As it's nearly Easter Arrow time, here's a blast from the past - 1990 to be precise. Before York Easter Arrows were recognised, you had to go to France for your Brevet 5000 counter. Much more fun.
PLEASURES OF THE FLECHEor ...
Don't trust a tipsy trikie "I don't core how cold it is, this is the South of France, so I'm wearing shorts," said Mike, taking off his longs. The rest of us stood by and waited for the seconds to tick away. As the clock struck nine, we set off into the crisp April morning, weaving our way through the morning traffic of Bourg-en-Bresse. Not long afterwards we were heading south through undulating countryside east of Lyon.Mike's decision seemed wise as the sun rose higher in a cloudless sky, and the early morning chill soon disappeared. The going was ridiculously easy as we chatted and swapped jokes. Our itinerary in this Fleche Velocio called for a 24 hour 383 kilometre ride to the town of Cadenet, surely well within the capabilities of such a team of hardened randonneurs. For our team included LEL veterans Gerald Parsons and Peter Gifford, DATC star Neil Clark, and Mike Farrington, whom I had first met in the middle of a foggy night on Mick Latimer's Wessex 400 . Not forgetting Bob, though we wished we could have done.
So nonchalant were we that we put in an unscheduled coffee stop at Meximieux after only 35k. Only Gerald questioned the wisdom of our extracurricular refreshments, reasoning that we would be more grateful of spare time later on in the ride.
Despite the extra coffee stop, we were dead on schedule at Cremieu, the first control, and a supermarket gave us the chance to have our cards stamped and to stock up with food. It was here that Pete fancied a drink of milk and learned that litre-sized cartons with arabic writing should be avoided if you're after a normal pasteurised pinta.
By now the weather was really warming up, and a couple of pairs of knees got their first airing of the year as longs were packed away in saddlebags. The sunny weather almost seemed to brighten up Bob's dismal disposition, although I may have been mistaken.
Meanwhile, a group of workmen had gathered round Pete's trike. All questions were routed through me as the team's makeshift interpreter. Was it heavy? Was it easy to ride? Was it homemade? Was its owner deficient in any particular faculty? I dealt with these and other such questions with ease, as the gleaming red Longstaff had attracted much attention since our arrival at Calais. One cafe owner had insisted on riding it round his establishment, and indeed had exhibited a rare skill in avoiding tables, chairs, and regulars.
With most of us suitably refreshed, we set off once again, and were soon rolling along the D75 towards Vienne and the river Rhone. We were not the only ones. Half of Switzerland seemed to be heading in the same direction. Swiss jeeps, motorbikes, and cars overtook us again and again.
Now the cloud was building up, and the wind, though light, was blowing against us. Doing one's turn at the front was now a moral duty, only the notorious wheelsucker Rob failing to do his bit.
By the time we reached Vienne, the traffic had come to a standstill in the narrow streets, but we found no difficulty slipping through, passing Swiss jeeps, cars and motorbikes. Our planned route, submitted months previously, had been designed to be flat and easy, with long stretches by the river Rhone. We were now due for a 50k stretch of the Route Nationale 7 (N7). And sure enough, there it was.
Turning left at a busy junction, we were confronted by a large and unequivocal 'No Cycling' sign. But did it refer to the road or the riverside path? We stood and pondered. After some discussion Captain 'Kirk' Gifford decreed, with the wisdom of Solomon, that we should divide ourselves between the road and the path. That way at least some of us would not be breaking the law. But the path soon petered out, so we were all on the road. Five kilometres later we passed a sign signifying the end of the 'Motor Vehicles Only' zone. Ah well, we'd know next time.
We were now well and truly on the N7, a main road running parallel to the autoroute. We had hoped that the heavy long-distance traffic would be attracted onto the autoroute, leaving us a relatively quiet road. How wrong we were. The tolls on the autoroute meant that the holiday traffic and juggernauts were thundering down the single-carriageway N7 without a thought for the hapless team of British cyclists riding in the grit and dust of the hard shoulder. If that were not enough, the plucky band found progress into the strengthening wind harder and harder. It was as much as we could do to keep up a speed of 11 to 12mph.
I recalled the words of experienced Flèchard Alan Sturk, who had told me, "Once the Mistral gets going, you'll do 20 mph without pedalling." The Mistral seemed to have lost its sense of direction. Our only consolation was that the thunder of the traffic and the wind in our ears drowned the incessant whinging and moaning of the insufferable Bob.
After an eternity, we rolled into Tain l'Hermitage, our second control. A handy cafe saw to our immediate needs, and as darkness would soon be failing, we stocked up on bonk rations in a supermarket. I bought a packet of chocolate chip cookies, and stuffed it into my saddlebag.
From here our route left the N7, and a pleasant stretch brought us to Romans-sur-Isere, and another cafe. Here Gerald found out that 'chips' on the menu were not chips, but eventually we were all well nourished.
Swinging south again, we set off into the gathering gloom, stopping only to see to lights and put on warm clothing, before reaching Crest at 10.30pm. The late-shift ticket clerk at the station stamped our cards, then came out to inspect the weird three-wheeled contraption parked in the station forecourt. I prepared my stock set of answers.
However, he was not satisfied with my standard flippant explanation that its rider suffered from mental rather than physical instability. Pete's own explanation that he could consume as much ale as he wanted without failing off into the ditch seemed more plausible to my interrogator. Further grilling on the subject of the three-wheeler left me pondering the inadequacies of the British educational system. Why, oh why doesn't the A-level French syllabus insist on an ability to discuss everyday topics of conversation, such as the inner workings of the Longstaff patent non-slip differential?
Our route now took us westward, and soon we found ourselves turning south once again onto the dreaded N7. Now, however, it was virtually deserted, with just the odd juggernaut thundering past with vast arrays of headlights blazing, but giving us a wide berth. Perhaps the closely packed group of lights and reflective strips were difficult to identify.
On the stroke of midnight we reached Montelimar, and rested on the forecourt of a drive-in nougat showroom. This was the cue for Pete to recall a conversation which had taken place in the Gifford household before his departure:
Jenny Gifford: I see you're going through Montelimar. Will you bring me back some toffee?
Peter Gifford: No, but we're going through Crest. I’ll bring you some toothpaste. Boom, boom.Our rest was cut short when we were chased off by the dressing-gown-clad proprietor, whose gender was the subject of debate for some miles.
The wind had not abated significantly, and as we passed through the centre of Montelimar we began to feel spots of rain. Soon it was time to extract waterproofs from the depths of our saddlebags. From now on the rain got heavier and heavier.
As the downpour persisted into the small hours a further problem became apparent. Different riders find their own solutions to the problem of sleepiness on long rides. I prefer to stop for short naps under trees and in bus shelters. Others like to plod on without stopping. Both of these extremes were represented in the team, but it was imperative that we stuck together. I stifled yawns, and longed to curl up under a tree, but we pressed on together into the rainy night along the flat, dead-straight road.
As we splashed along, my mind wandered back to a windy January Sunday, when I had ridden the Wassailing 100k, bumping into Peter Gifford at the cider pub control. He had been there some time, but nevertheless managed to explain that his team for the Flèche Velocio was a man short. As my arrangements for Easter had fallen through, I volunteered my services and was accepted. I swear I could hear the snores of Dave Kiernan, whose place I had taken, and who would now be slumbering in a warm DRY bed, blissfully unaware of what he was missing.
MY reverie was shattered by the sound of Peter singing "Oh what a beautiful morning", but as no-one would join in he fell silent. Later he gave a solo rendition of 'The Randonneur Song' to the tune of Monty Python s Lumberjack song:
"I'm a randonneur, and I'm alright,
I ride all day and I ride all night,
I ride in the rain, I ride in the sun,
And end up with a sore bum."The fruitless search for a more satisfactory last line occupied my mind for a time, but of greater concern was the physical discomfort of cold sodden feet, soggy tights, a tired body, and a damp patch where the rain was penetrating the front of my jacket.
We paused for a breather under a bridge, and gazed into the darkness. The rain bounced up off the tarmac. Puddles stretched across the road. Memories of the 1987 Elenith came flooding back, and I consoled myself with the thought that this ride was flat.
The next control on our cards was Orange. As we approached the town at 3am a flashing orange lamp attracted our attention despite the torrential downpour. In a bus shelter sat a secret controller, who signed our sodden cards and commiserated with us. I remarked that it wasn't particularly pleasant for him, but he shrugged his shoulders and said, "C'est mon métier". A professional secret controller? AUK still has a long way to go, obviously.
I optimistically asked if there was anywhere we might get a cup of coffee, at which he jumped into his car and led us through the dark streets to a Salon de Thé which was miraculously still (or already) open. Gerald ordered large coffees all round, and such was his sign language that it was served in bowls. I'm sure it would have come in buckets had they been available. Our controller said that only one other team had come through, and they had been hopelessly out of time, whereas we had a little in hand.
We had made ourselves comfortable when another customer walked in. Dressed in a khaki uniform with impressive braid, and carrying an immaculate white kepi, he sat down at a table near us and sipped his tea. Hearing us speak, he looked up, and with an accent more Sheffield than Champagne, asked, "Eh oop, are you lads English?" it turned out he was a foreign legionnaire from Yorkshire, and remembered riding with the Bridlington Wheelers (or was it Beverley?).
After more coffee, cakes, conversation, and for some, sleep, it was time for us to leave. And when Bob had got himself sorted out, we did so. The lengthy rest had been welcome, but we were now behind schedule.
The downpour continued, but the wind was now blown out. Passing through a village on the road to Carpentras, we spotted a car by the roadside and two figures waving their arms. Surely not another secret control? Indeed not, these were damsels in distress and a car which wouldn't start. Some expert advice from Mike and a mighty heave from Gerald and they were on their way into the glistening black night. We still had time to make up.
On we sped through Carpentras, where the streets were flooded, and on towards Cavaillon. The sky lightened in the east, the cock crowed, and the rain became a drizzle. At last the wet night was at an end.
We entered Cavaillon exactly on time at 6.50, and allowed ourselves ten minutes before tackling the last leg. There was a further delay for a puncture but we thought we had plenty of time. However, the previous twenty-two hours' exertions had taken their toll, and the road was not as flat as expected. Gerald wanted to eat, but didn't want to lose time finding his rations. I remembered my chocolate chip cookies, and handed him a couple. Within seconds he asked if we would mind if he went a little faster.
Mike and Pete stopped to answer a call of nature, Neil went ahead, and it was anybody's guess where Bob was. For the first time in the ride the team had split up, but we pedalled on, closing in painfully slowly on our goal, and the time available was slipping away. We were very close, but the nine o’clock deadline began to look doubtful. Each kilometre seemed to take an eternity.
But with one kilometre to go we regrouped, and Gerald led us past the town sign of Cadenet with two minutes to spare. Once in the town centre, we burst into the Bar Mirabeau and gave our cards to the patron to stamp, just as the clock was striking nine o'clock. It was all over.
We sank into chairs, congratulated each other, and considered the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Even Bob stopped his tiresome moaning. Whilst not a ride to rank amongst great athletic achievements, it had nevertheless been an adventure which would not easily be forgotten. And a fund of anecdotes to be wheeled out in cafe controls for seasons to come.
FOOTNOTE: Eagle-eyed readers will have noted that, while the rules for the Fleche Velocio specify a maximum of five members, our team had six. However, a little-known sub-paragraph allows a sixth member to be specified (in our case, Bob) so long as he is no more than a figment of the collective imagination of the rest of the team.
At the Bar Mirabeau after the finish. L-R Mike (standing in AUK jersey), Gerald (sitting, in black), Pete (AUK jersey, facing camera), some bloke or other (yellow jacket).
