Ride to EOW - Day 1

I arrived at my family home in Godalming at 2:15am. The 4 hour drive was one I must have done at least 100 times, so gliding along in a car with cruise control, heated seats and no traffic was boring, hypnotic but not soporific. I wasn’t feeling consciously excited, but somewhere in my head my brain had registered its disrupted sleep cycle and told my subconscious that something different was happening. Luckily as my head hit the pillow, the 3am system shutdown was swift.

4 hours later my alarm woke me, and I plodded downstairs, one eye still closed, into the shower. That would be the last bit of warm water for the next 4 days, little did I know, but it stirred me enough to polish off a last couple of jobs before jumping into the car with my parents. They had decided to visit the WWII graves in Ypres, and had offered to give me a lift across the channel to save me the 3 trains at 5:30 in the morning. I gratefully accepted. With hindsight a mistake but not one that any of us could have known.

Fergus had just finished making some last minute adjustments to my brake levers and was helping my dad mount the bike on the cars rack, as I chirpily chivvied mum to get in the car. 10 minutes later we were sailing down the M3 to the M25. I had set up in the back of the car, trying to choose what last minute additions I could leave in the car and what were “essential”. Making sure every electronic was charged was the next job and this obsessive checking mixed with uncertainty kept me busy till we reached the train tunnel terminal.

We parked up next to cars of people leaning against their vehicles in the warm morning sun, and I hopped out. Feeling very exposed in my Lycra, I leant back into the car to pull out my wind stopper Gilet praying it would cover my hairy paunch enough that it wouldn’t be mistaken for a poorly smuggled animal by a passing traveller. I ventured into the station and walked quickly to the bathroom. 2 shakes later, I was washing my hands trying not to take too many extra glances at my visage in the mirror. I nipped into the shop on the way out, and after recovering from the price of the meal deal, toddled back to the car £9 and a litre lighter. After 90 restless minutes, 45 minutes past our expected call time, we had all downed our duty free snacks of choice and mum and dad were both getting restless. They fidgeted, eyes flicking between the passenger info boards and the tickets hanging on the mirror of every passing car until the ants in their pants had climbed up their backs into their hair and “ratatouille-d” us to passport control.

My parent’s quick interrogation of officer smith left no stone unturned, apparently la police were having trouble manually entering everyone into the new ESS system and it was slowing the trains, but not to worry things were moving steadily. Confused, we drove on and this may have been why dad, a normally excellent driver and sharp mind, lined us up into the queue for the minis and smart cars. With some face to face diplomacy and many “sorry's” & “pardon Monsieur ” we shuffled 4 lanes over into our correct place.

After the very British, awkward, embarrassment of line cutting was overcome, I noticed that as far as my eye could see there were cars with passengers loitering between them. Red Flag. Not only that, families had gathered on a grassy verge for picnics and football. Red Flag. This was the start of a 5 hour long wait.

After mums earlier diplomacy, the ice had been broken with drivers fore and aft and conversations ranging from sighs, tutting, raised eyebrows and the occasional “I know, I know!” ensued. After an hour and a half, the drivers door of the Vauxhall in front opened for the 4th time and she hopped out, catching my mums eye as she walked past. Now in my mothers eyes this meant that this poor lady was begging for a cup of tea, slice of excellent homemade chocolate and banana cake and a 3 hour chat. Forgoing the tools for the first two items, she exercised her, I must say impressive, skill of chatting to a stranger. This was Inge, a Dutch born Bristolian and career coach. We traded plans, she and her husband were off to house-sit their way across Europe for 4 months, bikes at the ready to explore every town they stayed in. She asked about our adventures and my mother explained, with nerves and a pinch of pride, about what we were up too. Inge turned to me and said “Well you’re doing the right thing” and with that mums cortisol levels dropped like a stone. After 30 minutes of “thank you”s to Inge and a promise to connect on LinkedIn, it was just 3 short hours of reddening necks and edge of nervous breakdowns before it was finally time to get on the train.

In our carriage, we parked up behind Inge again and as the train started to rattle down into the depths of the channel. Inge’s wandering feet and my mother’s social side, shortly bumped into each other again. This time, Inge had remembered something she wanted to show me, an app called Polarsteps that would be perfect for journaling my trip. I promised to set it up as soon as I was tucked up in my tent that night (a promise I unfortunately broke to multiple people over this trip!) With her recommendation passed on and French shores imminent we sat back in the car and 5 minutes later we had arrived!

With the delays and time difference it was now past 7pm. There was unfortunately no way I could log 100km on the bike and arrive at camp before the reception closed at 8:30. So I explained to my parents my wish to touch the sea in Calais and end my trip touching the lake in Italy. So after a quick diversion to Plage des Baraques, we drove the 45 minutes across the clouded countryside to my first campsite.

As we pulled up a light in the mobile home opposite the gate lit-up and a Monsieur stepped out. I stumbled out a blend of primary English and French and proffered my phone with the campsite confirmation email. He nodded and led me to my pitch pointing out the “sanitation” hidden behind my pitch under a tree. My bike followed us chauffeured to the pitch where I freed it from its rack and it first touched French soil. With a smile he left the three of us to unload the multiple bags onto the emergency blanket id laid out to protect them from the ground. After a couple of minutes I had my tent staked out, we had done a last minute luggage, wallet and bike check and my parents quizzical frowns had turned to nervous smiles. I told them to not hang around as I knew they still had a short drive and the evening was getting on. They agreed. We hugged, words of luck passed and they waved a bleary eyed goodbye before the car tiptoed out of the gate and they disappeared.

Even though I was now on my own in a foreign(-ish) country, I didn’t feel remote at all. My family weren’t far, I had a comfortable camp set up, everything was safe, accounted for and working, I was full of energy thanks to my dehydrated chicken korma dinner and all I had to do was lie down and sleep. I decided to video call my partner. I showed her my camp, assured her I was safe and after a pleasant 20 minutes of chatting said goodnight. I was unfortunately however now quite awake and the combination of the days nerves, petrol station food and the rehydrated Korma had left my tummy ready to get rid of unnecessary baggage. I sighed and shuffled out of my warm sleeping bag, slipped on my thongs and flip flopped my way to the sanitation block 50m away.

The first challenge of the trip then presented itself. Les toilette du camping. Door one revealed a toilet bowl but without a seat. I backed out and tried the next. The same problem. Perplexed and wondering who the weird French thief was, I opened the third door. The penny dropped as I saw a hole in the floor with 2 small steps placed in front of it. I grimaced, but took a second to summon the positive attitude I had decided to bring on this adventure. It would be a great opportunity to practise for a wild poo. So after grabbing an excessive amount of loo roll from the solo dispenser outside of the cubicles (I know, mental) I dropped my trousers, lined up my shot and lent on my knees for emotional and physical support. Kobe! It was a perfect swish, nothing but net! I breathed a sigh of relief, I had been dreading having to nudge that down a hole with my flip flop!

I shuffled out of the toilet proud of myself but also feeling a little peculiar. Just to be safe I rinsed off my legs, flip flops and feet in the shower. I knew keeping my gear clean was paramount as getting dirt and moisture trapped in my sleeping gear would not only smell horrible but it could render it completely ineffective. As my legs dried off I did my teeth, poking my head out to spy on my bike to make sure it was safe.

I plodded back to my tent, double checked my bike was safely locked up with a network of guy ropes and pegs laced through it and finally covered it with the emergency blanket to protect it from any surprise rain. Then I crouched down into my tent, zipped up and drifted off to sleep.