DAY 1
Friday morning, and after days of staring at maps and at weather forecasts it’s time to go. The forecast was pretty evil, so we thought we’d delay our start by a couple of hours to let the worst of the storm pass. This meant for a nicer, lazier, start to the day, which surely helps when you have 350km ahead of you.
The meet point and start point is Trafalgar Square – all the road signs in Britain signposted to London give the distance to Charing Cross, which is basically Trafalgar Square. So it feels like an appropriately central point to kick off from. The first logistical question is how to get to the start line. Some of us travel by taxi, thinking that we don’t want to start off wet and tired; others decide to cycle. Why they think there’s any reason to cycle in rush-hour north London for an hour is beyond me.
After a few photos it’s time to hit the road. The weather is dry and we’re feeling good. It doesn’t take long for the weather to turn against us, and as we head out through Lambeth, Brixton and Stockwell the drizzle turns to a downpour. Add to this the grim traffic of the A23 – and some of our riders aren’t so familiar with riding amongst the buses and the white vans which make progress a little more cautious – and the undelightful scenery of fried chicken shops, more fried chicken shops and even more fried chicken shops, and the mood on the road isn’t perhaps as high as when we set out. We are soaked as we leave the main road and head through Mitchum, but the rain eases a bit and we hit some greenery. Mitchum Common. A feeling of relief, which is short-lived as we discover we are cycling straight past a sewage plant, whose rancid odours make me wonder how the Tesco across the road ever manages to sell anything.
We push on through dreary South London suburbs, until a sudden release as we cross the A23 in Coulsdon and get on to Farthing Downs, the real start of the North Downs and a hugely enjoyable climb up through wildflowers. I hadn’t considered, in my role as navigator, that people might be put off cycling across the cattle grid – fortunately everyone made it without slipping in.
From here everything improved apart from our pace, hampered by a couple of punctures for Brendan, a couple of pee stops, some navigational moments and a chocolate buying stop in Bletchingly. And it was here we saw our last shower. We rocketed on from Bletchingly on a nice, straightish, gently downhill road that allowed us to build up some decent speed, heading under the Gatwick flight-path and (after a little navigational error sent us on a nasty main road for a couple of miles) towards Turners Hill.
Turners Hill has a bit of a reputation, and one that is well deserved, as a bit of a brute of a climb when you’re not really expecting one, stuck between the North and South Downs. So as we got to the top, absolutely knackered, everyone felt justified in popping in to the pub for a big lunch. It was here that I got to see how well my new, waterproof overshoes had fared – they seemed very successful the previous day on the 2 miles from Wandsworth Town to Wandsworth Common, but 40 miles in a downpour showed them to be imperfect and my feet were as soaked as everyone else’s.
With full stomachs and the sun starting to shine, we pushed on, a hugely enjoyable stretch past Hayward’s Heath, and then through Wivelsfield and some lovely back roads in to Lewes. We’d been riding very slowly by this point, and with interruptions that meant we were heading in to town in rush hour, which, with a couple of short hills on a tired legs, meant there was a little whining from somewhere in the peloton. But we were nearly at the end and a little descent in to Newhaven and a pleasant tailwind meant we arrived at the campsite with tired thighs but in good shape.
We were in even better shape moments later when we found Debbie and Jim and an entire camp set up, food ready for us and beer cans being helpfully handed out by the younger members of the team. I really can’t thank Debbie and Jim enough for all their work, doing all the tedious parts of camping and making life much, much easier for us; feeding us, watering us, being hugely helpful and when, perhaps, some of the team were a little grumpy with their sore backsides and thighs, being a cheerful presence that lifted everyone again.
The night finished with a visit to the bar on the campsite, where I was left wondering who exactly are the people who go on holiday to stay in caravan parks on the south coast. The bar was full of bulldogs and Chelsea tattoos: is this the kind of place that has all of Winston Churchill’s speeches on their ipod? In the rest of my life, I don’t think I ever meet these people. Not even at football matches. I just don’t know what they do the rest of the time.
Well watered, we headed for our tents. The first night in a tent is never the best for sleeping, but eventually the 100 (or 120)km in our legs knocked everyone out, ready for a very early start for the Newhaven Ferry. The ferry itself left at the entirely reasonable time of 9:30, but given that we needed to break down camp, pack everything in to the van, cycle to the terminal, and meet with the second support vehicle (along with 4 extra children), we had to be up and moving not long after the dawn.
DAY 2
On a personal note, day 2 started a little trickily, as most of my clothes were in support car 2, hidden at the bottom of a huge pile of stuff and pretty much completely inaccessible. So I steeled myself for a day without padded shorts and an increasingly sore behind. And because of my own organisational ineptitude, there was no space for myself or my bike on the boat, so it had to be attached to the back of the van, and I had to pile into the narrow space of the van, amongst the tents, kids, food and so on. Still, we all made it on, the boat seeming to be half-full of cyclists: is it the crossing of choice for pedallers? Even for riders who aren’t heading to Paris? It seemed to be.
4 hours of relaxation and eating, very welcome after the first day’s push. I spent most of the time on deck, reading, in the sun. The only thing of note that happened was, very surprisingly, the boat getting buzzed by a small private jet.
Once off the boat we took a gentle tour through the centre of Dieppe, a fairly quiet port and fishing town, where we were quickly on the outskirts and found our way to the Avenue Verte: this is the old Paris-Dieppe rail line, which has been converted into multi-use pathway. But unlike a lot of UK multi-use stuff, this was paved, well maintained, signposted and treated almost like a roadway, and was a delight to cycle on even with a proper road bike. The equivalent stuff in the UK is often much shorter and covered with gravelly asphalt and fine on a mountain or hybrid bike but nasty on narrow, slick tires.
Before we started on it, somebody (Rob, I think) decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have an emergency beer; after another 15km, Rob and Brendan vanished in to a local village and returned with more emergency beers: I think this was the first time I’ve ever ridden with a beer in my hand. How have I got to being 40 without ever doing that before? Many thanks, guys, for introducing me to an exciting new experience...
We rolled into camp after a short, 40km day, to find almost everything set up again (Debbie and Jim continued to be rock-stars for us), and we’re feeling good for the evening. Just as I start to head off to the shower, I am in for a real shock. A car drives around the campsite, and who do I see leaning out of the window? It’s my wife, who’s meant to be going out to dinner in London. I’m afraid I was in a bit of shock and rather gracelessly said “What are you doing here?” I may not have sounded delighted, but I certainly was. Even more so as I discovered I was being driven off to a hotel, with a real bed, and a 3 course meal, and a shower that wasn’t run on a push button.
DAY 3
The third morning rolled around, and after a huge breakfast and a great night’s sleep I’m all bright and refreshed as we head back to the campsite. We find that not everyone is quite as bushy-tailed after a big night on the wine where Rob in particular seems to have been on fine form.
The good thing here is that the Avenue Verte continues for another 15km from Nuefchatel-en-Bray on to Forges-les-Eaux, allowing us a gentle warm up. The one of the great things about this stretch is seeing all the elements of the former railway line: we go past barriers and platforms, and at one signal Michael decides to climb up to get a view. Somewhere along this route, Amy has been telling me about the blueberries and how big they are. I tell her they are, in fact, sloes. Before I can warn her that they’re just about the sharpest tasting berry on the planet, she’s eating one (how she never poisoned herself in South Africa, I don’t know...). Sadly, I was the only one to see the grimace.
It’s at Forges that we start to come unravelled a little, as Rob taps Aiza’s wheel on a sharpish corner, causing her to fall. This would be bad enough even if she hadn’t fallen into a large patch of stinging nettles. Then, as we head into the centre of town, we have a couple of other problems. Michael has his first fall, forgetting to unclip from his pedals despite being in slow traffic in the middle of town. Fortunately he’s fine. As everyone stands around in town looking at the various dramas going on: we saw a car shunt, a horde of drunks hanging out of windows, and the local fire brigade swarm past, I try and work out the navigation: Unfortunately, I’m in a blind corner between two maps so I ask a couple of locals for directions. The first shrugs her shoulders. The second tells me I should ask in the information office that’s been quietly sitting right behind me for 5 minutes. Slightly red-faced, I sneak in and get a little local map.
And now we’re out on the proper French roads. They are lovely to ride, wide and sweeping, and when you’re in the hills they climb slowly and descend slowly so you can get fantastic speed up. There’s very little traffic and what traffic there is treats you with much more respect than any British driver ever does. That means that they honk their horn to warn you they’re coming past (not, as Rob seemed to think, to tell you to get out of their way), they wait patiently for a gap, and when they go past they leave you a ton of room.
My navigation out of Forges may have been slightly off, but we do end up on the right road, and in the pretty, pretty little village of Fontenay-Torcy we meet up with Beth who has provided us with a fantastic lunch of French-supermarket delicacies, all laid out in the local bus shelter.
Refuelled, we carry on in great shape heading towards our third overnight. This is a lovely day’s riding in great weather: dry, a bit sunny but not too hot. As we approach Beauvais, Beth repeatedly drives ahead to take photos. It’s great to see her so often and have the support. We cut around the north of the town to try and find our way past the airport. We end up at the departure terminal and after a little bit of time staring at the maps decide to find a different route through. A winding few turns and we see Beth once more up ahead on a tiny road, taking pictures. We get ourselves into a formation and ride towards her. Just as she’s about to take the perfect picture, the only car for 30 minutes on this road comes towards us and breaks us up. We slow down to say hello once more, and it’s at this point that Aiza takes her second tumble. This time apparently just not bothered to stay upright any more.
From here, Beth uses the TomTom to guide us in to Bresles where we stay for the night, in one of the weirdest (and least salubrious) campsites I’ve ever been in. The effects of the previous night’s drinking and now 3 days in the saddle mean it’s an early finish for everyone, ready to head to Paris on day 4.
DAY 4
We start out on Monday with a young friend who actually knows what he’s doing and where he’s going: he’s travelling the hard way, 150km or more a day, carrying all his own gear, tent and so on, and he’s been on the road for two weeks. Aiza struggles over the first few kms, feeling the effects of her falls, but as we lose our companion she seems to hit her stride. Once more on lovely open French roads we continue to make good progress, although the traffic is clearly getting heavier the closer we get to Paris.
We head through Gouvieux towards Viarmes, and it is here we make a bad decision. There’s an OK looking supermarket at the end of town, but we head in to find the local boulangerie. Surely a good choice? We’re all in the shop getting our hands on some tasty ham baguettes when we hear a call from outside and see Michael sitting on a step slowly turning the same green colour as his shirt. We learn over the course of the next couple of hours what’s happened. He’s cycled ahead even though we’re all stopping, circled back, and circled back once more, without once unclipping from his pedals. On this third return a couple of cars pull out by surprise, he hammers on the brakes and slowly starts to fall.
Unlike previous falls, this one isn’t harmless and the shoulder is dislocated.
We are lucky that, within 30 second, the local fireman is heading past and he pulls in and has a look, calls his colleagues and an ambulance appears quickly. After some translational problems, Michael and Amy head off to French A&E, and we’re left 5 people with 7 bikes. Back at the supermarket on the edge of town, we wait for the support vehicles to come to our rescue. After a relaxing slouch in the sun where I make my way through more chocolate than is reasonable, things begin to resolve. Michael is returned from hospital, but forbidden from using his arm for three weeks, his bike is fixed to the back of the van, and he gets in with the kids for the drive to Paris. Apparently the doctor just pulled and twisted and the arm popped back in. I don’t think this means that anyone can do this.
One hospital delay was caused by having to pay for treatment. This should be a reminder to everyone to get an EHIC. It gives you reciprocal health treatment across the EU: you get treated the same as a German would in Germany, and they get to use the NHS like a Brit would. This is for all EU residents (not just citizens), and the odds are your travel insurance won’t cover anything covered under the EHIC. It’s free. It’s simple. Get one. (And those that have one, check that it’s not expired).
Team reduced by one member, we head onwards towards Paris. Not long out of Viarmes we hit our next problem: we arrive at a junction where the previous turn-off didn’t exist and where every road out is a cars-only motorway. We take our lives into our hands and head off down one for 300m to the first exit. This is possibly the scariest cycling I’ve ever done, beating Hyde Park Corner and Arc de Triomphe. Fortunately it passes very quickly and we end up in an ugly industrial estate. After a bit of poking around, we find some bike route signposted to Paris (why do we see this only once, 30km from the centre of the city?), and head out and through the Montmorency forest. A couple of hills here prove particularly challenging on tired legs, but not as challenging as what is to come.
The outskirts of Paris are a navigational nightmare that get worse the closer in you get; and the banlieu suburbs are as nasty and scary as all the mythology suggests. Even worse, the planned route in along the Seine seems to be out of the question as the tow-path looks gravelly and cobbly, rather than nice and paved, so we head on the main road through the ugly and tricky suburbs of Genevilliers and Clichy and finally into Paris proper. Then, with some slightly hair-rising riding amongst mad Paris drivers and along the cobble stones we make it (with one fall for Rob) to the Arc de Triomphe, and then down to the Eiffel Tower, our final destination point. Success and a well earned beer before another tricky ride through town to the hotel by Gare de Nord.
But we’ve done it. We’ve made it to Paris. Alive. Under our own steam. Well, almost all of us. As it happens, Michael missed out only on the ugliest, hardest, least pleasant section and had already done all the enjoyable stuff. If it weren’t for the excruciating pain, he might have actually done better than us.
It was time for everyone to head out for some celebratory drinks.
Thanks to team Caramba: Claire, Amy, Rob, Aiza, Michael, Brendan and (me) Andy. Huge thanks to the support team of Debbie and Jim. Massive thanks to Junior support from Kyla, Jessica, Tatum, Regan, Josh and Charlie. Thanks to senior support from Jeanette (I’m sure I’ve spelled that wrong) and Bill. And thanks to my personal support team of Beth, who popped up out of nowhere to make my journey hugely more comfortable, but always immensely more enjoyable because I shared it with you. Couldn’t have done it without any of you guys.
Now, where next?
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