Day 1 – Chartres to St Denis-en-Val July 15th 2017 Sponsored by Nexpay
If you missed our first instalment, you may be wondering why we are revisiting something that happened exactly eight years ago. Well, aside from the fact that the Tour de France is underway as we write, making this vaguely topical, the story has never been told in full. It is a story of determination, resilience and strength. A story of going the extra mile, and one that very nearly ended in tragedy.
We chose Chartre as our launch point because Ben and I had visited previously, and the Cathedral is spectacular. On our last visit, we had been halfway into our 1000-mile, ten-day challenge. At that juncture, we were relaxed, in tune with each other on the road, both mentally and physically. Enjoying life as it should be lived. Our first visit had been a serene experience, enjoying escargot, washed down with champagne. Any debate as to what to do for my 48th Birthday had soon been quashed as crowds filtered into the square, music started up, and the cathedral came alive with 3D projections on every side. We had stumbled upon the Son Et Lumière, and it was magical.
Two years later, the Son Et Lumiere was nowhere to be seen, although the night sky was punctuated with the traditional celebratory fireworks of Bastille Day. The huge stage, sound system and a lighting rig were evidence that the town intended to party. Our somewhat anxious grupetto settled for some carefully curated photograph opportunities.
Guy Harris is a very talented man. Middle age suits him. His tousled grey hair, neatly trimmed beard, and freckled complexion belie his years, perhaps aided by a cheeky, boyish grin and sparkling inquisitive eyes that have an uncanny knack of seeing the perfect shot among the inane blur of everyday life.
I had met Guy four years previously through my then-motorcycle mechanic, Phil. We shared a love of guitar, although Guy’s delicate, yet precise technique with his expensive classical acoustic far outweighs my clumsy finger picking. His methodical and considered nature extends to his photography, too, evidenced by a superb body of work built up over decades as a semi-professional photographer. As Ben and I discovered during Guy’s first stint behind the wheel, that calm, considered and precise nature doesn’t extend to his driving!
With photos done, we returned to the tiny Airbnb we had rented for the night. After a simple meal and an hour or so prepping for the next day, Ben and I felt the hot breath of our very own Tour De France breathing down our necks.
By 5:30 am the following morning, the rituals had begun. There is nothing more disconcerting than realising your glycogen levels are depleting with twenty miles or more of a ride to go. The initial signs of an impending bonk, (as Ben and I had found out a couple of times on our previous adventure), are tripiness and disorientation. For me, I begin debating irrational questions such as: Is the road unfeasibly narrow on my side, or is my bike just ridiculously tall? Then come the physical signs. One minute you’re smashing through the miles, legs like pistons, and the next, you feel like you are riding through treacle. Ironic, as a spoonful of dark, sweet treacle would sort you out in no time. So, understand why breakfast is a ritual. In fact, for many cyclists, everything about ride preperation is a ritual.
With breakfast done, the gathering of various gels and powders followed. Protein bars for the end of the ride. A plethora of fast-loading carb bars for during the ride to prevent said Bonk. Then the all-important Bidon. Well, deux Bidon preferably, filled with water, and loaded with yet more energy powders. A litre and a half of life-giving refreshment, to be emptied and filled at least three times on an average day in the saddle. A little overkill that day perhaps, as our first few stages were to be less than 100 KM. However, rituals are rituals.
With physical needs met, the practical preparations were soon underway. A second check to ensure the Garmin computer is charged and loaded with the correct data for the day. Then clothing. I like to lay out my chosen kit on the bed” (in this case, two giant cushions we had stuffed into the van at the last minute before leaving Plymouth).
“So we are going for the Glas-Denbury/Samaritans shirts today?” I enquired, smoothing said shirt and standing back to look at the combination. Plain back Lycra shorts and mini socks complemented the lime green sponsored shirt. I put on my heart rate monitor, slathered on the Chamois cream (If you know, you know), and started ‘the process’ of getting into my ride headspace.
Guy was already at the Cathedral as Ben and I rolled into the town square on our bikes.
“You are quiet, old boy, did you sleep OK?”
I smiled, nodding furiously. I hadn’t slept well at all, though. Men sometimes have a problem saying how they really feel. To keep our costs down, we had decided to book the smallest Airbnb’s possible. Quite right when riding for charity. There is little point in trying to raise money for something worthwhile and spending thousands of your own money on accommodation. I had lost the toss for the first night on the cushions. No point in making a fuss though.
We spied Guy setting up with his cameras by the imposing walls of Chartre’s iconic landmark. The clock on the cathedral had long since chimed for nine. It was nearly time for us to begin our Ride4Five. A quick video diary, and we would be underway. The gothic towers stared down at two dubiously dressed and slightly jittery middle-aged men, faffing around with a half-cocked script. The gargoyles pondered the sight, necks craned, and eyes trained on our every move. The day’s ride was a mere 84 Kilometres, but I was feeling off. It must have been the broken sleep, I rationalised.
Finally, just before 10:30 am, we clipped in, pointed our handlebars in the direction indicated by the tiny liquid crystal arrow on our computer screens, and pushed down on the pedals with intent. 635KM away, in Blangac, Chris Froome was preparing to retake the Yellow Jersey on the official Tour De France. Ben and I waved goodbye to our new sidekick as we exited the square. We would see him around 25km down the road for another coffee and a quick check-in.
There is nothing more satisfying than the rhythmic clicking of well-tuned gears and the gentle hum of narrow tyres eating up miles of silk-smooth tarmac. French cycling is the best I have ever experienced; hypnotic, meditative and serene. Yet we were still not fully in our ‘zone’. There is a vast difference between riding 80KM on a route you know well, and heading off into the unknown, with the ghosts of your insecurities whispering into your ear.
At least we had a support vehicle this time. Although by 45 km, Guy had yet to overtake us.
“What on earth could have happened? I mean, he should have caught up with us by now, surely?” I glanced sideways at Ben who nodded solemly. I wondered whether my unease that morning had been some kind of premonition or other. I shrugged, as best you can when tucked over your handlebars. “I mean, it is day one. Do you think he is lost? I hope he is alright. It is not like he is a slow driver!” Ben laughed at my reference to the unexpected white knuckle ride the evening before.
“Still, could be worse, eh?” Ben nodded towards the golden fields to our right. They spread on both sides of the road, meeting the azure blue sky in crisp, clear-cut lines, the gentle undulations of the horizon masking the five alpine monsters that lay in wait, 700KM away, beyond the vanishing point. The classic sound of a Nokia ringtone suddenly pierced the tranquillity. We looked at each other in dismay and pulled over to the side of the road.
Now, I know for a fact that Ben has eloquently told the tale of that first morning’s incident, and I have no desire to rain on his literary parade. You can read all about it in the complete, Limited Edition, Ride4Five book, all the profits from which will be going to a charity at the end of this series of blogs. The book contains both Ben and my perceptions of each day’s shenanigans, our routes, and the drama as it unfolded. It is also full of Guy’s incredible photography, some of which has never been seen.
On with the story…
With the van having disappeared up the road in a cloud of exhaust fumes and a frantic beeping of the horn, Ben and I attempted to find our rhythm for a second time. The long, empty roads were smooth black rivers winding through the landscape. The occasional copse of trees or sleepy village the only interruption to miles of golden fields. The truth is, when you have had a long time off from distance cycling with your riding buddy, you tend to fall out of synch with each other.
By the 60KM mark, I had worked out why I was a little out of sorts. I was worried about Ben. It hadn’t escaped my notice, in the months leading up to the challenge, that his Strava had been eerily quiet. I had even phoned him at one point.
‘I am not seeing much training action on your bike, fella, everything OK?’
‘I’m fine, old boy. Just been busy is all. We’ve done it before, anyway. The cycling legs will come in over the first few days.‘
Here on the road, though, I was finding myself quite a way ahead at some points, even circling back and riding sections again with him so I didnt get too far down the road. As the wheels spun, the rhythmic clicking and meditative pedalling had me pondering once more. Why was I so obsessed with speed, numbers and data?
I had been riding for four years. I started on New years Day 2014, three stone overweight. I managed four miles comfortably, and struggled the last six. It was not the horizontal rain or wind that held me back. By the time I arrived home, bedraggled and defeated, I could hardly draw a breath.
Three months later, I had ridden as part of a team relay from Lands End to St Helen’s Rugby club as part of Mcams, Meet In The Middle Challenge. (I had already bought my second road bike, too.) The other ‘team’ had left John ‘O’ Groates in the snow, and beat us to St Helens by fifteen minutes. My relationship with cycling had undergone a massive transformation. Every ride had to be carefully mapped, and personal bests celebrated.
For the months leading up to Ride4Five, I had been smashing out 250 miles a week plus . I would ride 100+ miles on a Saturday, a couple of 40-mile rides during weekday evenings, and at least one shift on Deliveroo, riding 60 to 80 miles with a food bag strapped to my back.
Unlike our last challenge, Ben had done very little training at all.
I was still wrestling with myself as we finally pulled up at our final destination, where Guy and the van waited patiently. A mere 84 KM had taken over six hours, largely down to the van escapade. I had expected the ride to take about four and a half hours with stops. We had spent a gorgeous day in the most beautiful countryside, and yet I still felt irritated. Aware enough to realise the problem clearly lay with me, I parked my thoughts. We loaded our bikes into the van, grabbed our overnight things, and headed for the house.
As the door swung open, our host looked at us in dismay. Exactly the look we had received the night before. “Trois?” he enquired, slightly puzzled. Thankfully, Ben is fluent in French. I watched with interest as yet another host’s face went from mild annoyance at the number of guests, to confusion and disbelief. By now, Monsieur’s wife had come to see what all of the commotion was about. There was an excited flurry of French and a shaking of heads in disbelief.
After verifying the facts Ben presented (by reading the A6 flyers we had printed in French), Monsieur waved us excitedly to the door of the apartment, located in a basement under the main house. He was still shaking his head and laughing to himself as he left us.
“What was he saying, Ben?” I asked as we threw our overnight bags down, collapsing into the only sofa in the room.
Ben sniggered, wiping the sweat from his brow.
‘He said, Why on earth would you do this to yourselves, you mad men!’
Come back for the third part of our story, soon! Or follow us on our Facebook page for updates.
