowed a text book. Learn how to use the roads?! I know the Highway Code backwards!!
I’m not getting anywhere with this. I thought about taking down his number plate and telling the police, but he’d gone before I could get that far. I thought about phoning up my boss at the cycle training company and quitting (“How can I teach people to safely use the roads with madmen like that out there?!”) I just sob a little behind my sunglasses and continue with my journey, cycling as safely and competently as I can. Before I’ve finished my journey I see cyclists jump the lights, motorists wheel spin round corners, and a driver making a call on his mobile phone. None of these people get shouted at. Grrr.
The most saddening thing about the encounter is not that this man is so completely wrong. It’s not that he has mis-quoted the Highway Code at me, the thing that is designed to keep us all safe. It’s not that his rudeness and confrontation leave me shaking. It’s not even that, in an argument between car and bike, car is sure to win. It’s that at the end of his rant, he gets in his vehicle, winds the window up, and drives off. That’s the end of the argument, the end of the conversation, and he wins, the driver, who goes faster than me and has a bigger vehicle than me and can shut himself off from anyone he choses to at any given time. It doesn’t matter that I am right. He thinks that he is. And that’s what upsets me the most.
I’m currently living on a sailing boat, journeying round the coast of Britain. The trip is run by South West Marine Training, and is called the Round Britain Experience (as is the boat) — aside from a previous two day excursion, which involved motoring round a harbour, I’ve never sailed before. This is one hell of a learning experience.
This is almost the hardest trip I’ve ever done. Harder than riding a bicycle on my own 4000 miles round Britain’s coast. Harder than cycling the 120 miles to Brighton and back in the rain. Harder than climbing the highest road pass in Scotland with 15kg of luggage. It’s a leap of faith to live on a boat for three months with three people you have never met before. But each day I learn a little more about the boat, discover a little more about the ocean, and feel a little less sick.
There have been days that have begun before dawn, the tides and the wind needing us to rise early. We have stood on deck watching the sun rise in the wake of the boat as the wind catches the sails, powering us forward towards the next unknown land. There have been days that have ended in the early hours, where we’ve used the stars and the moon, the beams of lighthouses and the blinking of navigation buoys to guide us safely into the harbour. There have been days where we’ve relaxed on the sunny deck, toes wiggling in the breeze, the sunlight dancing on the waves. There have been days where we’ve huddled shivering under the spray hood, the deep swells of the sea tossing the boat like a twig, mocking this plastic tub that has dared to brave the waves. We’ve endured gale-force gusts, stinging rain, biting wind and rough seas. We’ve seen guillemots and gannets dart over the waves, and had dolphins ride alongside the boat, playing in the bow waves. I’ve seen puffins and solar halos for the first time in my life. The ocean is an endless adventure.
We might anchor, we might tie up on a mooring buoy, we might go to a marina. I love the transient nature of this life — our home is wherever we end up that night. I love looking at the other boats on the marina and thinking, “that’s where I live.” I love seeing our yacht floating on the surface of a calm loch. We go wherever the wind takes us. When you can sail, the world is your oyster.
A day on the boat begins at around 7am, when the combination of ropes and waves knocking against the hull forces me out of my cosy sleeping bag and into the cold heads. The boat is rocking even though we’re moored – a floating pontoon doesn’t offer much stability, and on the occasions where we moor up in a marina, it’s often on a river, susceptible to the racing tides.
Marinas are the height of luxury. It’s amazing how important it is to be able to step straight from the pontoon on to dry land, rather than having to clamber into the tiny tender to reach Terra Firma. They even have running hot water! What a novelty to have a shower that you don’t have to keep turning off while you pump out the water from beneath your feet, shivering as you lather up.
I stumble back to my bunk, trying not to succumb to the rocking this early in the morning, telling myself for the hundredth time that I will get used to it. No-one ever heard of anyone being seasick for three months. Although perhaps I’ll be the first. I can’t imagine being without this queazy feeling that has taken up residence in the pit of my stomach, and nothing will shift it – not eating, not drinking, not sleeping, not shoving ginger sweets into my mouth, not being sick, not even being on dry land. It will get better. It has to.
I can hear the others getting up, gathering themselves to start the day. The kettle starts to sing and I quickly dress, spurred on by the thought of my morning cup of tea. If I can get the forward-facing seat in the centre of the galley perhaps the rocking won’t bother me so much. I sit, sipping the hot liquid, making myself a banana sandwich for breakfast – without shore power we can’t use the toaster. Yesterday we had eggy bread, frying the slices over the gas hob.
Once breakfast is cleared away we set about to ready the ship for ‘slipping’ (casting off from the pontoon): close all the hatches, put everything in its cupboard and secure all the doors, empty the heads (toilets), prepare the sail, do the engine checks, make the lunch and store it in the cockpit (not having to come down to the galley while at sea really helps with the seasickness), prepare the vegetables for dinner (similarly), add mid-layer clothes (fleece, light waterproof, extra leggings) and top layer clothes (sallopettes and heavy waterproof fleecy jacket), come up on deck, bring in the ‘spring’ lines. Now we’re only attached to the pontoon by two lines – one at the bow and one at the stern. Once everyone is in their place we take off the lines and we’re away, motoring into the estuary. The fenders come off and go into the lockers, the lines get coiled and put away, then we set about getting the main sail up. Hoisting the main halyard is hard work – I can’t do it on my own yet.
Once the sail is up we motor-sail towards the mouth of the estuary, heading towards the open sea. The surf is usually high, the Atlantic waves magnified by the wind being tunnelled upriver, or by the depth-change between the deep sea and the shallow river. We stand in the cockpit watching the waves break over the bow, the boat pitching and diving, until with a squeal we duck underneath the spray hood as a particularly large wave crashes over the hull and rolls down the length of the boat. We’re unavoidably soaked, but can’t help giggling at the rollercoaster ride.
As we make our way out into the Channel we cut the engine, unfurling the head sail then adjusting the main sail, making sure the angle and size of the canvas is capturing as much wind as possible. Once clear of the land we set our course for the next stopping point, 30 or 40 nautical miles away.
All of this has distracted me from my sea sickness but it soon returns, the constant rolling of the boat causing my stomach to roll also. I sit on the foredeck, staring out towards the horizon, the powerful swell tossing our tiny boat about, trying to get my head around the fact that we are still afloat. The boat is heeling over as the wind fills the sails, living on its ear, threatening to send me into a panic if I think too much about the angle that we’re at. Instead I let the motion of the waves lull me, lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping.
Our boat is called Round Britain Experience – an unsurprising name for a boat that will take us all around the British Isles. We’re on a three-month expedition, run by South West Marine Training out of Brixham. All three of us are novices, and we spent a week in the south Devon marina ‘learning the ropes’ before setting out. I saw the whole of this coast when I cycled round it in 2011, so lots of the places we’re berthing are full of fond memories, although there are places I haven’t been – the Scilly Isles, Shetland, Ireland. I was really looking forward to seeing Blackpool Sands and Slapton Sands from out at sea, the spectacular sand bar at Slapton having made a great impression on my bike ride. The long strip of golden sand with white breakers rolling in is a view not to be missed – though unfortunately I was below deck throwing up at the moment the boat passed by. I vaguely heard the crew admiring the view; I also missed the porpoises frolicking near the boat.
The land recedes to our right, the cliffs becoming less detailed with distance and sea mist. To our left the sea stretches endlessly, apparently nothing but wide open ocean. Waves crest on the horizon, momentarily transforming the horizontal line to a serrated edge before melting back into the water. The occasional bird flaps across my eye-line, heading to who knows where – there is nothing as far as the eye can see. Guillemots dart past, tiny and black, their wings flapping furiously, just inches from the surface of the water. Blink and they’ve disappeared. Three gannets glide into view, their long white wings tipped with black as if they are wearing gloves. Later, some are bobbing near to the boat, their yellow heads and intelligent black eyes fixed on us. We pass things floating in the water – dead fish, seaweed, a discarded rope. If we are lucky dolphins might come and play in the bow waves of the boat.
I keep a lookout, not through necessity but more through being rendered immobile because of the feeling in my stomach. I sing songs to myself to keep busy. I understand why shanties were invented, to distract sailors from their sickness and boredom. Clouds cover the sun, and for the first time in my life I see a solar halo.
Eventually the motion gets to me and I quickly dash to the leeward side of the boat and watch the contents of my stomach go over the side. I instantly feel better, though not well enough to venture down to the galley for a drink. Instead I take the helm, hoping that the focus of keeping the boat on course will be enough of a distraction to stop that happening again.
After hours of open sea and constant swell, we sight our destination, changing our course to head inland. The head sail comes in and we start the motor up again, using the navigation markers to make our way into the estuary. The casting-off routine is repeated in reverse – hanging the fenders, preparing the lines, dropping the main sail, coming alongside, lassoing the cleats, securing the boat. If we have water we’ll scrub the decks, if we have electricity we can even boil the kettle. If we’re lucky we’ll be alongside dry land, otherwise it’s a case of inflating the tender and motoring ashore.
Once we’re away from the open ocean the rocking subsides enough for me to stop feeling sick, and suddenly realise how hungry I am. Dinner doesn’t have to be simple – full roast dinners have been known to come out of these tiny gas ovens on board. We have pasta, or curry, or Bolognese. Tinned custard is fast becoming a favourite.
By 10pm I am utterly exhausted, and tuck myself up in my sleeping bag, snuggled tight in my cabin. I sincerely hope that tomorrow will be the day that I stop feeling sick.
You might not have heard of Brixham — it’s a tiny fishing village on the south coast of Devon. There’s no railway station there, no way to get there other than by car or bus. It’s 270 miles away from where I live. I’m going there because that’s where my sailing trip departs from, and I’ve decided to cycle.
I could easily get a train to Paignton and take a taxi for the remaining five miles, and I could be there in 5 hours. My journey is going to take four days.
Why am I doing this? The forecast for the next couple of days is for snow. I can barely lift the rear wheel of my Ridgeback touring bike from the floor, now that everything I need for three months of sailing has been strapped to the back. I could, instead of struggling with my fully-loaded bicycle solidly for several hours a day, be enjoying lazy mornings with cups of tea. But I love riding my bicycle. I love being able to get anywhere I want to just by riding it. I will be living every inch of the journey, reliant only on myself, breathing great lungfuls of country air, getting to know the country that I live in a little bit better.
Day one, and I’m sitting on a bridge on the Thames eating my lunch. The river stretches out towards London ahead of me, Windsor castle sits on the hill to my right, and I’m grinning from ear to ear. I’ve been here a couple of times before, on a train from London, and I love the fact that I just cycled here from my house. The route wound its way through the Hertfordshire countryside, skirting London on the Grand Union Canal, and following an abandoned railway line through Rickmansworth. I’ll soon be riding through Windsor Great Park, past the grandiose Ascot racecourse, and onwards to my aunt’s house in a small Hampshire village. The wind is pushing me along at a fantastic rate and I’m enjoying every minute.
Day two is colder, and further, but I’m still glad to be on my bike, even though by the time I reach my destination my feet are blocks of ice. I pass through Winchester, a charming town with attractive architecture that I’ve never visited before, where two policemen give me directions. “You’re heading for Poole?! And with all that luggage?!” They are impressed that I can haul my load up the steep streets in the town. I cross the top of Southampton Water and meander down through the New Forest. A horse tries to eat my apple. I’m surrounded by scrub and endless woodland. I reach Christchurch and can soon see the vast expanse of the ocean at the end of a lane. I excitedly race towards it, hurtling from the cliff top to sea level, following the wide sweep of Bournemouth Bay towards Poole harbour, my bike allowing me exclusive access to the seafront.
On day three the hills really kick in. It’s an 85 mile ride to Exeter, and my choices are the roaring and exposed A35, where the gusting wind repeatedly knocks me onto the grass verge, or the winding country roads, which are much preferable, but longer and hillier. The countryside is stunning, but hard work. I cross the Dorset/Devon border, following an endless incline into Axminster, promising myself that I’ll reach the top before the song on my iPod finishes. Three tunes later I am still struggling against the gradient. By the time I reach the town I’m sobbing a little, exhaustion getting the better of me. All I can see ahead of me are more hills. I could knuckle down but I decide there’s no point — this isn’t a test of endurance. I find the station and take the train for the last ten miles to Exeter.
On day four the sun shines and the canal-side cycle path from Exeter to Dawlish is an absolute joy. From there it’s a short 15 miles up and down the cliffs along the coastal road to Brixham. The views across Torbay are stupendous. I ride down to Brixham Marina and meet the people I will be sailing with for the next three months. “Have you just come all the way here on your bike?!” they ask. I am smiling widely as I say “Yes.”
When I arrived at my aunt’s house she had asked me “Why do you punish yourself? I would have given you the train fare!” But it wasn’t about that. I could have paid for the train myself. Riding my bicycle is my way of exploring. Powering yourself mile after mile makes the arrival all the more enjoyable. Being in the saddle simply makes me happy. It’s a way to turn a normal journey into an expedition, and an adventure to remember.
I have just spent ten days in Oban, on the beautiful western coast of beautiful Scotland. It’s been a bitterly cold March everywhere and Oban was no exception – zero degrees and a hefty wind chill to boot. But the sun shone most days and there was only the occasional flurry of snow.
I went there to try to finish my book. I started writing it a year ago, on another holiday in the Lake District, hoping the scenery and peace and quiet would inspire me. I’ve been working on it since, while holding down the day job, and I’ve almost reached the end. 76000 words down, and, I hope, not many to go.
I chose Oban because I went there on my 4000 mile bike ride around the coast, which is what the book is about. When I’d come previously, I’d wished I could have stayed a bit longer (I did not want to go cycling. “All I want to do is drink tea and eat cake!” I wrote on Facebook). I also wanted to go back to Tobermory, a strikingly pretty harbour town in the north of Mull, having dashed through it before on the way to catch a ferry, and also go out to Ardnarmurchan Point, the most westerly point on mainland Britain, having missed that compass point on the circumnavigation.
So off I went – bags packed, hostel booked, bike hauled on to the train. I took the 5.30am from Euston and arrived in Oban nine hours later – a long time to spend on a train but worth it when, on the crawling ScotRail line north of Glasgow, I was able to gaze out on miles upon miles of mountains. After the urban jungle of London, Scotland was huge, wide open, and very three-dimensional.
Despite it being a writing holiday, I was determined not to spend all my time sitting at my laptop in the youth hostel. I took walks along the seafront, visited Dunstaffnage Castle, and frequented the various tea rooms and hotels where a warming cuppa or a cool glass of wine might help the words to flow. On one occasion I went up to McCaig’s Tower and propped myself up in one of the blank windows, looking out across Oban Bay, my laptop on my knee. The wide stone made a chilly seat, and, despite all my woolly layers, I managed only 30 minutes or so before a snowstorm drove me back to the warmth of my hostel.
After a few days in Oban I headed out to Tobermory on the isle of Mull. Simply boarding the ferry was an adventure in itself, with all the excitement of crossing a body of water and seeing the world as if from the outside in. Once on Mull, a 20 mile direct ride would have taken me to Tobermory and my guesthouse, but I took the long way round, cycling 40 miles round the north of the island past the Isle of Ulva, round the gorgeous beach at Calgary, and over the huge passes beyond Dervaig. The road was single track, the terrain deliciously wild. The wind was behind me, pushing me to the top of each rise, my legs forced to remember how to climb hills. Snow dusted the slopes of mountains like icing sugar. Tourists watched for eagles. The cold wind bit on the long freewheeling downs and my lungs heaved on the even longer inclines.
The next day I headed off for Ardnamurchan Point, seeking out Stephenson’s lighthouse that sat on the most westerly rocks of the mainland. The visitor’s centre was shut, the tourist season not yet underway, so I walked around the base of the tall tower, clambering over rocks to gaze out to sea, standing in front of the huge foghorn which was, on this occasion, thankfully silent. The views across to Rum, Eigg and Muck were spectacular, the islands floating in the vast blue ocean, the day clear. But the cold wind soon drove me back to Kilchoan in search of tea and warmth.
From Tobermory to Craignure I rode along the very same road that I had ridden along eighteen months ago on my circumnavigation of Britain. The road was mainly flat, I had written in my manuscript, but my memory could not have been more wrong. The single track twisted and turned between the hills, rising and falling for at least ten miles. I wondered why I had misremembered it – perhaps I’d had a tailwind that day, or I had been concentrating on cycling fast to catch my ferry so hadn’t really noticed the terrain, or perhaps I was simply so fit from the six weeks of cycling that had gone before that the inclines were mere blips in my progress. It made me worry that I had mis-represented every other road I had written about. Would I have to ride the whole thing again just to make sure?!
On my final night in Oban I treated myself to a posh fish dinner – so far I’d been surviving on lentils, my meagre budget not even stretching to fish and chips, but I couldn’t leave the Seafood Capital of Scotland without eating out at least once. I chose the local special, Turbot, hoping that the trawler docked next to the restaurant had been the one responsible for bringing it in. It was utterly delicious.
I love Scotland. I’d enjoyed being in one place for several days, having passed through lots of places quickly on my previous visit. I’d started imitating the accent and had enjoyed the friendliness of the locals. It was with sadness that I got on the train, ready for the nine hour trip back to London.
“Hello,” I said to a man sitting in the carriage, still in Scottish mode. He looked at me strangely. “Next stop London,” I thought wryly.
A sunny day in mid September. I’m riding down a street I’ve never ridden down before, and I see a man I’ve never met before, and then I notice his finger outstretched towards me, and I hear him say, “You’re famous!”
This is one of my favourite moments of my life.
The man is Ben Brangwyn, co-founder of the Transition Network, one of the charities I raised money for as I was cycling round the coast of Britain. My picture is all over my blog so it’s no surprise he recognises me, but his unusual greeting makes my face crack into a huge smile. I had spotted him fixing bikes by the side of the market square, which is why I’d caught his eye – such a typical thing for a cyclist to hone in on another cyclist and want to strike up a conversation.
This is Totnes, the final calling point of my Otesha tour; for the past six weeks I’ve been cycling around the South West with eight other young women, performing and running workshops in schools and city farms, trying to inspire change and promote sustainable living. The tour has been intense but good fun, and we’re relaxing in the nation’s first Transition Town while we wait for a train back home. It’s pure coincidence that Ben sees me – it has been a full year since I completed my round-Britain tour, where we first made cyber contact, and he had no idea I’d be here in Totnes, just like I had no idea this is where he lived.
Every weekend you’ll see Ben with his bike stand offering a free Dr Bike service to passers-by – it’s completely unfunded and he does it purely for the love. I understand his desire to fix people’s bikes for nothing save their thanks (which is often emphatic and overwhelming, accompanied by gifts) – I volunteer at the Hackney Bike Workshop, a free fix-it evening where people can come and get their bikes checked, and fixed, and learn basic maintenance skills by having a go under the watchful eye of their mechanic.
The bike workshop runs in two locations: Frampton Park hall in Hackney on the first and third Tuesday of the month, and St Michael’s Church hall in Stoke Newington on the second Tuesday. The Stokie version was initiated by Transition Town Stoke Newington, and has been consistently popular since it started almost two years ago. Doors open at 7pm and there are always mechanics on hand to talk you through how your bike works and show you how to fix it. After 9pm you’ll find said mechanics at the Royal Sovereign on Northwold Road enjoying the sustainable beer.
Ben says that while his free servicing is welcomed by the punters, he is treated with a little more caution by the local bike shops, some resentful that he is taking trade away from them. I can see their point, but I disagree. Teaching someone how to fix their own bike won’t make them need a bike shop less, but it might well make them need it more. No one is going to become an expert on bike maintenance in the twenty minutes it takes to tune brakes, but they will catch a breath of intrigue. People crave knowledge. And as soon as you empower someone a little, they will instantly want to know more. Someone who never quite got round to riding their bike because it didn’t quite work will suddenly be taking it out every day because of their free bike check, popping into the bike shop on their way home for some gloves or a puncture repair kit or simply to look.
I’m the same. Since learning how to fix bikes I spend more time in the bike shops, forever looking at all the stuff I need, or more to the point, don’t need but want. I won’t pay for a service, preferring to buy the parts and replace them myself, but I’ll buy replacements more regularly, or invest in the higher quality stuff – now I know what to look out for, I have the desire to keep my bike in top condition.
Anything we do to get cyclists on the road is good, and the more people that promote cycling the better. Dr Bikes can co-exist happily with bike shops, both helping people get out and about on two wheels in their various ways, creating a positive effect on people’s health and on the environment. I think what Ben does is fantastic, and I hope to see it more.
5.20am. My alarm goes off, rousing me from my light slumber; I never sleep deeply if I know I have to get up early. I quietly rise and dress, then creep downstairs to make breakfast – flask of tea, marmalade sandwich and an oat muffin to eat on the train. The traffic is scarce as I make my way along the Euston Road towards Paddington, the rush hour still a couple of hours away.
6.30am. My train pulls away from the station. Today, I am travelling to Bristol to give assemblies about my round-Britain bike ride; recently I’ve been working with my old Sustrans colleagues to encourage pupils to ride their bikes to school. I like the work – it’s interesting, varied, and it means I get to travel up and down the country. Even though I rose before dawn today, I don’t mind – I don’t have to do it every day. I hope I am inspiring the next generation of adventurer, or cyclist, or at the very least motivating someone to get on their bike a bit more.
7.00am. The train passes deeper into the countryside, the fields around glowing with the deep orange of sunrise. The hills are hidden in the early morning mist, each ridge swallowed by the clinging haze that is illuminated by the sun’s emerging rays. It’s a magical world as daybreak arrives, colour spreading slowly across the landscape as the sunlight creeps above the horizon.
9.10am. The first assembly of the day. I introduce the pupils to my friend Polly, the Playmobil cyclist who accompanied me on the trip and the subject of most of my photos; some of the children are more concerned about Polly’s welfare than mine and eagerly ask, “But how did Polly keep up with you?” or, “Did Polly get tired?”
9.40am. Bristol is hilly. It’s a tough climb to the next school, but we are rewarded by views over the Avon valley, the Clifton suspension bridge bold and bright in the now clear morning sun. I talk about what it’s like to cycle up a mountain, through a hurricane, to pedal every day for 10 weeks and my audience’s eyes are wide. In fact, it’s often the teachers who are most impressed by my tale, their understanding of the distance and effort of my adventure more profound than the children’s.
11.15am. A quick coffee break and on to the third assembly. I make the mistake of mentioning the Loch Ness monster (trying to relate the remote town of Inverness to something they might recognise) and the subsequent questions are mostly about the elusive beast. No, I say for the fifth time, I didn’t see it. “Did you see much wildlife?” It’s a good question, one that I’ve not been asked before. Flashing through the countryside on a bike there’s not much chance for wildlife spotting – one of my only disappointments of the trip is not seeing any eagles, dolphins or puffins, and only a handful of seals and deer.
2.40pm. We’re on our way to our final school, and I’m exhausted. Talking to hundreds of school children in one day takes a lot of energy. But arriving at the bike pod at the school gates, I recognise one of the bikes: it belongs to Sara, one of the girls I did the Otesha tour with last year. I knew she’d since moved to Bristol, but had no idea she was working in a school – what a coincidence for it to be this one! So it’s with renewed energy that I address the assembly, once more spinning my tale about my coastal trip. I’m sometimes asked if I get tired of talking about the same thing over and over. But each audience is different, making each experience unique. Out of all the things I try to impress the children with, the most gasps come when I say “we cycled all the way to Scotland.”
3.15pm. My day’s work is done, and I have a couple of hours before I need to meet my friend in Bath. I decide to ride the Bristol-Bath railway path, the first ever route that Sustrans developed, part of National Cycle Network route 4 that runs from London to Fishguard on the west coast of Wales. I’ve been on sections of this railway path before, but never ridden the whole thing – it’s a 15 mile ride and on this sunny afternoon it’s perfect. I layer up though – even though the sun is out, February is still bitterly cold. The first five or so miles are uphill – it’s only a gentle incline, but enough to make me push hard at the pedals and breathe heavily as I puff my way to the top. Soon I’m swallowed up in the countryside, the sun creeping lower towards the horizon as I ride, the air crisp and fresh. I pass remnants of the railway – sleepers turned into benches and station platforms, some with the station buildings remaining, some even with statues of people waiting for trains that will never come, giving an impression of what it would have been like before the railway was closed. Then a stretch of track emerges followed by a functioning ticket office – it’s the Avon valley line, running heritage steam trains along a three-mile stretch of restored railway. The station platforms are quaint, but the railway is quiet today. I cross the River Avon then follow its path into Bath, leaving the trail as I reach the city. The cathedral sits squat in the centre, high hills rising on all sides, buildings built on top of buildings up their steep slopes. The light is fading.
5.45pm. It’s dark when I arrive at my friend’s house and give her a hug. She cooks, we chat, I sleep, exhausted by my early start, the talks and the ride. Another day’s work done.
On 23rd December, I joined a group of 30 cyclists riding from the Western-most point of England to the Eastern-most point of England – Land’s End to Lowestoft. The total mileage was more than 450 – an epic effort in just three days. It was the brainchild of Daniel Hughes – an adventurer aiming to raise £1 million for comic relief as he puts the first red nose on top of Mount Everest next year. His website is here if you’d like to support him.
I joined in for the final day – a mere 120 miles from the capital to the coast. With a tailwind, dry weather and lovely flat roads, it was a walk in the park compared to the 175 mile and 161 mile rides the team had done in the two days previous, with hills and rain to contend with. Hats off to them all – they showed amazing strength and stamina, especially as when I met them they were recovering from just 5 hours sleep, having arrived in London after midnight the night before!
The ride was nothing like I’d ever done before. In the handful of times I’ve ridden that distance it’s always been a meandering ride along country lanes, at my own pace, carrying all my luggage with me on my trusty steed: a solid steel Ridgeback tourer. This was fully supported, with the peleton riding between two cars to control the traffic. Bringing up the rear were two vans and a minibus full of kit. Everyone else had super-light carbon road bikes, with no luggage in sight. My D-lock alone weighed more.
We set off. Initially I worried – would I be able to keep up? The team would be pushing 20mph for the entire ride – could I cope for that long? We joined the A12 out of London, our convoy protecting us from the vehicles that shot past at 70mph. I had been apprehensive when I’d looked at the proposed route – couldn’t we have taken the parallel road to the A12, just to stay away from the traffic? A lot quieter and less smelly there. But after a while I saw the sense in it: we were cycling the final 120 mile leg of a 450 mile bike ride – scenery was not the most important thing. For these guys, they just wanted to get there. At least we had an entire lane to ourselves on the dual carriageway – had we been on the country roads we would have been constantly in the way of passing traffic, which would possibly have been more dangerous. We received plenty of toots of support as drivers leaned out of their windows to give us the thumbs-up, shaking their heads at this crazy group of cyclists hammering up the dual carriageway.
Through Romford, Chelmsford and Colchester, we stopped for snacks after each 30 mile mark. “Well done!” one of the group said to me. “I thought we’d lose you but you’re doing great.” By the time we reached Ipswich it was pitch black, the final 20 miles to Lowestoft being ridden in the dark. We pressed on to Lowestoft Ness, the area of the docks that marks the most easterly point on mainland Britain. The sea roared in the darkness and we collapsed in front of the compass marker for the photo call, 11 hours after we’d set off.
No, not my usual type of ride, but I loved it – pushing yourself physically is always rewarding, especially when you can look back and marvel at how far it’s possible to cycle in one day. And the other people on the ride were great – people from all walks of life joining together to spend their weekend pedalling for a good cause.
I sincerely wish Daniel the best of luck in his challenge, and hope he can reach his target of raising £1 million. Go here to donate!
As it gets colder, and wetter, and colder, and snowier, it’s easy to leave the bike at home in favour of the car or the bus. But winter cycling can be fantastic – as long as you’re prepared, you shouldn’t have a problem.
It might be cold at first, but pounding away at those pedals will soon get your heart pumping and the warmth spreading through your body. Make sure you’re wearing gloves (I wear two pairs – one with fingers, with some waterproof mitts over the top) and good thick socks. Buffs are terrific for wrapping around your ears, and topped with a woolly hat/ear muffs/helmet you will remain nice and snug.
As long as it’s not icy, cycling can be easier and more reliable – the roads will be more congested with traffic as everyone tries to avoid the cold, meaning you get extra satisfaction from sailing past the people stuck in their motors.
In the snows last year, I was one of only two people who made a scheduled work meeting, because I’d arrived by bike – almost all my colleagues either couldn’t get their car to start, or were stuck in massive queues of traffic, or couldn’t get off their driveway. I felt so smug arriving on my mountain bike – the simplest things are sometimes the best!
And for those days when none of us have to go to work because it has snowed a lot, playing around on a thick-tyred bike in the white stuff is just brilliant fun.
London Fields, 8pm. Hundreds of cyclists mill about, some in groups, some by themselves, some nonchalantly sipping pints, as if they weren’t about to cycle over 100 miles. Some excited, some apprehensive, all ready to ride. Road bikes, mountain bikes, recumbent bikes, a Boris bike. Single speeds, tandems, tourers, some heavily laden, some with no luggage save a camel pak and a towel strapped to the back. Lycra and hi-viz is everywhere.
A constant stream of cyclists heads towards the coast as riders start out on their journey. East, through Hackney and Clapton, across the park and up Lea Bridge Road, drivers honking as the river of bikes floods towards Essex.
The convoy thins out as it reaches Epping Forest, riders choosing their pace for the next 100 or so miles. The sun is starting to set, the moon rising in the twilight sky.
Epping, 9.30pm. Pubs spill out with drunken revellers, some cheering us on, some shouting abuse. The bright lights and sights of an Essex Saturday night. We ride on. Deeper into the woods, the daylight slowly fading as the roads get quieter and narrower, away from the buzz of the suburbs. The sun sinks over the horizon. Trees enclose the road. Bike lights come on and suddenly the road is alive with hundreds of flashing bulbs. Follow the red lights ahead.
Punctures fixed by the roadside, fields, villages flash by. Last orders at a country pub. Bemused bar staff serve the closing-time visitors. It’s dark. Snacks, coffee, a pint: riders refuel for the remaining 92 miles. Onwards, onwards, into the night.
Midnight. The darkness of the sky is absolute. Stars prick the black ceiling, some hidden by a blanket of cloud. Fields pass without remark, all features hidden from sight. Only the blink of red lights ahead and the pools on the road from white head lamps punctuate the darkness. At 1am there is a unique kind of beauty: the almost full moon reflecting the sun’s hidden rays, a tree picked out against its light, the profound peacefulness of a world asleep. Silent except for the whirring of hundreds of bicycle wheels. Red lights snake ahead, an endless line following the meandering road.
3am and the sky is gradually lightening, a pale blue colour poised on the eastern horizon as sunlight slowly edges into the pre-dawn sky. The world begins to regain its shape, silhouettes of trees appearing and shaded grey clouds floating on the horizon. Pedalling onwards and onwards, we chase the dawn. Colours emerge: pale blue, yellow, orange. Details of hedgerows and flowers appear and the dawn soundtrack begins as birds anticipate the pending sunrise. The road is now light, featureless riders once only identifiable by the character of their bike lights now becoming faces. The intensity of the flashing red fades as visibility increases. The night ride is over.
Another tea stop, and while sipping the hot revitalising liquid, excitement bubbles over as a yellow globe surfaces over the horizon in a bloom of gold. “The sun!” Colour floods the landscape, the brilliant blue sky edged with pink and orange, white clouds floating at its edge. The break of day gives renewed energy to the riders, spurred onwards by the sun’s rays. 100 miles down. Cockerels crow, birds sing. The world wakes up.
The final painful 16 miles. At last, a signpost that says Dunwich. 7 miles. Sand begins to line the roads. The glimpse of a nuclear power station above the trees. The coast is near.
The long road to Dunwich stretches into the distance, the energetic few who have made it to the beach already passing us on their return journey.
Past the sign welcoming us to Dunwich, then at the crest of a hill, a strip of blue stretching across the horizon. Down the final hill, round a corner, and there, on the beach, hundreds upon hundreds of bikes. Riders eating, drinking, sleeping, scattered prone across the pebbles. Shrieks from the sea as a brave few venture into its cold waters.
Everyone seems dazed, whether from sleep deprivation, exhaustion, hunger, or simply the accomplishment of 116 miles under the wheels. Did we really ride all night? The journey becomes a surreal memory as sleep takes over on the shingle of the beach.
The sun beats down. Another Dun Run done.
I took a trip up to the Lake District to get away from the city while I started to write my book. If it’s good enough for Wordsworth, it’s good enough for Hughes.
The Lake District is absolutely stunning, and I took the opportunity to try out my new camera, photographing each of the lakes I visited: Windermere, Coniston Water, Buttermere, Ullswater, Esthwaite Water, Derwent Water, Thirlmere, Crummock Water – you can see a selection of the photographs on my Flickr page here.
I made good progress with the book, and had a go at mountain biking – despite having a trail leader certificate, I’ve never really done it before. Well, I’ve ridden a mountain bike, and I have done a bit of off-roading, but that’s just trails, nothing tricky.
My mountain bike was embarrassingly clean.
I am of the opinion that I can do anything on a bike, but a minute of climbing up a very rocky, very steep track was all I could manage before I was off and pushing, chuckling at myself. A motor bike passed me in the opposite direction, coming down the track with great aplomb. He had it right. I persevered, loving every minute of it: the sunlight filtering through the trees, the stunning scenery, the sweat I was working up. I made it to the top, after a mixture of pushing and riding, eventually bouncing along the ridge, enjoying feeling the suspension working on the bike, the fat tyres taking on everything that the track lay in its path.
I was glad of the sunshine, although the previous day’s rain had left its mark – puddles frequently barred the way, and I got stuck in a bog on a couple of occasions, getting my feet utterly soaked in muddy water despite my massive boots.
This was mountain biking at its most extreme (I think). At one point I was hurtling down an old river bed that actually became a river for a stretch, trying to dodge the boulders. Partway down I met a man walking up with his child. “You probably heard me shrieking from up there!” I said, laughing at myself. “Yes”. He seemed disapproving that I should be making all that noise. Oh dear. The descent to Coniston water was an utter joy. It’s worth all that climbing, all that pushing, to get to a point where it’s downhill all the way. Rumbling over gravel, skidding round rocks, clutching at the brakes in excitement and terror. It was wonderful – but I breathed a sigh of relief when I got to the tarmac
It was a fantastic trip, enjoying some of the best countryside England has to offer, and getting out and about in the fresh air on my bike.
The time has come to remove myself from the routine of daily life and begin to turn my cycle trip blog into a book. A writing holiday is in order, to the Lake District. Ten days full of promise and hopefully a book at the end. Perhaps some Wordsworth inspiration will come.
The train hurtles through the English countryside, the dimensions growing in magnitude as I shake off the city. My bicycle is stowed along with the essentials for my retreat: laptop, slippers, camera, teabags and flask, with a hostel bed booked. The plan is to write, cycle and photograph the lakes.
Arriving in Windermere, a slow freewheel leads to the water’s edge. Boats lie hauled on the shingle while others bump gently against pontoons. The lake is grey under the dull March sky. I spend time photographing the swans then it’s a ten mile ride to the YHA at Hawkshead along quiet country lanes, passing by sheep-grazed hills that tumble towards tarns. The roads are edged with grey walls, the stones painstakingly and precisely stacked together, their dry bonds as strong as any cement.
On the first evening I take a walk down the lane in the pitch dark, my feet stumbling against exposed tree roots as I crane my neck to gaze upon the stars. Lights from a house on the hill shine across the valley.
The next day, a ride to Coniston Water takes me up into the trails of Grizedale forest, my first proper foray into mountain biking. Folk pass on their super-suspended, hi-tech contraptions, some with full-face helmets, knee pads and gloves. I’m wearing my wellies; my bicycle is embarrassingly clean. A hard bump upwards along technical terrain is followed by a squeal-inducing cater down a dry river bed, which turns out not to be dry around halfway down. With fingers clasping, tyres jumping and adrenaline pumping I reach the sweet relief of tarmac with sorrow that the fun is over. The road leads through the hills with snatched glittering views as I make my way alongside the lake, the Old Man standing above. Settling down in a tea room with my laptop, fingers tap and the story unfolds.
The sun has grown heavy as I make my way back to the hostel, its evening rouge settling over the fields. Smoke rises from chimneys; daffodils crowd the verges. Lambs canter in the fields though the trees remain bare. It’s a time of mixed seasons: with winter’s passing, spring has yet to fully arrive.
Next day I ride through the walker’s village of Ambleside and up The Struggle which will lead to the Kirkstone pass. The road is aptly named: it appears vertical, snaking through hills that hold up the ceiling of the sky. At the pass, the wind roams freely, snatching at my handlebars as the long freewheel to Ullswater unfolds. Another tea room, another lake to photograph.
It’s a 35 mile ride from Hawkshead to Buttermere where I will spend the next few days. Past Rydal Water and Grasmere I follow the long ‘A’ road through the Cumbrian mountains. Thirlmere stretches below with Helvellyn above. After Keswick I creep down to the moorings at Derwent Water, then it’s a tough road to Buttermere – not one of the famous passes, but steep enough to have to get off and push.
In the morning I take a walk while the world is still shaking off sleep, the sun lazy on the horizon and the early mist lingering on the water. The frosty remnants of dew sharpen the grass underfoot. The far shore is smudged, the colours indistinct, the pale water gently repeating the curve of the mountains.
Later in the day, Crummock Water bursts with colour. It’s peaceful here, isolated, with less passing traffic than other parts of the district, which has been perfect for contemplation and writing. The words flow well, but slowly – one writing holiday is not enough. I shall have to take another.
I’d been curious about the Capital Ring ever since reading an article in the Observer about two people who walked it over the course of a week. The Capital Ring is a 78 mile route around the periphery of London, linking green spaces with river-side paths, winding quietly through the suburbs from Richmond to Wembley to Woolwich to Crystal Palace. It was the idea of exploring unfamiliar parts of my city that excited me; away from the main drag, I would see London from a whole new angle. At the time I was living next to Abney Park cemetery in Stoke Newington, where a green Capital Ring signpost stood. I would often look at the signpost and imagine the places on it: turn left and reach the Woolwich foot tunnel in 12 miles and Crystal Palace Park in 29 miles, or turn right and reach Highgate Wood in 5 miles and Richmond Bridge in 30. Being a circle, all I would have to do was follow these signs until I reached home again. My curiosity was piqued.
It’s officially a walking route, one that people tend to complete in stages. But I don’t walk – I cycle. Would it be possible to follow the whole thing on two wheels? There was only one way to find out.
One morning Nick and I caught the train to Richmond: this would be leg one, cycling back home to Stoke Newington along the northern half of the ring. We set off along the wide Thames Path, the river flowing steady and calm to our left, the rich, green banks peppered with houseboat moorings and waterside pubs. So far, so good. But almost straight away we were off our bikes and climbing the 36 steps up and over Richmond Lock, struggling along the narrow cast iron bridge that crosses the lock and weir.
This was to be a very blue route, following the water, the Thames Path soon turning onto the River Brent at Brentford then meeting the Grand Union canal at Greenford. No longer with the powerful current of the Thames, these canals lay flat as a mirror, lined with narrowboats, every so often a lock halting the flow. We passed beneath a railway bridge as a Piccadilly Line train rattled above. The sun flecked through the canopy and birds called to each other. Welcome to hidden London.
We exited the canal and were faced with a steep climb up Horsenden Hill – not a road climb, but a grassy slope and steps. So it was off the bikes again, heaving them to the top, arriving there breathless to a view of Wembley Stadium. We looped north of Wembley along residential roads and paths through parks, through Harrow and South Kenton, then reached another climb up another grassy slope with another view of Wembley.
We soon reached Brent reservoir, the vast blue expanse dotted with the white sails of dinghies, then the River Brent was once more our guide, more narrow and winding than before, branching off to Mutton Brook, the path waterlogged and overgrown. We passed below where the North Circular turns on to the A1, drivers roaring above us while we tiptoed beneath the trees. After the suburbs of East Finchley we reached rural solitude once more at Cherry Tree Wood and Highgate Wood. On the gate at the entrance was a sign: No Cycling. The gate was narrow, beyond it the quiet paths of the wood covered with fallen leaves. We hoisted our bikes over it and began walking, then cautiously re-mounted; with no one around to complain we quietly continued.
We crossed into Queens Wood then joined Parkland Walk, an old railway branch line that once ran from Finsbury Park through Crouch End to Alexandra Palace. The entrance to a tunnel stood to our left, its blank, overgrown face silent and eerie, so we turned away from it and began the two mile descent to Finsbury Park, our wheels bouncing noisily over the rutted path. We rode between old station platforms, and soared high above or passed below the roads that criss-crossed the track on bridges reminiscent of the golden age of Victorian engineering.
From Finsbury Park the route begins once more to follow water, this time the New River, a man-made aqueduct built in the 1600s to supply London with fresh water from springs in Hertfordshire. The river flows into the East and West reservoirs, huge expanses of water across which we could see the church spires of Stoke Newington in the fading light of the day. The reservoirs are nestled amongst housing estates and residential streets, a busy road running between them, and a main route out of London to the west. I had lived in Stoke Newington for five years, less than a mile from these havens, yet had never been here. We cycled slowly along the narrow path, drinking it all in, then back through Clissold Park and along Stoke Newington Church Street towards home.
Weeks later we caught the train to Richmond again: leg two, cycling back to Stoke Newington along the southern loop of the ring. This had a much greener feel to it, beginning in the vast park at Richmond, the route following tree-lined avenues and crossing plush grass in the midst of the deer park. We took the parallel route (easier to cycle) along the undulating sweep of the Queen’s Road, accompanied by the squawk of parakeets that was once exclusive to Richmond but can now be heard all over London. Then came Wimbledon, Wandsworth and Tooting Bec Commons, huge swathes of seemingly endless green.
Up Streatham Hill, through Norwood Park, and into Biggin Wood, a remnant of the Great North Wood that once stretched for seven miles between Croydon and Dartford, then Crystal Palace park where we freewheeled to the lake to discover a family of dinosaur sculptures lurking around the water.
After Cator Park, Beckenham Place Park and Grove Park it began to rain, and a quick dash to drink tea and dry off in Eltham town centre was a stark reminder of how close to the bustle of London we were, yet blissfully unaware of any of it in our bubble of green.
We returned to the trail and entered Shepherdleas Wood, then Oxleas Wood, then Jackwood, then Castlewood, a strip of ancient woodland stretching alongside the A2. Then once more we were at the River Thames, the tide-ripped waves surging between the banks, far wider and wilder than that which we had last seen at Richmond.
The route crosses beneath the Thames in the Woolwich foot tunnel but, being nautical folk, we joined the queue for the ferry, the roll-on-roll-off vessel passing back and forth between the southern and northern banks of the Thames from morning til night. Upstream sat the Thames Barrier, beyond it the Millenium Dome and the skyscrapers at Canary Wharf. An aeroplane roared from the runway at City airport.
We traversed Beckton Park and came up to the Greenway, a traffic-free walking and cycling route built on top of the sewer that carries waste from Hackney Wick to Beckton – flat, peaceful and easily cycleable, but smelly! Then finally, up the River Lea from Bow to Stoke Newington, passing by the narrowboats and the herons, up through Springfield park towards home.
It was a terrific adventure, discovering parts of London I’d never before been to, knowing at each step that we were a stone’s throw from the familiar rush of the city, yet being fabulously removed from it all. Every so often we would emerge from the trees to see a landmark pinpointing our position, a reminder that this was London.
And how was it to cycle? There were those moments when we were asked to dismount, as in Highgate Wood or along alleyways that don’t permit cycling, and every so often we had to lift our bikes over gates or carry them up steps. Where the surface was not suitable for cycling we took a parallel road. But most of the paths were easily rideable, and we had the advantage of zooming along the residential streets that make up a large proportion of the walk. A truly special adventure without leaving home.
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When I have taken on challenges before, I’ve shied away from my vegan diet, unsure of whether I would survive intense physical activity on a plant-based diet. This time there’s no question: I’m vegan. Even with such a gruelling training regime, I’m sticking to it. And it is gruelling: I’m…
Yesterday I completed a half ironman. This is something I never thought I’d do – just the name sounds ridiculous. Maybe that’s why they call it that – to put people off. Because actually, I found it easy. Well, as easy as swimming 1.2 miles, cycling 56 miles and running…
It’s 10.30pm when my alarm goes off, waking me from a brief nap. I set my snooze alarm twice before finally dragging myself out of bed and dressing in my cycling gear. It’s pitch black outside, with a few stars and an almost full moon visible between the clouds. I…
It’s possible to cycle round the world. I haven’t done it myself, but I know plenty of people who have (including Al Humphreys, whose map this is). The world might seem impossibly huge – but keep the pedals turning and the miles soon pass. It’s true of any distance –…
It’s a year since I became an author, the culmination of three years of hard work putting pen to paper (well, fingertips to keyboard) and scraping together the story of my 4000 mile bike ride around the coast of Britain. I wrote a couple of blogs about the writing process…
I’m teaching myself to run a marathon. I’ve never run a marathon before, and this is not just any marathon – it’s a marathon after having swum 2.4 miles and ridden my bike for 8 hours. I am taking part in the Lakesman iron-distance triathlon this summer, something I’d never…
A little while ago I was interviewed by Alastair Humphreys for his Adventure 1000 blog which aims to demonstrate how you can have a big adventure without spending loads of money and without being a super fit adventurer. Alastair has collated that interview along with loads of others in his new book…
When I was 18 I moved to Manchester to start a music degree at Manchester University. To get from my student house to campus I had to cycle up Wilmslow Road through Rusholme – the Curry Mile – a busy route shared with vans unloading at the kerb side, buses,…
For as long as I can remember I have ridden a bike. It wasn’t so much a conscious decision to be a ‘cyclist’ but it just so happened that cycling ticked all the boxes. It was the quickest way to get to school, the cheapest way to get to university,…
I’ve always been fascinated by watercourses, the web of rivers and streams that dissects the land, flowing endlessly towards the sea. I love the path that they cut, both natural and manmade; it’s fascinating to see how we built our societies around rivers as a source of life, of trade,…
It’s been two weeks since I returned home from LEJOG, but real life starts straight away and this is the first time I’ve had the time (or inclination) to sit down with my laptop. On the road, everything is simple. You wake, dress, eat, and ride. Nothing is more important…
Knowing what to take on a cycling tour can be the trickiest part – you don’t want to take too much, as it ends up being dead weight, but you don’t want to take too little because you’re bound to need that one thing you omitted to bring. Looking back…
So, this was it: the final push to John O’Groats and the end of the tour. This was to be the longest week in terms of mileage (340) but the shortest in terms of events (only two). Without the pressure of a schedule, it really was all about the cycling….
Yesterday I spent most of the day tracing waterways, from the River Clyde to the Forth and Clyde Canal, to the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. The West Loch Lomond cycle path led me loch side for 17 glorious traffic-free miles, with absolutely beautiful views across the loch. I pitched…
Anything can happen when you’re out on the open road, and here are a few tips of how to cope when things go wrong. Prevention is better than cure The main thing I’ve learned in all my touring is that things are less likely to go wrong if they are…
This week has seen me travel from the metropolis of Manchester to the Lancashire hills, through the grand scenery of the Lake District and onwards to the flood plains around the Solway Firth. I’ve crossed the border into Scotland and now I’m in the bustling city of Glasgow. The cycling…
I’ve been vegan on and off for around five years. I don’t see anything wrong with humans using animals as a source of food per se, but it’s the way we do it that I don’t agree with. The environmental impact of the meat and dairy industry is something to…
It’s raining in London. While the roads that I usually ride down are surging with overflowing drains, I am pedalling from Lancaster to Kendal under a piercing blue sky. I feel exceptionally lucky: out of the 16 days that I’ve been on the road, there’s been only one day that…
I’m now halfway through the LEJOG book tour: 13 days down, 13 to go, 490 miles down, around 500 to go. The halfway point on any tour is potentially difficult – I have as much to do as I’ve already done, and it seems an awfully long time ago that…
Many people helped and supported me during my round-Britain bike ride by offering a bed for the night, a meal at the end of the day, or by riding with me for a section. Regretfully, many of these didn’t make the final cut of the book; restricted by a word…
I was asked at a recent talk if I got lonely on the road and how I coped with it. I don’t often get lonely – I am very content being by myself – but sometimes you feel that you need some kind of comfort. I’ve written a few tips…
In 1963, the Government published a report entitled The Reshaping of British Railways, written by a certain Dr Beeching. It recommended the closure of around 5000 miles of railway line and over 2000 stations that had ceased to be profitable in the New Age of the Motor Car, and over…
The first week of the Eat Sleep Cycle book tour is drawing to a close. I’m sitting in a field just north of Wells, laptop on knee, eating the leftovers of yesterday’s curry, having pitched up in a campsite. The tour started last Sunday with a cancelled train and a…
Anyone who’s familiar with my round-Britain trip will know I’m not the camping type. Perhaps it was the forced nights-under-canvas on family holidays, perhaps it was the cold, wet, and fitful sleeps I suffered as a festival-going 20 something, or perhaps it was simply that a duvet and a shower…
Day Four of the LEJOG book tour Last night I gave a talk at The Curator Cafe, Totnes. It was the third talk on my Land’s End to John o’ Groats book tour, having started the tour at Bike Chain Bissoe near Truro, and spoken at Rockets and Rascals in…
It’s the day before the LEJOG begins: in twelve hours I’ll be setting off from Penzance and pedalling to Land’s End, before turning back on myself and heading north west for that far-off destination of John o’ Groats. I’ve never ridden LEJOG before, but this is a special kind of…
Yesterday I met with Claire Taylor, author of Detour blog, a project that tries to open up adventurer culture in London. We spoke about what it’s like to go on that first tour; what you need to know, and how you learn it. As an experienced tourer it’s easy to…
In September 2015 I shall be embarking on the famous End-to-End ride, from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. It’s a distance of 1000 miles, and I’ll take a month to ride it, because as well as enjoying the cycling and exploring new places, I will be promoting my book: Eat,…
I never much liked the idea of organised bike rides. They seemed to make too big a thing of cycling, like it’s not something someone normal would do. I always baulked slightly at the forced sponsorship. The sheer number of people would spoil the enjoyment – I am much happier…
One of the panel sessions at the recent Cycle Touring Festival was entitled ‘Cycling as a Woman’. I was asked to sit on the panel alongside touring aficionados Emily Chappell and Helen Pike. We covered many issues in the discussion that I thought would be useful to revisit here, especially…
Bank holiday weekend was spent in the Ribble Valley at the Cycle Touring Festival – a gathering of cycle tourers old and new organised by round-world cyclists Tim and Laura Moss. It was a melting-pot of ideas from over 200 cyclists, some veterans, some novices, the young, the old and…
It’s the kind of outlandish idea that is conceived at the end of the night when too much booze has been drunk. We decide I’ll swim down to Jonny’s boat, then we’ll both swim back to mine. We are moored about 15 boats apart. I wake and instantly remember the…
Part of my job as a cycling instructor is to deliver SUD (Safe Urban Driving) courses to lorry drivers. The SUD was introduced because, while HGVs make up the lowest percentage of vehicles on London’s roads, they are involved in the highest proportion of fatalities. The course involves taking a group…
Having cycled 4000 miles then written a book about it, many people ask me which was easier. Before I started the cycle trip, I thought I knew a lot about cycling. I was a daily cyclist and had been my whole life – how hard could it be to turn that…
The terms of my boat licence mean I’m not allowed to stay in any one place for longer than 14 days. The Canal and River Trust specify certain areas that you’re supposed to move between but as long as you move a reasonable distance they tend not to mind. If…
The book ‘Eat, Sleep, Cycle’ has been in the writing for two and a half years. I never thought I would write a book, but I had lots of positive feedback from the readers of my blog, so about six months after I returned from my adventure I decided to…
As a cycling instructor, I am frequently asked about helmet use. Many of the comments I hear from frustrated road users conclude with, “and they’re not even wear a helmet!” It seems that most drivers would prefer it if cyclists wore helmets – those who don’t are deemed irresponsible. It’s…
I recently went to the Netherlands on holiday, and was absolutely bowled over by the culture of cycling. I knew that the Dutch are world leaders in cycling, but you have to see it to believe it. Everyone cycles. Young, old, black, white, cool, geeky, students, office workers. Riding a…
I’m standing at the top of a hill in Richmond Park with four new friends, about to embark on a microadventure. The plan is to cycle from the confines of the city until we are surrounded by the Surrey countryside, to eat, drink and be merry, then sleep under the…
If you’re touring, you’ll be on that bike for hours, days, weeks and maybe months at a time. While there’s no such thing as a ‘right’ bike (people tour on town bikes, road bikes, recumbents, mountain bikes, even Bromptons!), it’s important to have a bike that’s right for you. The…