Day 3: Aylesbury to Box Hill, or: From Disaster to Victory

The Gout, by James Gillray (1799) — from Wikipedia

12.30am (or so): I came awake gradually, aware that my ankle, which had felt a little stiff earlier in the evening, now really felt quite painful. In my half-awake state, I assumed it was a hangover from the ill-fitting cleat that Aidan had sorted out yesterday, and drifted off to sleep again.

1.00am (ish): I was awake again. Okay, this wasn’t just a bit of pain. It was hurting quite a lot. It couldn’t possibly be…? I really hoped I was wrong.

About three weeks ago I had an attack of gout — something I’d first had almost eight years before. That first one had been in the big toe, and the agony was beyond belief: a sort of constant hot throb that sent regular, sickening pulses up the body. If you so much as brushed the skin with a bedsheet, it fired off great bolts of fiery pain that made your head spin.

When it returned recently — and unaccountably, as far as I can tell — it hit me in the ankle. But I recognised the pain, and was straight down to the doctors. Ice-packs and prescription anti-inflammatories cleared it in a few days, but it was no fun at all.

Now, at this worst possible moment, it appeared to be back. I spent the rest of the night trying vainly to get some sleep, while the ankle grew hotter and more agonising. half the time I was gnawing a knuckle, trying not to wake Aidan by shouting out in pain as I tried to turn over and find something like a comfortable position.

By about 5am I’d given up any hope of riding that day. I was furious and desperately disappointed. We’d all be doing brilliantly, and personally I felt I was finally getting properly to grips with the techniques of cycling.

I was getting up hills I would never have attempted a few months ago, partly thanks to some coaching on the gears from Aidan. And I was falling properly in love with the Cannondale, which seems to have a momentum all of its own. Together, we were flying along. Now this. I was out.

A little after five, I dragged myself into the bathroom and took one of my prescription anti-inflammatories — which I’d brought along in case I got any aches and pains from the cycling. Then I hauled myself back into bed, yelping and muttering in pain and frustration.

Finally, 7am crawled around, the alarm went off, and I was able to explain to Aidan why I’d been making weird noises all night. With his help and George’s, I made it downstairs to breakfast, where the rest of the team gaped at me, looking as crestfallen as I felt.

Few things make you feel more pathetic than the kindness of others when you’re incapacitated. So while I couldn’t have been more grateful for the fetching of toast and juice, the moving of furniture and the dispensing of pills that went on on my behalf, it all just underlined how thoroughly hopeless my case was.

I’d read somewhere that a bath of Epsom salts was good for gout, so Jen headed gamely for Reception, to see if the hotel kept any. They didn’t, unsurprisingly.

On a happier note, though, she had better luck finding more supplies for the team’s coffee breaks that day:

Are those all for you, Jen? (pic by George)

With breakfast over, Robin helped me over to a chair in the lounge, like some aged relative. (Me, not Robin.)

I could barely move without hurting, often really quite dramatically. So there was no way I was getting on a bike this morning. And on past experience, I wouldn’t be doing so for at least a few days. I sat and tried to read the paper while the team got themselves sorted out, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything for long.

My swollen foot resting at the Holiday Inn, Aylesbury

Finally, Jen turned up and gave me a me big hug. ‘We’re doing the last stage for you,’ she said, leaving me fairly speechless. I saw that a little line had formed behind her: Anna and Kirsty had come to console me too.

Normally, I’d be thrilled to have women queuing up to give me a kiss. Now, although I was more moved than I could articulate without losing it completely, I’d have done anything to avoid them wanting to.

Then, behind Kirsty, I saw Robin, who grinned and gave me a big bear hug too. That allowed me to substitute a laugh for grizzling like a child, which was good.

With them safely off, and the ever-dependable Jules having been up to my room and packed my bags for me, George helped me out to the Land Rover. They got me safely settled in the back, with my gamey leg stuck out over the front arm rest between them.

My main concern was that Jules would mistake my big toe for the gear lever.

Whether it was the gout, the Tramadol I’d scored from Anna, the lack of sleep, car-sickness or (most likely) a combination of all, I started to feel pretty grim pretty quickly.

I was definitely shattered: two hours’ decent sleep was considerably less than I’d hoped for. I sat in the Land Rover and did my best to doze, but it didn’t do much good.

Just to rub salt into the wound, it was a beautiful day, and the Chilterns provided some of the most beautiful scenery of the whole challenge.

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And they’re off

The team zipped away, so quickly that as we tried to catch them up, Jules became convinced they couldn’t possibly be so far ahead. He started to get worried they’d taken a wrong turn.

But no, they were just storming away, and we eventually caught them up, following them into the glorious sun-dappled hills. I sat in the back and fumed, and felt sick.

Jules had decided that, once the team were safely away, we’d keep our eyes peeled for a pharmacy, and try our luck with Epsom salts.

It was Sunday of course, so not much was open. But eventually we found a Holland & Barrett in Amersham that was. They had a big posh tub of Epsom salt bath, with aromatic oils, ludicrously priced at over £8 (a tub of Epsom salts in Boots is 99p), but we went for it anyway.

The team had found a good coffee shop for a loo break by then, so we joined them and sat outside. George and Jules dashed about organising coffees, cakes and a bowl of hot water, while the girls disappeared into an olde-worlde sweet shop they’d spotted next door.

So I sat shoeless on an Amersham pavement, with one naked foot in a bowl of water. Which is not something I ever expected to do. I was feeling seriously queasy now, almost ready to pass out. Kirsty gave me a concerned glance and said I looked yellow.

‘I feel yellow,’ I remember saying, trying to eat the sweets she was so kindly pressing on me. My appetite seemed to be shot: I kept ordering things I thought I wanted — coffee, a toasted teacake — and then realising I couldn’t eat them.

We got going again, but before long I had to get Jules to pull over, I was so worried about puking all over the inside of the car.

Fresh air helped, and the feeling passed without me making a mess of the grass verge. After that, George very kindly relegated himself to the back of the Land Rover, in the hope that sitting up front would help my nausea. It probably did, but it didn’t feel like it.

The team whizz past the Land Rover, almost too fast for me to photograph.

I lay against the window, trying to doze, and unable even to summon up a cheery word as the team passed by — to my shame.

But, as we drove through Windsor and Eton, the feeling began unexpectedly to lift. And by the time we got out of the car to join the team for lunch (at The Royal Oak), I was walking (a bit) more normally. The others reckoned I looked a bit less like death warmed up, and I was able cautiously to agree with them.

I sat and soaked my foot again, before hobbling with one sock and one bare, wet foot into the pub for a pee. What the other customers thought of that I can’t imagine, but George supplied the idea they might feel the need to keep their children away from me.

George tweets a desperate plea from the Royal Oak.

Later still, as we followed the team through the afternoon, I felt well enough to consider having a go at riding. Everyone had been incredibly nice, saying that if possible, I should try to cross the finish line on my bike, with them, even if only for the last 50 yards. That felt like sheer fraud to me, but they insisted I should try.

Bowing to my pleas, Jules pulled into a little access lane parallel to the road and — after a stern warning about avoiding any heroics and remembering he was responsible for my safety — allowed me to try a short pedal. We agreed that if my ankle wasn’t up to it, I’d probably know about it fairly instantly.

But as I clipped in, nothing squealed (too loudly), and I cycled a few loops around the lane amazingly comfortably.

Whether it was the magic Epsom salts, the Diclofenac, or pure adrenalin, I don’t know. But whatever the cause of this miraculous recovery, it resulted in Jules holding a little blue blanket up to protect my modesty as I climbed into my absurd bib shorts. There was a moment’s hilarity as I realised that in my haste I’d put them on backwards, and had to undress again. Then I was ready. We were off.

‘This is exciting,’ Jules said, and it was. I was nervous, too: my heart was thudding away, which I suspect helped pump numbing adrenalin into my system.

I hated the idea that I might get on the bike and ride half a mile before toppling over in agony. But I was more worried about not even trying, and wishing I had. Mainly, I was driven by the entirely selfish sense that I was missing out on something rather wonderful, and didn’t want to.

So in West Byfleet, we pulled the team into the car park of the local Harvester, and explained the plan: I was going to join them from here, and see how it went. Whatever happened, it was lovely to be back in the team, if only for a while.

I was going to hook onto the back of the line, but Aidan told me to ride second, behind him, so he could spot if I got into trouble. That made me even more nervous, but I think the pressure of staying on the pace helped a lot.

The ankle twanged a little, but the riding was astonishingly comfortable. Even more so than walking, bizarrely enough — probably because my poor foot wasn’t being asked to take the weight of a 16.5 stone man.

The sky darkened ominously as we approach Leatherhead, but thankfully the clouds passed and we reached the foot of Box Hill in beautiful sunshine. This was it: the final obstacle.

Kirsty (still valiantly battling her knee) and I ended up climbing the hill as a pair, encouraging each other on. A little way up, in a lay-by, we saw some friends of Anna’s, with an enormous banner that said, GO ANNA.

They cheered and whooped us all as we passed, which was a fantastic boost. A little further up, having seen us all through, they drove past in their car, the banner stretched across the roof, still hollering.

Robin had vanished far ahead, and Kirsty and I were next in line. As we hauled ourselves round the final hairpin of the zig-zag, we searched the verge ahead for Robin. The plan was to stop and regroup before the finish — but where was he?

Finally we spotted him, hiding just before the final turn, and puffed up to join him. The others were close behind, and soon we were all together again.

Here we come. (Picture by my wife Wendy)

Coming round the bend and seeing a proper crowd gathered outside the National Trust café was amazing. There was a great cheer from them, and Jen said, ‘Look at all those people!’

Bit blurry, but L-R: Aidan, random stranger, Anna, Kirsty, Robin, me, and Jen

I cross the line

Emotional scenes at the finish (L-R): George, Kirsty, me (spotting Wendy with the camera by the looks of things), Anna and Jen.

A warm welcome from Vanessa of The Brigitte Trust

It was a really emotional finish. Poor Anna, who had battled all the way, was blubbing, and we were all pretty overwhelmed by the number of people and the warmth of the welcome. It was wonderful to see our families again, of course, and there was much hugging and kissing and tousling of children’s hair.

As soon as I’d got off the bike, my ankle started hurting again — the weight was back on it, of course, but I also think my theory about the adrenalin was probably right. (It’s been bad since, even with the Epsom salts, so maybe they’re not quite the miracle cure they seemed.) But although I’m still gutted to have missed those 55 miles, I wouldn’t have missed the final 15. It was a magical finish.

The Brigitte Trust, of whom all this was in aid, were thrilled. So far between us we’ve raised almost £5,000 from the ride — nearly £7,000 once you add Gift Aid. Which is fantastic. Thank you to everyone who sponsored us. (And don’t stop just because we have!)

Lastly, without getting too Oscarish about it, I also have to thank Ride2Raise for brilliant organisation and support.

Being greeted by Richard King, head honcho of Rise2Raise and the fellow who got me into this mess in the first place. (Here with his impossibly cute daughter Hettie.)

Not only was the whole thing managed superbly in general, both in advance and during the Challenge, but George and Jules also went far beyond the call of duty in looking after me on the final day. I wouldn’t have got back on the bike without their support, encouragement and medical attention. They were both magnificent. I’m very grateful, George and Jules.

That’s it. Something of an adventure, I hope you’ll agree. But all in all a really tremendous experience, with a fantastic team, for a very worthy cause. It’s been a privilege. Huge thanks to everyone involved.

I’m off to put my feet up.

L-R: Aidan, Anna, Jen, me, Kirsty and Robin, toasting victory.

UPDATE: Ride2Raise have posted all their photos of the whole trip on their website here. Great memories!

Day 2: Leicester to Aylesbury

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The longest day of the three (78 miles) began with inspiring news: I had beaten my fundraising target, thanks to a donation from my sometime colleague Matt Coyne. (He ascribed his generosity in part to having just polished off a bottle of wine — whatever it takes, Matt.) I really am grateful to everyone who’s sponsored me — and they’re still trickling in.

Breakfast wasn’t quite as much of a blow-out as yesterday’s. Having blogged that fat-fest, I had an email from my client Martin Lawless at 300million, a keen cyclist himself, telling me I shouldn’t be having all that protein, and should stick to porridge. What a party pooper.

Ah well. I followed up my bowl of slow-release energy oats (which was very good) with a sneaky couple of sausages. And an egg. And some beans. With toast. Just in case.

Anna had her own plan going at breakfast. Keen to keep everyone stocked up (she’s a feeder, that one), she constructed sausage croissants from the contents of the Holiday Inn buffet and tucked them away for later, wrapped in napkins.

Anna checks the coast is clear, while Jen gets the giggles. (Again.)

My big corporate sponsorship deal

Today, for me, was Howies day. I write the odd thing for Howies (the splendid clothing company in Cardigan Bay), and they very kindly donated some of their base layers for the ride. When they arrived, I found that one of them bore an extra surprise: they’d printed a message on the back:

(Picture by Jen as we prepared for the off)

They sent me something for the bike too, and it felt dead professional to display a bit of sponsorship livery:

Soon we were off, anyway, and winding through Leicester’s waking city streets. The town riding can get pretty tedious, weaving around roundabouts, stopping for traffic lights (yes, we did do that) and so on. But before too long we were heading back out into the country lanes again.

(Pic by George for the Ride2Raise Twitter. That’s me showing off.)

Once into the country, we ran into a long series of ups and downs that had us all panting and heaving on the pedals. But we were into our stride now — everyone seemed to be handling the hills better than before.

(Another George pic from the support Land Rover)

Showing their mettle

Anna, who’d probably had the toughest time on the hills of Day 1, was suddenly transformed — like me, she’d discovered the difference that standing up on the pedals makes. I’d been pretty reluctant to do this until very recently, because you suddenly feel far less stable, especially as you grind slowly up a big incline. But once you get the hang of it, there’s no doubting the effect.

Poor Kirsty was having the opposite problem. As a mountain biker (and still riding her mountain bike on this ride), she was used to standing up on every hill and powering through it. But her knee had started to complain, no doubt thanks to the much longer distances — plus the fact she was having to work consistently harder than any of us, to compensate for all the energy being soaked up in her mountain bike suspension.

‘She’s suffering, but she won’t quit,’ said Robin, and he clearly knows his daughter. Kirsty was always there with the rest of us, pushing resolutely on. These sorts of events, I was starting to realise, genuinely do reveal just how tough people can be.

Coffee and kindness

As it was a longer ride, and we’d started an hour earlier than the day before, we stopped for a mid-morning break. After cycling through some beautiful villages, and passing several very expensive-looking houses, we saw George up ahead, motioning us into the garden of the Red Lion at Crick.

Aidan makes a few critical adjustments

Not much was open at that time on a Saturday, but George and Jules convinced the staff at the Red Lion to open up early. They brought us out two rounds of coffee and biscuits, all of which were extremely welcome. Then, when Jules went in to settle up, they told us the refreshments were on the house. How lovely of them. Thanks, Red Lioners.

‘Just let me finish this lot off, then we can go.’ (Pic from George again. Note cheeky sausage croissant top right.)

It was a useful break for me too. I’d noticed that my left ankle felt awkward on the pedal, as if the cleat was holding my foot slightly pigeon-toed. There was a small but definite twist going on in the ankle every time I pushed down, and it was starting to hurt.

Aidan stepped in with his tools, and swiftly adjusted the cleat on my shoe. As soon as we started riding again, I could tell he’d done the trick: pedalling was much less of a chore.

Aidan also lifted Robin’s handlebars a tiny scrap, as Robin had been suffering in the neck and back. He too said it made all the difference. I’m always amazed how a tiny adjustment can transform the way it feels to ride the bike. I take back all my eye-rolling when Richard originally tried to convince me how vital these infinitesimal tweaks could be.

Family gathering

We rode on, all of us loving the clear country lanes after a lot of town riding the day before. Being able to ride two abreast, and have a natter as you cycle along, isn’t just a nice way to pass the time — it also distracts you from how tired you might be feeling, and keeps the team close to each other psychologically as well as physically. I reckon, anyway.

There were some lovely, long stretches like this: lanes cutting through fields and farms, lined with trees, and with hardly any cars. For a while all we seemed to see were tractors.

(Mind you, there was a hairy moment when a slightly madcap Land Rover tried to overtake us, just as we were approaching a woman chatting to a chap in his tractor. Too many people and vehicles in one place.)

We stopped for lunch at Blisworth, a beautiful Northamptonshire village that also happens to be very close to where my sister, Kate, and her family live. Jules and George kindly found us a lunch stop there — in the garden of the Royal Oak pub — so that Kate, and my nieces Naomi and Louise, could come and say hello. Here we all are:

Clockwise from top left: Kate, me, Naomi and Louise

Kate made instant friends of the whole team by turning up with some first-class flapjack, baked to the traditional family recipe I remember our Mum making all those years ago. It’s perfect cyclist fodder: butter, golden syrup, oats and sultanas. Who needs energy bars?

Kate’s mother-in-law Frances arrived too, and then her sister-in-law Vicky, with husband Sukbir (whose name I’ve almost certainly misspelled, sorry). They all cheered us off from the pub, which was lovely.

The afternoon got tougher and tougher. As I recall, it wasn’t too hilly, but the distance began to tell on all of us. We continued to ride through beautiful countryside, which helps enormously, but I kept having to stand up in my pedals to give my sore bottom a moment’s respite from the saddle. And my spine seemed to be gradually seizing up from the nape of my neck downwards.

Kirsty’s knee was really bothering her, too. At lunchtime I’d given her one of the prescription anti-inflammatories I had with me (provided for a recent attack of gout, of which more later). But what she really needed was rest, and we had another 40-odd miles to do.

Last break

It came as a great relief, then, when it was announced we’d be stopping for a final coffee break as soon as a suitable spot could be found. The trouble was, it wasn’t found for a long, long time.

Kirsty’s language regarding this delay grew hotter and more intemperate, but it was impossible to disagree with her. At every junction, we thought this must be the last one, only to find ourselves heading out onto another long stretch of country road.

It was no one’s fault, of course. Jules and George, our stalwart support team, were searching the villages for somewhere open and suitable (ie with a loo as well as teas and coffees), but without any luck.

Eventually, I decided we weren’t going to find anywhere, and tugged an energy gel pack out of my pocket to keep me going.

Inevitably, I’d just chugged it down when we spotted George’s familiar red fleece up ahead, and saw that he was directing us into the deserted car park of a dormant pub, on its own in the midst of endless fields.

Various of the team disappeared towards the opposite hedge for some privacy. But Jen soon returned, looking pained and saying that there was no suitable cover anywhere: anything she might have done would have had an audience from the nearby farmhouse.

Anna, who had grown inordinately fond of saying the brand name ‘SheWee’ at every opportunity, almost certainly said it again.

Kate’s flapjack disappeared pretty instantly from its box, along with the wonderful rocky road cake Anna had brought along. There was no coffee, of course, as the pub was shut. That was a shame: the image f a hot, steaming cup of strong black coffee had taken on talismanic significance in my mind over the previous miles. But we were all grateful for the break, the cake, and the chance to get out of the saddle.

We were even more grateful when Jules made the strategically timed announcement that we would each get a 15-minute massage at the end of the day, compliments of Ride2Raise. Needless to say, that lifted spirits enormously. We climbed back onto our bikes for the final 12 miles with renewed vigour.

Another George pic: saddling up for the final stage. (L-R) Anna, Jen, Aidan, Robin and Jules.

After a wiggle through the unfinished road system of a vast housing development at the edge of Aylesbury, and another spot of stop-start town riding, we finally crossed the A41 and glided into the car park of the Holiday Inn. George’s tweet says it all:

It was a happy but knackered team who tucked their bikes into the hotel’s store room (thanks again, Holiday Inn), and parted for their various rooms. Aidan and I were sharing tonight, so we found room 250, with our bags already safely stowed courtesy of Jules and George.

I was second in line for the free massage, so I asked Aidan if he’d mind me going first in the bathroom. ‘No problem,’ he said, ‘I’m going for a run.’ As I stared open-mouthed, that’s exactly what he did.

Jackie, the masseuse, turned out to be a cyclist, training for a ride from Land’s End to John o’Groats next year. So she was very sympathetic. She wasn’t gentle though: she attacked my ossified back muscles with an elbow like a jackhammer.

It did the trick though: I could suddenly move my shoulders again, and felt 100 times better. Another person to thank, especially as she was drafted in at the last minute when someone else had to pull out.

Dinner was a great laugh. Perhaps the greatest pleasure of the whole long weekend has been getting to know the team. Anna was the only one I knew previously, and everyone turned out to be relaxed, fun and easy company, as well as determined and mutually supportive riders. A terrific team, in short.

By a little after ten o’clock I was in bed, pretending that I could read Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy for more than 10 seconds. I quickly gave that up, switched the light off and settled down for some wonderful, well-earned sleep.

About two hours later, the nightmare began.

Day 1: Leicester — finished!

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We did it! Day One complete, and everyone looking relatively happy. And alive, which is good.

We started with a photo-op, as Anna handed Graham, the Manager of the Holiday Inn Barnsley, his Charity Hero certificate from Ride2Raise. Holiday Inn are supporting us all the way down, and barring the odd rather disquieting revelation about death by cycling, the Barnsley team did us proud.

Thence by minibus to Renishaw Hall, seat of the Sitwells and our official starting point. No one appeared to know why, but it’s very beautiful and we had coffee waiting. So can’t complain.

Safety briefing being taken very seriously.

By now we’d met Aidan Harding, our Ride Manager, a very nice chap: softly spoken and a vegetarian by principle. (He won’t eat fish, and I only really respect vegetarians if they don’t eat fish. The rest are milksops.) Here he is:

Now, with the best will in the world, does this man look as hard as nails? Well, it turns out he is. Seriously hard. He was one of only ten riders invited to do the 1,000-mile Iditarod Invitational across Alaska.

Unsurprisingly, this was something I’d never heard of. It‘s basically a 1,000-mile (yes, really) race from Anchorage to the Bering Strait. Aidan’s so un-showy that we had to draw the details out of him a bit, but it’s clearly incredible. James Cracknell wasn’t accepted, and had to do the wussy 350-mile one.

You have to post your food in advance to villages along the way, as you can’t carry it. And what you do eat has to be mostly butter, for the essential fat. You put a bit of chilli in for taste, apparently.

And instead of a tent you just carry a super-warm sleeping bag. The land is so dry (albeit at about –35 Celcius), you stamp down a trench in the snow (to get you out of the wind) and you sleep there. On the snow. Holy cow.

Anyway, I had to tell you that because it completely blew our minds. Back to the ride.

It went really, really well, to be honest. It was the shortest of the days — 64 miles — but even so that’s further than I think any of us have cycled before. (Except Aidan, obviously. He does one of these before breakfast every other day, presumably.)

The morning was chilly, especially once you got some speed up. So warming up took a while, and the initial miles felt a bit creaky to me. But gradually the sun came out and most of the day was glorious. We got into a great pace and rhythm, and once we got off the main roads into the country lanes it was lovely.

Bolsover Castle. Image Nicked from PhotoRadar, hope they don’t mind. Click the image to go to their site.

We passed Bolsover Castle (above), which I’d vaguely heard of but never seen. A fairy tale place. And we had a good lunch, provided I believe by Holiday Inn, in the garden of the Hemlock Stone pub in Nottingham.

However, all this jollity was balanced by a bit of embarrassment and, briefly, pain, just before lunch, when I tried to follow Robin up onto the pavement. I obviously didn’t angle the bike sufficiently, because the front wheel just locked into the gutter like a needle in a groove, and the whole bike tipped sideways.

I went, pretty much literally, arse over tit, and dragged various extremities across the tarmac pavement. Jen, riding behind, later said I looked quite acrobatic. But I think she was just being nice.

There was no great damage. I’ve scratched the Cannondale, which I’m cross about because it’s so beautiful (it’s such a joy to ride, by the way). I also did this:

And this:

Aidan and the team bandaged up the elbow, and I’m growing some pleasing scabs, but no great harm done. (Except to my pride, of course.)

After that it was all pretty uneventful. Everyone rode really strongly, I thought, and it bodes well for tomorrow’s longer ride (78 miles). There were some tough old hills coming into Leicester, but we all got over them without walking. Top team.

Final stop: ice-creams in Shepshed. (Think that’s what it was called.)

Now it’s dinner time at the Holiday Inn Leicester, and I don’t intend to miss that. So forgive me if I dash off. We start again at 9.30am tomorrow, heading for Aylesbury. Fingers crossed.

Day 1: Barnsley

That’s the good thing about this challenge: I can eat my favourite meal free of any guilt, knowing I’ll be burning all this lard off very shortly. Indeed, I’ll probably be glad of it.

Eh-up, Barnsley. (From the window of the Holiday Inn, Barnsley South)

Everyone looks a little nervous this morning. Perhaps that has something to do with the waitress at dinner last night, who told us her boss had just been on a Land’s End to John o’Groats.

‘You be careful,’ she said, dropping her voice to a confessional whisper. ‘Because on his ride, a woman died.’ Which did wonders for our spirits, obviously.

Some of us are a little jaded, too. I, for my sins, was finishing work in my room until midnight, which I could have done without. While Jen apparently lay awake for an hour listening to a couple getting on famously in a room nearby.

Still, we have a 45-minute minibus ride to the actual start point, so that’ll hopefully give us all time to settle ourselves. I might get 40 winks.

By the way, as I type I’m £43 off the magic £2,000 target. Absolutely phenomenal, thank you everyone.

See you in Leicester.

Here’s the route

I now have route maps for the Challenge. It’s taken about an hour and a half working around Google Maps broken file uploader, but I got there in the end. Anyway.

(Annoyingly, the route line is almost exactly the same colour as the motorways in the map view. But as long as it’s only you readers who confuse the two, we should be fine.)

Day 1: Sheffield to Leicester.

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Day 2: Leicester to Aylesbury.

(For some reason this map won’t display the whole route immediately — drag it upwards to see more, and zoom out to see it in full.)

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And Day 3: Ambulance to Hospital.

I mean, Aylesbury to Dorking. (Apparently the first bit of this is going to be fairly horrendous.)

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Ride2Raise have got everything sorted: where we’re stopping for breaks and lunches, the hotels we’re collapsing into at the end of each day, all of that. And they’ll be with us all the way with a Land Rover full of inner tubes, sticking plasters and oddly-shaped tools.

Shame they can’t supply fresh legs halfway through each day, but one can only ask so much.

Ride2Raise will also tweet the Challenge as it happens on their own Twitter account, so feel free to follow progress there.

I’ll try to tweet a bit too, but I expect I may get a bit distracted. Hopefully I’ll have time and energy to give you updates here at the end of each day, though.

The fundraising is going gangbusters, so thank you once again to everyone who’s supporting me. It’s quite amazing, really. £1,467 as I write this.

The target is £2,000, and I’m starting to think that’s actually possible. If you can help, that would be fantastic. Just click the link below. Thanks!

40 miles, then Box Hill. (The wildlife special)

This time, I really did do 50 miles. 50.55, in fact, according to Cyclemeter.

I went with Anna King, one of my Challenge team-mates, and we were determined to hit the 50 mark. After all, the Challenge starts this Friday (23 September), and we’ll be doing around 70 miles a day on average. So we need to give our legs a bit of warning.

(That’s Anna on the right. Jen, on the left, couldn’t join us, as she was doing an 80-mile sportive that day. I probably won’t worry too much about keeping up with Jen.)

Hedgehogs and pheasants and wasps, oh my

It was a ride dogged (ho ho) by wildlife. A little after the first crossing of the A24, near Ockley station, something small and furry-looking shot out of the verge in front of me. For a moment, as I grabbed at the brakes, I thought it was a squirrel. But as it skittered back and forth across the tarmac I realised it was a hedgehog.

A confused hedgehog, too: it went right, left, right, completely bamboozled by the tall, whirring presence bearing down on it. Then it made a life-or-death decision and scooted back the way it had come, and I swerved around it as it vanished back into the hedge.

That was a relief: the idea of returning home with a hedgehog stuck in my front tyre was a little mortifying.

After that we were assualted by various forms of wildlife. Ducks burst from the hedgerows and quacked through the air in front of us. A golden labrador chased us along Weare Street, stuck on his side of a wire fence. And a trio of pheasants invaded the road, giving their weird, indignant honk-squawks as we wove through them. Later, a white cat sat in the road, glaring at us as we approached, and only sprang away when I shouted at it.

Worst of all, at one point a wasp settled on Anna’s leg just long enough to sting her — apparently just for the hell of it — and then buzzed off again. Wasps: the feral underclass of the insect world.

She was very brave about the whole thing, and seemed to shake it off pretty quickly. But we started to feel that the animal kingdom had something against us that day.

Up the hill

By the time we got back to Dorking, we’d done about 40 miles. So to make up the magic 50, we thought we’d carry on up Box Hill.

That might sound bananas, but it’s something else we need to be prepared for. Day Three of the Challenge finishes with exactly this climb, up the zig-zag road of Box Hill (part of the Olympic route, no less) to the National Trust café at the top.

As we began the climb, the grey clouds that had been looming threateningly the whole day swept over the sky in a damp, wadded mass and doused us in that sort of heavy drizzle that doesn’t seem quite to be rain, but soaks you anyway.

The climb was seriously tough. The 40-odd miles we’d already covered dragged at our legs, and there were several points where I thought, ‘Okay, enough, Can’t do this.’

But the sight of Anna just ahead, ploughing gamely on, and my own vain wish not to look crap, kept me turning the pedals, even as rainwater collected and dripped from the front of my helmet, and annoying super-cyclists overtook us at what seemed impossible speeds.

I kept thinking, too, how it would feel to manage this climb at the end of the real Challenge. Getting up the hill today would, I felt, be a powerful motivation when I had to do it again, after around 70 miles cycling. Let’s hope I’m right.

Finally, we both made it, and pulled gasping into the café grounds. It was pretty wonderful. And so was the decision we made not to try going any further, but to turn the bikes around and fly back down the hill the way we’d come.

(Well, not quite fly: it was wet and busy, so we kept the brakes on. But after that climb, it felt pretty much much like flying.)

At the bottom, though, I went over a deeply recessed drain cover, and almost instantly felt the back wheel judder and slip across the road. Another puncture.

And me still without a spare tube.

Thank heavens for Anna and her supply. As you can see from this picture she took of me changing the tube (I was pretty impressed with my changing skills, I have to say), we managed to keep our spirits up all the way, even with this irritation right at the end.

This was almost certainly the last training ride I’ll have before the event itself, so I’m glad we went for it. Now all I have to do is manage another 20 miles on top of that. Three days in a row. (Deep breath.)

Next up: the route maps, so you can see exactly where I’ll be going, and perhaps make bets among yourselves about where I’m most likely to collapse into a ditch.

First cramp

The top of Box Hill (where our Challenge will finish)

So I decided to do a quick dash up Box Hill and back, keenly aware of how much training I need before next week’s D-Day.

It wasn’t as quick as I’d have liked. First, as I started to climb the very lowest slope of the hill, I became convinced that my front tyre was going soft (again), so I stopped and discovered that yes, it was. Another puncture? Maybe I’d missed some tiny thorn or shard in the tyre when I checked it before.

Well, of course I still haven’t got around to buying a spare inner tube, so all I could do was pump the tyre up. It wasn’t badly deflated, so I hoped for a very small leak that wouldn’t completely cripple the bike. (All the while hearing Richard’s voice in my head: I told you so…)

Somehow, I screwed my pump tube onto the valve so firmly that when I unscrewed it, having achieved a nice hard tyre, the entire inner section of the valve came out with it, releasing a great hiss of air that sounded like someone dumping a hot pan in the washing up.

Now the tyre was completely flat, and I had to reassemble the valve and start from scratch. There are times when I really could go right off this whole cycling business.

Anyway, I managed it and pressed on up the hill. As well as taking the air out of my tyre, the Valve Incident seemed to have taken the wind out of my sails as well. Going up the slope felt more of a grind than usual — the zig-zag road up Box Hill, although long, is never that steep, and really shouldn’t be too hard.

Then, about half-way up, my right calf cramped. I haven’t had a cramp on a ride yet and it bloody hurt.

Not only that, but suddenly you can’t do anything with your leg — certainly not pedal. I did a very undignified wobble, accompanied by some fairly undignified language, before managing to unclip and get off the bike without collapsing into the road.

It wouldn’t stop. I stretched and hobbled about, trying to unknot the muscle, which suddenly felt like more like a small boulder inserted under my skin, but the damn thing kept tightening up. Once, I thought it had stopped, so got back on. But the calf cramped up again instantly, and I was clambering off the bike once more, going ow ow ow ow ow OW OW.

Finally it seemed to have relaxed sufficiently, and I managed to get going again. This quick dash was turning into a rather sluggish wander.

As the picture at the head of this post attests, I made it to the top, and the view was looking especially lovely in the crisp golden evening. Which always helps.

Until now, my Box Hill runs have gone straight over the hill towards Betchworth, and back into Dorking on the A24. But Richard (of Ride2Raise, see posts passim) had suggested a nicer route: ‘Just keep turning left and come back via Mickleham,’ he said.

And by golly he was right. It’s a lovely, quiet route, through fields and hills and paddocks, with long, shaded stretches under the rich vaulted ceilings made by trees on either side. Very nice indeed.

As the map shows, I missed one of the lefts. It came at the bottom of a long, steep downhill, and I shot past it almost without noticing. But the long, steep downhill led, as they will, into a long, steep uphill, and I slowed down quickly enough to register my fleeting glimpse of the narrow road to Mickleham, and turn the bike around.

So, I got 13 miles in, anyway, and it was a gorgeous evening. Pretty chilly, though — I was glad to be wearing the new Merino base layer donated by my kind friends at Howies (separate post on that to come).

The wool kept my torso lovely and warm (without being too warm), but I should have worn a long-sleeved jersey, or taken my arm-warmers. Winter, it seems, is approaching fast.

Next training is planned for Friday morning, with my teammates Anna and Jen. Meanwhile, the sponsorship is still coming — up over £1,340 now, and that’s without the Gift Aid. It would be amazing to hit £2,000 — if you fancy helping, do click here:

Thanks!