RR - Pedal To Paris 2005

[TimC]

I hope pictures can be reunited with the thread in time! TimC March 2008

What had I done? In a mad moment of over-enthusiasm and misplaced confidence in the power of time to ameliorate the consequences of rash decisions, I had made myself a hostage to fortune and signed up for the Royal British Legion’s Pedal to Paris 2005. It was March, and the ride was so far away I was sure that, somehow, the ability to survive and even thrive on consecutive 80-mile days of cycling would magically imbue itself in me with the minimum of effort on my part.

Of course, it could not, and even I, in all my optimism and naivety, realised that I would have to undergo some training. Over the next few months, with encouragement and cajoling from friends at home and on the acf and other fora, I managed to squeeze some 1400 miles of very pleasurable training into my ridiculously busy – well, just ridiculous actually – lifestyle. Those miles included such highlights as the London to Brighton and London to Southend BHF rides, and the magnificent Dun Run, a 120-mile blast through the countryside of Essex and Suffolk, at night, to arrive at Dunwich beach at first light.



Canary Wharf over the National Maritime Museum

And so I found myself at Greenwich, the National Maritime Museum to be precise, at an outrageously early hour, surrounded by hundreds of other cyclists all preparing for the off. My concern about the adequacy of my own preparation had sharpened somewhat having desperately hung onto the wheel of another P2P rider from the Woolwich barracks, where we’d left our cars, to Greenwich at the frightening average of over 22mph. If this was the standard of these guys, how on earth was I going to keep up? Only 5 miles completed, and already I was drained!

On looking around more carefully, however, I noticed that most of the cyclists didn’t appear to be Tour de France refugees, but, for the most part, were a fairly representative group of various ages and abilities. Oh, there were some racing snakes among them, including Tim who I’d grimly followed from Woolwich, but most looked, well, almost normal.



TimC and Gray at the start

The start was to be from General Wolfe’s statue, outside the Royal Observatory, a good climb up from the museum. After several speeches (which were an ever-present feature of the whole ride), we were set loose for the first stage to Dover, accompanied by a number of cycle and motorcycle police, and with the cheers of a surprising number of spectators giving a suitable sense of occasion to proceedings.

The ride to Dover was almost entirely on the A20, which hadn’t struck me as being a particularly inspiring route, but it was pleasant enough. Stops at the RBL village at Aylesford and lunch at a village sports club at Sellindge broke the ride up nicely. I enjoyed the long descent from Brands Hatch into West Malling, reaching nearly 50 mph on the way down! The climb up wasn’t so good, however – and worse was to come.



The lunch stop at Sellindge

To avoid large groups of cyclists forming and disrupting the traffic, this day’s ride was more or less every man for himself. There were no set times for the stops, so it was fairly easy to hook up with other riders for a while and then, perhaps, take a little longer break and move on to another bunch. However, throughout the day I rode with Gray, a new friend from the acf forum, and, despite his climbing ability being much better than mine, we seemed to be quite well matched on speed. For several miles, we raised the pace to hang on to a small group from the Road Randonneurs club, who seemed a good deal faster than us – as they proved once the road turned uphill again!

In total contrast to the pace of the Randonneurs, I spent a little while talking to a remarkable old chap who was wearing a T-shirt which declared that he’d ridden every one of the 10 P2Ps to date. I learned later that he was 86 years old.

I’d heard through the forum that there was a ‘bit of a hill’ between Folkestone and Dover, and there had been dark rumours about its severity at the various stops. As a lowly Essex lad, hills are a mystery to me – and I would be quite content for them to remain so. Unfortunately, this one was very real. Capel le Ferne is the settlement which the road has to ascend to, and I have to say I wondered why it bothered. Bother it did, though, and hot and bothered was how I felt – especially when I had to give best to the temperature in combination with the 15% gradient and walk the last couple of hundred metres to the top. The sight of several earlier riders consuming blessed pints of essential carbo-fuel at the pub at the top and witnessing my dénouement didn’t help, but I was by then beyond shame.



The pub at the top of Capel le Ferne hill

After a moment’s recovery, we set off for Dover. OK, several moments. Fortunately, the final few miles were downhill, and I revelled in my Cannondale R1000’s remarkable ability to roll faster and further than almost anyone else I met on the ride. My excess weight may have been a factor in this, of course.

We arrived at the sports centre in Dover just in time to get a restorative Stella consumed before moving off to the ferry terminal. The sight of a couple of hundred cyclists queuing for the ferry caused considerable comment from other passengers, and there was much interest shown in our cause. Not as much, I have to say, as we showed in emptying the ship’s bar of all available stocks of beer over the next hour or so, but perhaps that’s enough said about that.



The bar on the ferry - getting seriously depleted!

Our arrival in Calais was accompanied by several riders from the Calais CC, who escorted us to the bike park near the magnificent town hall, from where we repaired in various coaches to our hotels for the night.



Calais Town Hall

Day 2

Once more into the breech – and another start at an ungodly hour. This was so that we could attend a short ceremony at Calais’ war memorial, with a number of French WW2 veterans in attendance, and listen to the spectacular Franglais speech of Russell Thompson, the RBLs Director of Fundraising and Marketing, adding an unexpected degree of levity and surrealism to a moving moment.



Pre-ride al fresco massage!

From this morning, we were divided into speed groups: the slower people (the ‘social’ group) at 10mph average, the medium lot (the ‘antisocials’) at 14mph average, and the fast group (the ‘unmentionables’) at 18 mph. Gray and I, and our new friends, brothers Steve and Tim (there were a lot of Tims on this ride) elected to join the antisocials. We were the last to leave, due to the convoluted logistics of co-ordinating arrivals and departures from lunch stops, which gave us the opportunity to practise our French at the café du gare. The delivery of several items we hadn’t ordered confirmed that we had a long way to go to master the language.



The ceremony of remembrance at the Calais War Memorial

Eventually, we set off – accompanied, to our great delight, by motorcycle outriders and led by a pace vehicle. This was cycling de luxe! In effect, this meant we were cycling on closed roads, and it felt great. The sight of opposite direction traffic pulling onto the grass verge, even on  relatively major roads, gave us an entirely unjustified sense of importance and even superiority. Of course, before long a hill interrupted our fantasies and brought reality uncomfortably back into focus. Despite this, I found the extra incentive provided by riding in a large peloton at a fixed pace made hills relatively easy. Naturally, some weren’t as fleet up the hills as others, but the pace car and outriders knew just how to get everyone back together once the gradient had relented.

Though the weather had lost the glorious sunshine of yesterday, the morning’s riding was sublime, through the wonderful Somme valley, at a comfortable pace, with banter flying back and forth amongst the 150 or so members of the ‘antisocial’ peloton. In fact, antisocial was the last thing it could have been called, and by the lunch stop at Desvres, I felt I’d known many of my companions for considerably longer than the 36 hours we’d been together.



Lunch at Desvres

Lunch brought one of the more delightful surprises of the ride: a bottle of wine for each rider. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was – as was my stomach when it was invaded by the, er, rustic liquor. No matter; the alcohol dimmed the aches of the morning and ensured we set off in good spirits for the afternoon’s exercise.



The fast group (The Unmentionables) leave Desvres

This was just as well, as the hills started straight away. One of the features of the ride is the way it manages to conjure up hills in the flattest part of France. Another curiosity is the way that no-one seemed to know exactly where these hills were; whispered hints and rumours at each stop were all the warning we had, “There’s another big one on this bit.” “Oh? Where?” “You’ll find out….” And, indeed, we did.

Through the afternoon the weather darkened, though our mood never faltered. The countryside was never too challenging, and the pace stayed reasonably high (with occasional stops to gather up the less athletic). Mid way through the afternoon, after a final 25mph blast through the Forest L’Abbaye, we paused to meet up with the ‘socials’ and the ‘unmentionables’ for a group procession into our next destination, Abbeville. At this point, the threatened thunderstorm erupted right over us. Torrential rain attempted to wash away the road surface from underneath our wheels, and the support team from Sidcup Cycles were kept busy swapping wheels on bikes that had been bitten by the detritus. And yet the locals were out in the rain to cheer our arrival!



Leaving Forest L'Abbaye behind the Union Flag toward Abbeville - just before the rain struck!

We arrived at the overnight bike park to an astonished group of RBL staff, who’d avoided the storm completely and were amazed by the bedraggled group of half-drowned rats on bikes that traipsed into the compound. Yet there was hardly a one without a broad smile – 82 miles to add to yesterday’s 81, sore bottoms and legs aplenty (many attacked with diligence by the accompanying physio team), and beer and food in mind…


   

[TimC]

Day 3

The later start promised for today had prompted some hardy individuals to push the limits of bar opening time in their various hotels, and there were accordingly a few red eyes in evidence at breakfast. The fact that none of the buses arrived on time at any of the hotels may have been a coincidence, it may not. As the senior RBL representative was one of the less well individuals, I drew my own conclusions...

We eventually were picked up in sufficient time for that morning's memorial ceremony at the Place Charles De Gaulle to go ahead without too much delay, by which time most heads were recovering. Fortunately, Russell spared us the Franglais thanks to the mayor's excellent English. The mayor, it must be said, had been up some time as he'd earlier flagged off Abbeville's own cyclosportive event, in which 1400 cyclists were to spend the day rushing round Picardy. Our Social group started off toward Beauvais, today's destination, before the memorial ceremony started and at much the same time as the cyclosportive commenced. Was it just me that had a mischievous hope that they'd all got mixed up together?



The ceremony pre-start at Abbeville

We set off immediately behind the Unmentionables, but we didn't see much of them as they rushed off to see if they could up their average to over 20 mph. We weren't so slow ourselves, and the first 25 km or so, being fairly flat, were ridden at a fairly healthy 16-17 mph average. The first real hill strung the field out, so the lead car stopped us near the start of a long descent, in a picnic area beside the road. Funnily enough, it wasn't the magnificent view that preoccupied the majority of the riders - it was the opportunity to relieve the bladder pressure. I did wonder if any of the occupants of the houses in the valley had binoculars. Perhaps a microscope would have been more appropriate?


Morning ablutions!


The morning's ride was superb. Great scenery, excellent company, and even the hills weren't too bad. However, towards lunch time the terrain became significantly more bumpy, and the climb up to the village of Poix de Picardie, our scheduled lunch stop, was a bit hard on tired legs. The lunch venue itself was at the bottom of the hill on the other side of the village. Was I the only hooligan who attempted to get over 45 mph on the way down? I doubt it!

Lunch was excellent, as ever, and the locals were extremely hospitable. The annual invasion of their villages by 270 riders and all the support staff must seriously stretch their facilities, but it's all taken in great heart and we never felt less than very welcome, despite the language barrier. More wine (better today) helped raise enthusiasm for the afternoon, and soon we were off. Of course, the whispers about the afternoon's hill had already started doing the rounds!



Lunch at Poix de Picardie

Inevitably, with such a good descent into the lunch stop, the departure route was uphill. But it didn't seem too bad, and we warmed to the task. After 30 minutes or so of moderate effort, we turned left up a cliff. Well, so it seemed to me. At the top (which I managed without walking) my HAC4 was saying that the maximum gradient had been 25%! I didn't believe it, but it was a great talking point. Later, after the machine had averaged out the spikes, it seemed to settle on a maximum of 20%, but I was still quite impressed with myself!

The climb hadn't finished, but continued steadily until we reached the plateau  on which the battle of Crécy was fought in 1346, when 12,000 English soldiers took on 35,000 French and won – the first indication of the superiority of the longbow over the crossbow in such engagements. Perhaps the sensitivities of the outriders were in the RBL staff’s mind? Whatever, we weren’t given much time to dwell on matters before we were off again.

The descent off the plateau was at a steady pace (boring!) as we had only a short distance to go to the regroup stop at Auchy la Montagne. As we rode into the village we saw several signs welcoming us, but there was no sign of the villagers. Had the light drizzle put them off? As we approached the village hall, we could hear loud music and much hilarity – the entire village had been partying all day to celebrate our arrival. We were, naturally, somewhat at a disadvantage in alcohol terms, but we did our bit to show the Brits could drink in the very short time before all was quiet for another memorial ceremony. The wine took its effect, and you have never heard the Marseillaise sung with such gusto by a bunch of furriners!



Party! And only a few k's to go...

Our stop in Auchy was all too brief and, to the sound of the whole village cheering, we set off for Beauvais, a few brief kilometres away. We attended yet another ceremony (the French do like their ceremonies!), suffered another Franglais speech from Russell, left our bikes at the Fire Station after a short ride through the town shopping area, and repaired to our hotels for some well-earned rest. OK, for some well-earned beer!



Beauvais Memorial Ceremony

Day 4

Many more hangovers evident this morning, as the proximity of Paris and the end of the ride prompted some early celebrations. Some of the conversations at the fire station before departure were truly bizarre. One, which was continued throughout the day, involved the preparation of a novel featuring ‘Lance Mortimer’, and his surreal adventures as a not-very-successful spy-stylee character. I think we spent more time deciding what his car should be (a slightly rusty 1980 Porsche 911) than working on the plot, but it had potential, honest. I have to admit that I was not heavily involved in the discussion, as I spent much time in fits of helpless giggles listening to Dr Bruce, Robert, Steve and Tim work out the details of LM’s life. In fact, helpless giggling seemed to be a major feature of the day.

Lots more speeches this morning, but this time for the staff to thank our French motorcycle outrider team for all their fantastic support, and a couple of other things that I couldn’t hear properly. Or maybe my headache was too loud, I can’t really say.

The ride set off to a gently uphill start, and into the rolling countryside of the Oise region. No rain this morning, which was a bonus. Today’s ride was the shortest of the four days, at just under 60 miles, and we were all determined to enjoy every mile. There wasn't much opportunity for us to really get some speed up today, as the re-group prior to the entry into Paris was quite early in the ride, but the ride through Vigny and Longuesse was very pleasant – and the banter continued down ever more bizarre conceptual alleyways, distracting us from one or two little climbs.



Steve and Tim

The lunch stop, and regrouping point, was in a little village called Menucourt. Before we got there, we suffered a long climb up to a plateau, from which we could see Menucourt. On a bloody hill. A steep one! Well, it seemed steep to me. But, with the whole village seemingly out to cheer us in, this was no time for wimping out, and a heroic honk up the hill at a quite respectable speed left me feeling quite pleased with myself as I entered the grounds of the village hall. Not as pleased, I suspect, as those members of the Coggeshall Massive (the Road Randonneurs) who’d taken over a bar in the village, but nonetheless I was quite satisfied.



Gray and TimC

Lunch was terrific, and the weather was perking up as well. Several more speeches took place while we were eating, none of which I understood, but we clapped and cheered at the appropriate places (I think), and Russell didn’t seem to upset too many of the locals with his unique take on the French language. Perhaps this near to Paris they all speak Franglais?

All too soon the time to leave came, and we lined up once more behind Paul’s recumbent which was flying the Union Flag proudly in the breeze, topped by a miniature Tricoleur. Today, we were to be escorted by several cyclists from Menucourt, and the fact that we were all together ensured that the pace would be on the majestic side of moderate.

The ride from Menucourt was inspiring and magical. Three hundred or so cyclists, escorted by around 12 motorcycles and several support cars and vans, meant that we could not possibly go unnoticed – and the numbers of people out to greet us suggested that the coverage on TV or in the papers had made its mark. As we reached the outskirts of the city, we were joined by a number of the French Gendarmerie to ensure that our progress into the city was unhampered by traffic. That worked! Oh, that worked – what a sensation, riding into one of the largest and most historic cities on earth, past the Longchamps racecourse and through the wonderful Bois du Boulogne, in a huge peloton, being cheered by the locals. Fantastic! Lance himself didn’t have it as good as this; at least we were going slow enough to really enjoy the moment.



Riding through the Bois du Boulogne

There was a final regroup somewhere near the city centre so that we could approach the Arc de Triomph on time and all together. The regroup wasn’t entirely successful as a number of riders thought they’d have time for a quick pee break. They were wrong! A bit of rapid chasing ensued…



Approaching the Arc de Triomph

…and continued right up the Avenue des Armées! For some reason, the planned slow procession up the cobbled rise to the Place Charles De Gaulle turned into a bit of a sprint! For me, that made it even better, as we rushed the hill and burst into the great roundabout round the Arc at some speed, with lots of cheering, horns and general noise surrounding us. What a moment! I don’t think I have ever experienced such a rush in my life, overlaid with emotional recognition of the significance of our cause and the respect in which it is held in this most historically aware city. It’s an Americanism, I know, but it truly deserved the epithet ‘Awesome’!

We gathered in the fenced-off bike park on the perimeter of the Place. There were tears, laughter, excited chatting, rendezvouses with families, hugs, and more than a few riders just standing, looking at the Arc and contemplating what they’d just achieved, and what had been sacrificed by those we were there to remember, and those our fundraising was intended to help. Emotional doesn’t cover it; it was a moment of profound and unusually profitable introspection.




Epilogue

The ceremony of remembrance at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, under the centre of the Arc, was held with much gravitas and suitable respect from all, but it couldn’t match the feelings at our arrival earlier. We became tourists thereafter, taking lots of happy snaps of each other, the Arc, the military band, and the waiting traffic, being held by the police for our perambulatory return to our bicycles, straight across the busiest bit of road in all France!

We remounted and proceeded in something of a daze to the Hotel Des Invalides, where our bikes were swiftly packed away into the trucks that would return them to England. We were then bussed to our hotel for the evening’s celebrations.

Do I give the impression of anti-climax? I should; that’s how it felt. The real celebration had been at the Arc, the evening’s events were friendly, fun and suitably alcoholic, but we were already mentally saying goodbye to each other and preparing to return to real life. It was over, at least for most of us. A hardy thirty or so were to ride back to England via Amiens and Dieppe, but they’ll have to tell their own story.

As for me, I have so many happy memories of this ride. The wonderful humour, the companionship, the sensation of blasting through tree-lined roads uncaring of traffic, the ever-present welcome by the French, Russell’s Franglais, the working of tired muscles, the wonderful descending on my R1000, and so many other things I can’t remember at this very moment.

Would I do it again? In a flash – but it would depend on the dates. Our arrival in Paris coincided with my daughter’s birthday, and it was the first time in her life I’d missed it. I know that caused her much distress – and I know she’ll have to get used to it! But I felt more than a little guilty that I’d used one of the very few periods of guaranteed time off I get for the selfish pursuit of my own pleasure. But it was for the Poppy Appeal, wasn’t it? Yeah, right….!

Before I finish, I must thank Nick Hanmer (the organiser-in-chief), all his staff - especially John and Tiggy, Russell, and the rest of the RBL people, Sidcup Cycles, the French outriders, and so many other people! You were all great. Yes, I know this is a pathetic excuse for a thankyou, but I do really mean it.

P.S. The ‘phone story will, for now, remain untold to cover my embarrassment. Suffice to say I can personally vouch for the strength and longevity of the Motorola V3 mobile telephone…

Tim Collins



More pictures are available here.