[With apologies to AC/DC for nicking and sampling their song title]
But still, it was for a good cause -
namely the Cystic Fibrosis Trust. If my 15-month old daughter, Freya,
had been born back in the 1960s – when I was, thank you for
pointing that out - she would probably not have made it to her first
birthday. The fact that the NHS has had to establish adult CF units
in recent years, though, is testament to the hard work that the likes
of the CF Trust undertake. Life expectancy is now 41 years and
rising...
And so, six months later, and with the
best-intentioned training plan well and truly out thrown out of a
very high window, myself and my neighbour and cycling buddy Pete
found ourselves donning our lycra, turning on our lights, and joining
3000 other cyclists for the ride of a nighttime!
Of course, they don’t set you all off
from the same place in one go. There were two start and finish points
– Crystal and Alexandra Palaces on opposite sides of London – with riders set off in
semi-orderly groups of 75. This was probably dangerous enough to be
honest. Not many people have cycled with more than a couple of mates
at a time, and to suddenly find yourself pedalling along with 74
other people in hi-vis tops in the dark – never mind barrelling
down a hill towards a crossroads and a set of lights in the first
drop down from the start at Ally Pally – tends to concentrate the
mind somewhat.
My cycling buddy, Pete, had kindly
informed me that Highgate Hill was the highest part of London and
therefore going to be an interesting part of the ride. What he hadn’t
told me was that Highgate Hill was beside Alexandra Palace, so no
sooner had we shwooshed down than we had to swoosh upwards again.
Well, I say swoosh...I actually mean fumble desperately for granny
gear and pant my way to the top while vowing not to, under any
circumstances, get off and walk. I think it was about there that I
noted that two training rides – one of 30k, one of 50k – was
slightly under-preparing myself...not to mention that Pete seemed to be going uphill much, much easier than I was.
It was about one in the morning and
London was quiet and sleepy – at least until we got to Camden,
which was very much still in full swing with the pavements outside
the pubs crowded with people that were having a significantly less
energetic time than we were currently experiencing (unless
metabolising vast amounts of Bacardi Breezers counts as energetic).
Not much time or breath for long, shouted conversations beyond the
‘charity bike ride’ sort of explanation, but with several hundred
of us having gone through already the message seemed to have got
across and there was lots of shouted encouragement (slurred) and
requests for high-fives (haphazard).
In fact, people were in general
astoundingly good natured throughout. There’s probably the odd
nightbus driver and taxi driver that would rather not see another
group of cyclists wearing hi-vis vests and being all belligerent
about their rights to their own piece of road for a while, but public
support was out and about and in much evidence.
Cycling through Central London in a
group was fantastic. Normally on this sort of thing you tend to
string out and clump together again at the lights, where the massed
sound of people clicking into their pedals almost drowns out the
revving of the engines, but when the traffic gets bad you tend to
look for safety in numbers and form a gaggle. This was kind of handy
as the most traffic hazards I normally encounter up and about Rutland
where I live involve sheep, so being able to tag along with people
who are obviously experienced at cutting up and zooming past
taxis/buses/cars/rickshaws/pedestrians was invaluable. It was
probably all a bit dangerous, but it was also extremely exhilarating.
They come up here, and I’ll return the favour: I can spot a
slippery patch of sheep dung from 100 metres out.
Regent St was jammed, as was
Shaftesbury Avenue, but then it all widened out and quietened down as
we bombed over the Thames for the first of four crossings (I say
bombed, stopped and took photos of the City and the Eye all lit up is
more like it). Proving that, indeed, no one goes sarf of the river at
this time of night, we loop silently down and past The Oval without
much anyone else accompanying us, before heading back over the Thames
and ghosting round Parliament Square as Big Ben strikes the half hour
above us and the lone peace protester huddles under his blankets.
Trafalgar Square, the back end of Buck House, Marble Arch...the
landmarks get ticked off one by one, which is a good job too because,
as soon as we get back over the Thames once more and start heading
south seriously towards Crystal Palace there's bugger all of interest
beyond an odd 3am traffic jam on Clapham Common.
The long drag up to the halfway point
at Crystal Palace is long and dispiriting, but nothing compared to
the haul from there in the dog hours of the morning before dawn back
into London. Thighs burning, something pinged painfully in my right
knee, and all of a sudden the only people going up the hills slower
than me had actually dismounted and were walking it. Think even one
of those overtook me at one point. So, sad to say that dawn finally
breaking over the mists of Blackheath Common and lighting up a
traditional, old school circus, all wood and garish paintwork, only
seems fantastical in retrospect; while the descent through Greenwich
and seeing the City lit up by the rising sun like a VFX supervisor's
dream of a distant sci-fi landscape was most memorable for being on a
steep, downhill slope.
Some people had already finished by
now. In fact, while we wolfed down some food at Crystal Palace the
first of the riders that had started there were coming home, around 3
hours and 20 minutes later, all lean, lycra-clad muscle, tanned legs,
and nice bikes. By the time we got to end, we’d taken nearly eight
hours to do the course. But we were leaner too...Pete’s endomondo
tracking estimates that we burned through about 5000 calories all in
all during the course of the night, so if anyone fancies a bit of an extreme diet programme...
A quick rest in the shadow of Tower
Bridge and we were off again with 40k to go. The City was soulless –
no surprises there – while as we rumbled through Bethnal Green the
fryers were being turned on and breakfast was starting to be cooked
(judging by the smells, you could put all the weight you’d lost on
the ride on again in about three minutes flat). A loop down and
through Canary Wharf felt like unnecessary cruelty, and then it was
time to turn North for the long, shallow climb back to near the start
(which was to be followed, inevitably, by a short, hideous climb back up to the
start itself).
By this time my legs had got their
second wind, but my arse felt like I’d watched the whole Lord of
the Rings trilogy while sitting on a spike. So you quickly fall into
a rhythm now and then of standing up and pedalling, then coasting,
then pedalling a bit more, all to stop your poor pummelled perineum
from having to make contact with the saddle again. Avoiding bumps in
the road – and London roads have obviously been surfaced by a gang
of moles – swiftly became a priority as first Mile End, then Hackney, then
Highbury, then Harringay disappeared behind us.
And then there we were, at the base of
the hill with Alexandra Palace up there somewhere, back where we
started. The climb broke many, but I’d become familiar enough with
granny gear by now that I engaged it early, dropped my eyes to about
a metre in front of my tyres – sod the view, that could wait –
and just kept the legs turning over. In the right mood you could go
up Kilimanjaro like that, after 100k – well, actually 106k
according to the GPS – it’s more a case of bloody mindedly
keeping going because up there, somewhere, there’s a bacon sarnie
with your name on it...
And then you get to stand up there in
the full light of day and look back over the London Basin, checking
off the landmarks that you’ve been past. One thing’s for certain,
there was a lot of them...
Looking back on it a few days later, it
seems slightly surreal that it happened at all. I mean, was I really
part of that lycra-clad pack that swooped and soared and then struggled
and cursed round London for all those hours? The gingerness with
which I sit down and the happy £1000 sitting in the fundraising account for the CF Trust would suggest I was.
To paraphrase AC/DC once more; I'm a NightRider, get out of my way...Shazbat. Nanoo nanoo.
To paraphrase AC/DC once more; I'm a NightRider, get out of my way...Shazbat. Nanoo nanoo.
