Steak, Saignant

There's a connection between the chapter that begins today and the chapter that opened and closed on Friday 1st September: the latter was a sticking plaster, and this is the invasive surgery.

Here is the “report” from that deranged day, reproduced in full technicolor (read: inline photos). It should have been edited, but I've run out of time.

I have a confession.


I did this for me.


10 weeks earlier I was at the lowest I’ve ever been. In 2014 Jason Mavrotas and I had taken part in Scope’s London to Paris in 24 Hours and I’d been intending to organise a group to tackle the same route with the Eurotunnel modification. Could going solo and attempting it at the earliest available date provide the perfect focus, a distraction for the mind? It worked. For 24 hours. The next morning, having barely slept, I collapsed in a heap over a bowl of cornflakes. Melissa took me to the beach. Having three sisters can be a pain in the ass. They can also be just what you need.


It was only later that it became a charitable endeavour and so, “Which charity?”


In the summer of 2012 Rufus, Chuck and I cycled the length of Britain, covering 998 miles from Land’s End to John o’Groats. Our main choice of charity was made with some basic logic, casting about for some link no matter how tenuous to justify a JustGiving page and that added motivation when the going got tough (it rained for the first three days straight, I swear we developed webbed feet). Scope was selected. With a dollop of happenstance and a teaspoon of intention we adopted Mandeville as our mascot, of London Paralympics’ fame, and flew by Much Wenlock after which the the Olympics’ mascot was named, on our first big cycling challenge and adventure - for it was certainly both, and even then we had parents as support crew: we stayed at Great Campston, home until last October when we bid it goodbye, and Rufus’ parents, Oli and Sue, met us south of Glasgow and stayed overnight in the boot of their people carrier being eaten alive by midges. Chuck’s dad, Paul, had threatened to join us on his motorbike; I don’t know where that conversation ended, but a thunderous petrol engine may not have been the company of choice.

Scope. That was how I first noticed the London to Paris in 24 Hours challenge. (It was also advertised on the tube, meaning it was a thing.)

We have a route and a date. We’re finding a cause. We’re missing the support.

June 2021. Rosalind fancied a domestic cycling trip. She proposed the North Coast 500. Conceived more for motorists than their human-powered nemeses, there was at least one hairy moment in store. With her godmother’s son, Freddie, our age, being afflicted by a brain tumour it felt like we could make this a challenge and cycle the 500 miles in a poetic 5 days. Type I fun had morphed to Type II: we would derive happiness from the fundraising for The Brain Tumour Charity, and the idea of it in hindsight through rose-tinted Oakleys. And our mum, Chantal, was keen on the idea of supporting with a campervan to enable flexibility. In 2012 we’d killed ourselves to make our destination each day: particularly memorably we made it in the knick of time one evening to catch the Olympics 200m final which Usain “You thought Usain’d it all before” Bolt destroyed, easing up in the closing metres. Rosalind and I were fortunate to have such support and it was boosted by Rufus and Harry for the first three days, the real toughies. And mum’s visionary ginger bread with parmesan snack fuelled us through the headwind and rain.

With mum on board, the Eurotunnel was a-go with full flexibility. Papa would join and they’d make a trip of it, driving on for a holiday afterwards. We’d see Oscar and Victoria and bebe Alvar and wander Paris for a weekend.

Now you just have to go out there and do it.

A cause helps. Big time. I would have given up if it weren’t for the belief of all of you. Or perhaps the entertainment. It turned into a bloodsport. Maybe you like that. I don’t know. But we all love Gladiator.

Rosanna’s dad fought brain cancer. This time the hospice that cared for him, St Columba’s, would be the lantern guiding the way. They also cared for another friend’s parent, which I later learnt.

Scope, 2014, The Brain Tumour Charity, London to Paris take 2. A light thread loosely connecting, not tying.

It was shit.

Type III fun. It wasn’t fun at the time. It wasn’t fun in retrospect. The weather does that.

Even reaching the start line turned into a mini cauchemar. I was going to cycle to Blackheath – I had a hotel room booked for Thursday’s short night – but it was forecast to rain and I didn’t fancy squeezing back on soggy clothing in the small hours. Blackheath is not “next door”. Nightmare. In the end I drove down in a Zipcar, an electric Golf that I struggled to even start (I mean, c’mon, it’s ridiculous), and all the while down I was looking out at these dry roads decrying the traffic and it eating away at my sleep and stress.

1am I wake. Success. Sleep had been sound. Kettle on. Instant porridge, electrolyte and Nescafe Original. Game on. Garmin on.

Garmin freezes.

Garmin off. Garmin on. Garmin works.

02:08 no starting gun. Instagram live for the first time I had no clue what I was doing. Mini was awake and tuned in. How embarrassing, but I saved it as a reel, whatever that is. I’d really wanted to figure out a lot of this stuff beforehand, but just hadn’t; another thing I later realised is I’d forgotten extra water bottles in the jersey pockets so all I had was not even 1.5 litres for the first 125km / 4.5 hours. But Louis and I had recconed the UK route a fortnight before, so despite the dark and the rain affecting visibility I had some clue what would be where. Not that that prevented a fox attempting to take me out. Nor the paved turning in Bexley; it’s a real rush when your wheel jams between the slabs… you should try it never.

Friends have asked what I like to listen to whilst cycling. I don’t. Rufus is the same: we’ve never had earphones in ever during all our days and weeks riding bikes together, although around Vancouver last August we did dangle a speaker off the back of a bike playing Harry Styles’ Music for a Sushi Restaurant and Kanye West’s Good Morning on repeat. Mini was horrified, “Without music I replay situations in my head and I get angrier and angrier!” She completed the Marathon des Sables this year so she knows what she’s talking about, but that’s just her experience and maybe running is different. Swimming is similarly unrelenting to running but I think it more closely resembles cycling as regards thoughts: “This is lap 1, now 2, on 2, 2… 14, it’s 14, where was I?… 16, 16, no! It can’t be, this is 15, yeah, or 17? Ah, fuck it, call it 15, right 15, tumble, water in nose, 16.” You hurt yourself and it’s meditative. I honestly can’t remember what I thought about when that whole day pedalling to Paris. I know that I thought about cramp, about hydration, about my joints, my seat position. Did I contemplate life? Did I dream? Yeah. There was a brief moment when I started crying, and had to stop myself; it’s not a good idea to weaken yourself with emotion only halfway in! I know why I was crying but that’s all I can remember about that day’s thoughts. Rufus said the same, “Afterwards I can’t say what I was thinking.”

The scenery was largely forgettable for 407km.

Memorable: The dense fog patches snaking into The Downs below me during the muted, drizzle-backed sunrise like an analogue TV’s inter-channel static. The various Maries and gated, courtyard-mandatory noble houses in all villages and towns. Having finally escaped the rain in the early afternoon, looking back and seeing the distinct line separating dark from light, hell from not-quite-hell. (It wasn’t until 3pm that Frevent finally deigned to make itself known and with it lunch, a tasty baguette picked up my mum and dad. They were exceptional at meeting me on the route, and keeping me to time without rushing.)

The wind turbines pointed into the wind, into the direction I was headed as unnecessary reminders of the pain (and France’s failure to renew its nuclear power plants). Dinner at a picnic table in L’Estoc: 300km down, 6:40pm, and it was peaceful, the three of us sat there, the parents having sourced a delicious tart and salads for me, nothing for themselves (they would skip dinner in service to this madness). The shallow and sheltered valley soon after that lent itself to high speeds and the creation of snot rockets to clear the system: I had the road to myself and it was beautiful, a small wood to my left resting on the bank, open green fields to my right broken by a small river or stream before the rise on the opposing side, it was a small canyon of sorts. The Garmin directed me to take an “unpaved road” up the steep slope out of the canyon. “No thank you, I’ve had my fill of farm track today.” And then nightfall. It wasn’t a spectacular sunset - far from competition to that on the JustGiving page - though it could have been with my Oakley’s rose-tinted lens, those Oakleys left long behind in the Folkestone Premier Inn. My eyes full of flies and sweat and pointless sunscreen, the night relieved me with some cooler, clearer air and now I could see the smudged glow of a capital’s inverted shadow resting low and long above the horizon. Suddenly you’ve crested the final brow and you can see the source, stretching all out before you, complete with toy planes off to the left rising and circling in slow motion, held aloft by unseen hands, and you’re still cycling through fields. There are no hedgerows from Calais to Paris. There are avenues of Plane trees. The D928 and its avenued kilometres, descending at a shallow gradient you’re free to roll at speed and admire the orangey light silhouetting the trees, peaking out below their crowns and appearing in a line between them, guiding you to your landing. That was magical. If you turned your head to the side you no longer had the wind in your ears, instead it was a quiet only subtly disturbed by the wheel hub’s calm “brrrr” to send shivers down the spine.

You hit the first house and you think you’re almost there and allow yourself to believe that 400km on the nose is the distance. It’s not. It becomes torture and with half an hour remaining on the clock the double dose of Neurofen has me unable to drink: I have heartburn. Did we say I’d message when I’m an hour out? Do I even know when I’m an hour away? Or did we say midnight but be there at least half an hour before? I need the loo and stop at a bus shelter. The suburbs are quiet and so are the wide roads. My calves don’t enjoy the slight bumps of the earth, but at least the drugs have eased my knee. At a set of lights a car draws up beside, “Avez-vous un gilet a porter? Je ne pouvais pas vous voir.” I’m a little confused. Does my rear light not work? I fiddle with it. “Un gilet?” Ah! I’m wearing a dark top, of course. On goes Rufus’ now ripped fluorescent semi-waterproof, a casualty of the crash.

The crash. 200km earlier. In the rain. The narrow, sharp speed bumps forged into fresh tarmac, all black, no markings. Bump. Smooth. Bump. If I were Louis I’d been bunny-hopping but I can’t and I daren’t start now. Zebra crossing. I lose control, hear myself go, “Oh shit” but else no time to react and I’ve hit the deck, sliding along on my side, head hit, elbow hit. As my body’s inertia is stalled the bike slides out ahead, scraping the tarmac. And I lie there. A car approaches from ahead. “Ca va?” I respond that I’m ok though in truth I don’t yet know, the adrenaline is coursing. I gingerly lift myself up, fearing a fractured elbow: it’s already blown up. My battered and ripped thigh goes unnoticed. My right shoe cover is ripped through. Standing the bike against a tree I shelter below it and “go live” on Instagram, for the fans, but not before sending a voice note through to the WhatsApp group that contains my parents and Oscar and now Victoria. A voice note because I can’t type for the rain’s droplets and smears. The bike is fine, the right hood did its job; like me it has surface wounds, mere scratches, but a little time suggests nothing more concerning. I set off, at least 230km to go, hours from meeting my parents and lunch when I’d discover they had never received the voice note, remaining completely unaware of the near catastrophe.

Finally I see the searchlight scanning the sky, bouncing off the clouds, the bat signal for the arrival of Paris. One more turn. Oh, go on, make it two. The Peripherique announces itself and I cross into Paris kilometres after entering. And now I’m on the cobbles, being bounced down towards that majestic arch, the Arc de Triomphe. I check my Garmin, the one measuring the entire ride, dutifully topped up with juice at every stop en route. Midnight, and papa is there right on the corner. Oscar and mum are below the trees. We’re sat down on a bench sipping champagne from paper cups, young men behind us light up, the waft of marijuana their purview.

Silence.

“How did you feel?” Honestly, nothing. I was numb. Sometimes that’s the way it is.

20 Hours 52 Minutes