On the 11th of July 2005 we will be attempting the 2005 Étape du Tour - a gruelling mountain stage of the famous Tour de France. The race starts at 5am in Mourenx - a small town in the shadow of les hautes pyrénées. The next 177km is dominated by some of the most challenging climbs in this years Tour de France, the highest of which being Col d'Aubesque, reaching 1677m in altitude. We are planning to complete the stage in about 12 hours, which leaves no time to stop for a baguette and a cheeky bottle of red wine on the way, it is all about sacrifices.

Over the next 5 months we will be training hard to attain the level of fitness and cycling skills necessary to complete this race!
Since this is going to be so tough, we thought it would be an added motivator to raise money for Great Ormond Street Hospital Children's Charity.

So please sponsor us now!

We plan to keep a diary of our progress and update it on the website, so please keep coming back to visit.
Donating through this site is simple, fast and totally secure. It is also the most efficient way to sponsor us: Great Ormond Street Hospital Children's Charity will receive your money faster and, if you are a UK taxpayer, an extra 28% in tax will be added to your gift at no cost to you. Many thanks for your support. Jon & Ben =========================================== DEAR DIARY (If you wish to contact us please email me at ben.idle@citigroup.com) Week 1 Week 1 and the search began to find the perfect bike. Our budget of £500 per bike was quickly shattered as we began to realise that to get two 30 somethings up the side of five mountains was going to require a lightweight, thoroughbred of a bike. We then set out on a secondary tactic, find a good bike shop, a knowledgeable shop assistant and a produce blank cheque. Jon took the approach of telling the assistant he was a complete novice and needed everything. Many hundreds of pounds later saw him leave the shop clad head to toe in luminous lycra, carbon fibre shoes and a shiny red helmet. It was when he produced the three pairs of specialist cycling socks that he knew he had been done. It is still beyond me why his jacket needed shoulder pads the size of Linda Grays. Week 2. Week 2 saw the first training run and the first accident. Meeting Jon at the shop, I very quickly realised that my shoes were attached to my pedals as the pavement smashed into my left elbow and I was dumped ceremoniously on to my back-side. What little dignity I had was long gone, leaving me with no option but to shout "I'm fine, I meant to do that" at the 50 or so people waiting for the number 15 bus. The blood running down my left leg told a different story, but I just kept thinking of those poor kids. After collecting a standing ovation from the staff in Condor Cycles we were on our way. The first run saw us cycle to the Isle of Dogs and a mile walk, pushing the bikes through the Greenwich foot tunnel, on the way passing a large group of chavs swigging Cava from the bottle, (one step up from Diamond White?). We then mounted our bikes, clipped in our shoes and averaged 8 mph through the South London traffic, back across Tower Bridge before heading for home, 17 miles completed. At the crack of dawn the following day, we met, bleary eyed and saddle sore at London Bridge and boarded the express train to Orpington. Jon's lycra tights drew some admiring glances from a group of clubbers finishing their day as we were just starting ours. The 30 mile ride from Orpington to Sevenoaks and back was an exercise in trying to keep the circulation flowing through hands and feet. Despite five layers and hundreds of pounds of specialist clothing, the wind was bitter and blowing straight into our faces regardless of which way we faced. 30 miles at an average of 13 miles an hour.... at this rate we wouldn't beat the broom wagon. The enormity of the task began to set in. Around mile 20 we decided to stop at a Cafe for a high performance bacon bap, Jon almost booked himself a place in the Darwin awards http://www.darwinawards.com/ as he had a 'shoes attached to the pedals' moment in front of the Sunshine bus. Fortunately fate smiled upon him and he lived to ride another day. Cumulative Mileage 47 Falls Ben 1 Jon 0 Week 3. Week 3 was at leisure. I shot off to Chamonix for a long weekend skiing, while Jon managed to rub the skin off the inside of his legs on the exercise bikes in his apartment's gym. The mileage count increased to 43 thanks to a couple of sessions in the gym. Cumulative Mileage 57 Falls Ben 1 Jon 0 Week 4 The biggest test so far. Sunday was our first attempt at recreating the French Pyrenees in South East England using all the North Downs had to offer. Another early start had us on the road at 7.30am. Despite the attentions of the local constabulary, a £30 fine for driving with obscured number plates, the wind, the snow and the blizzards we were climbing Box Hill, just outside of Dorking, by 9am. The Lance Armstrong High Performance Training guide, written by his coach Chris Carmichael and endorsed by the great man himself (priced £9.99 in all good book shops and some rubbish ones as well) dictated that we should warm up over seven or eight miles before attempting to climb. Obviously we ignored this advice and warmed up by climbing the zig zag road, a 3 mile climb to the top of Box Hill. The decent down was the most terrifying moment to date as our speedos (bike computers rather than short swimming trunks, it was snowing) hit 42 mph. The only thing more scary was thinking that in five months time we would be climbing hills this steep for 13km, not zipping down them for 30 seconds. 4 hours, 35 miles, a climb up Leith Hill and a dusting of snow later we climbed Box Hill again, at this stage we had no energy left at all and could only just manage to eat our bacon, cheese and mayo muffins, the food of champions for every aspiring cyclist. A mug of Bovril, heated to nuclear temperatures, a quick shiver and we made our way back to the car and headed for home. That night I slept like a baby and spent the next three days recovering. Cumulative mileage 114.5 Falls Ben 1 Jon 0 Week 5 Over a few e-mails during week, Jon and I convinced ourselves that we didn't need to hit the hills until much later in our training and we needed to get our mileage up on the flat. We agreed on another early Sunday morning start, although I spent most of the early part of it standing in McDonalds on Canon Street, in my racing lycra, surrounded by hairy arse builders coming off of their nightshift. When Jon finally did arrive, we set off for a ride around Richmond Park. I felt a little guilty about telling Jon the night before that Richmond Park was only 4 or 5 miles away, when in fact closer inspection showed it to be 13 miles, but sod him, he kept me waiting 30 minutes in the cold on a Sunday morning. Richmond Park was a whole new cycling experience for us. Surrounded by other lunatics/enthusiasts spurred us on to greater heights, although we were far from the fastest riders in the park. Other than the odd mountain biker we only managed to overtake one other racing cyclist. The euphoria was short lived as a quick glance over the shoulder showed the titan of road racing we had passed on the hill was a 13 year old girl. She added insult to injury and she overtook us again on the next hill when my chain fell off. That Sunday I celebrated my second fall. I was climbing one of Richmond Park's monster hills when my front wheel got caught in the mud at the side of the road and sent me flying over the handlebars. Again I met the pavement at some speed and this time managed to land in the road. In the words of Yogi Berra "it was deja vue all over again" as I shouted "I'm OK really" to the shocked looking family in the car alonside of me that swerved to miss my prostrate body. Four laps of the park and 13 miles home clocked up 50 miles for the day and another mileage barrier broken. This isn't really that hard. Cumulative mileage 171.5 Falls Ben 2 Jon 0 Week 6 Week 6 saw Jon fly to Cambodia for a holiday as I took a day trip on the Chunnel for some booze. The weekend passed with more snow showers and a trip to Emma's mums for Mothers Day. I chalked it up as a 'rest and recuperation weekend'. Cumulative mileage 185 Falls Ben 2 Jon 0 Week 7 Jon still away. I have taken up spinning to keep out of the snow, wind and rain. It is far more pleasant, less dangerous and a hot shower is only moments away. Cumulative mileage 190 Falls Ben 2 Jon 0 Week 8 Back on the bike. Three indoor spinning sessions kept the training up through the week with over 2 hours sat on the bike. I still haven't worked out why the participants in the class need to wear their all in one lycra outfits and I'm talking the men. As far as I can tell the wind resistance doesn't really seem to affect my stationary bike indoors...maybe it's a fashion thing!? Saturday lunchtime and another trip to Richmond park. After a 2 hour drive to get there, a few wrong turns, a blocked streets full of England rugby fans and almost running out of petrol, I was stripped down, on the bike and ready to go. After a circuit warming up I was head down, up on the pedals and firing on all cylinders. Without Jon slowing me down I managed to up my average speed to 16 mph, catching a least 2 other cyclists on my way. This time they were male and of official size and weight and although they were wearing tracksuit bottoms they still counted. As the light drew in and my Nan and Grandad's 60th wedding anniversary drew nearer, it was time to return to the car for the long drive back. I was dissapointed to only manage 30 miles, but pleased that I wasn't over-taken. The Pyrenees seem to be looming large and getting scary. Just 4 months to go. Cumulative mileage 311 Falls Ben 2 Jon 0 Week 9 Is it really week 9 already. It seems days since I was a complete novice. I am now flying around the streets of London, barely stopping to draw breath. In fact I can shout streams of abuse and make hand gestures without even slowing down, things are definitely looking up! Week 9's ride was another trip to Richmond park. This time for 4.5 laps. After getting lost last week driving to it I decided to cycle there this time. Saturday's glorius weather deceived me and there isn't much warmth in those lycra shorts and shirts, still it kept me on the move. For the first two laps I was picking off the other riders one by one, then gradually the carbon fibre boys turned up. I graded myself 'pretty average', a vast improvement, and kept my head down and kept going. Stupidly, I had made a pact with myself that if it read less than 40 miles I would ride another half a lap. As I passed Sheen gate the computer read 39.4 miles, I stood up on the pedals, accelarated with everything I had left and headed out again. A mile on I found the shortcut through the middle of the partk, turned in, weaved in and out of the kids on their roller blades, the dogs the pushchairs and headed for the top of the hill. I don't know whether it was exhaustion, hunger, light-headeness, or a combination of the three, that made me turn the wrong way at the end, but whatever it was led me to another 7 mile lap and a leg sapping journey home. No falls to report, another 60 miles clocked up and some very sore knees. Cumulative mileage 401 Falls Ben 2 Jon 0 Week 10 - Easter Weekend Traditionally the time of relative visiting and chocolate eating. I decided to do the former and try and cut out the chocolate. Good Friday was a beautiful day and Emma and I headed to Emma's stepmums, with her brother Peter in tow. After 3 hours on the M3 we reached a small village just outside of Winchester, Emma chucked me out on a drive in front of a farm, I put the front wheel back on my bike and headed off with just my wits and a map, printed on the back of a credit card bill, cut and pasted from multimap. They say that life should be full of learning experiences, I learnt two very important things on this very holy weekend. My first learning experience occured as I took my third fall. As I sat on the tarmac, in the middle of nowhere, it dawned on me that if you remove the back wheel it is best to tighten it back up again before riding on it, that way it doesn't come to a complete stop as it rubs against the tyre and throw you over the handlebars on to the grass verge. The second learning experience was that Epson ink jet printers don't produce sweat proof printouts. Shoving the map inside my cycling jersey was a very effective way of destroying it, making it very difficult to have any idea of where you are and where you are going. So when I hadn't arrived at Louise's house an hour after I set off, I swallowed my pride and called Emma to come and find me. By this stage Jon had returned from Cambodia, but was unable to join me on the Bank Holiday monday ride. He had some sort of life threatening squash injury. Instead the day was spent with family and a walk along the banks of the Thames. Far more sensible and much less dangerous. The bike goes in for it's 250 mile service this week, I'm waiting for mine.... Cumulative mileage 429 Falls Ben 3 Jon 0 Week 11 Condor Cycles have done a fantastic job tuning the bike after its first service. It runs like a dream, I still cycle like a nightmare, but you can't fault my equipment. Saturday was spent at Newbury races, I tried to take it easy on the booze, but the 1996 Port got the better of me and ruined my preparation for Sunday's ride. A two hour power nap in the car on the way home from the races and four pints of Ribena did their best to improve the situation although I'm sure Lance Armstrong prepares slightly differently. Sunday morning I awoke to sunshine, saw that their was only enough for one bowl of Cheerios, the food of champions, did the gentlemanly thing and gave those to Emma, supplemented my training regime with a large bowl of pasta for breakfast, downed another two pints of Ribena and dressed in my lycras and we set off for Greenwich. Once in Greenwich I was again unceremoniously dumped from the car and set off eastwards towards Hartley in Kent. Spotting a sign, 6.5miles, national cycle path to Bexleyheath I headed off in that direction. After approximately 300 yards the cycle path disappeared and I found myself among three lanes of traffic approaching the sun in the sands roundabout, the Blackwall tunnel and the A2. Visibly shaking I crossed the roundabout and set a path towards Shooters Hill. Four miles later I arrived at the bottom of the hill and rode like a Colossus towards the top of it. Shooters Hill was no problem, at this rate I could be in for a gold medal on the Etape. I took a celebratory swig of water and cruised down the other side of the hill, smiling smugly to my self as I overtook a VW Polo and clocked my speed at 42 mph (in a 30mph zone as well!). The next part of the route was busy with traffic and I struggled to maintain any kind of speed as I chugged through Welling and Bexleyheath. As the traffic thinned Bexley Village passed in a whirr, I flew up the hills and began to feel good. I resisted the temptation to call in on my brother as I passed the end of the road and built up some speed towards the country lanes. The first shock of the day was tuning southwards and hitting the wind. It knocked about 4mph from my speed, began to zap my energy and really pissed me off. Wilmington and Hextable were hard work as the Speedo showed 15 miles. Swanley was the next town and I think the inhabitants have a highway code all of their own, a couple of white vans on their way to the local boot fair tried to take me out. The next big challenge was the M20 roundabout. I bottled it, go off my bike, remembering to unclip my shoes from the pedals and pushed the bike round the pavement, this took a couple of mph off of my average speed, but better to finish alive than not at all. I clocked a new top speed of 45mph down the hill towards Horton Kirby, I was clinging on to the handlebars for dear life and hoping everything on the bike was tightly in place. The small pot holes loomed like craters left by meteorites designed to throw me into the traffic. I tried to carry the moment up the hill at the other side but some over zealous town planner had put a roundabout at the bottom and I braked viscously and started the long climb up Death Hill on the other side. Local legend has it that Death Hill, which climbs from Horton Kirby up to West Kingsdown, via the entrance to Brandshatch Motor Circuit, is so called because of the accidents there over the years. It is long and it is steep. I resisted the temptation to turn off half way up and take the short cut and completed the ride to the top. Memories of a more simple youth came flooding back to me as I cycled by Formula One motors, a shop where I spent my hard earned Saturday job money, making my 1978, 850 mini look like something a modern day chav would race round Asda car park. West Kingsdown completed I turned left and headed for Hartley. The run in to Hartley was beautifully paved, I cruised along at 23 mph and decided I needed one more hill. I picked the toughest, steepest one and puffed my way to the top, like a pensioner with a 40 a day woodbine habit. 30 miles later and I was in Hartley, my victorious arrival was mainly ignored as there was nobody home at my parent's house, so I put another 3 miles on the clock and called it a day. Cumulative mileage 504 Falls Ben 3 Jon 0 Week 12 Three months of training have now passed, the half way stage has been reached, you would have thought that after 12 weeks of pedalling we would be winning races, wearing rosettes and flashing our medals. But no, after 12 weeks we are still well and truly amateurs, try as we might the slightest headwind ruins our average speed and destroys our legs. So this week the gloves come off, out comes the "Turbo Trainer". For the non-cyclist, a Turbo Trainer is an instrument of torture that clips to your rear wheel and simulates the same sort of pain that you get on a large hill, in the comfort of your own home. So on Wednesday night I settled down on the bike for an hour of "The Apprentice" and an hour of torture. It put another 15 miles in my legs and about a litre of sweat on the wooden floor. I added a 40 minute spinning class to the training the next day and mentally prepared myself for the weekends ride. Having returned from his holidays, Jon was firmly back in the saddle. Sunday's ride was courtesy of www.pocketroutes.com. If you want to pay £3 for a tiny map with very small roads highlighted in grey on it, making it virtually impossible to follow, then these are your men. The route was 96.6 km through the Essex/Suffolk border towns. Beautiful scenery, rolling hills, roads covered in a mixture of gravel, sand, mud and horse manure, just what ultra thin, slick racing tyres were made for. The ride started in Bures on the Essex border. We were somewhat concerned that the next village on a tour was Mount Bures, I bunked off many of my geography classes at school, but I'm sure I would have remembered if we had discussed the mountains of northern Essex. I am pleased to report that mount, in Essex terms, means mound, rather than mountain and is no more than 10 feet high. So we struggled up that and carried on. Five miles and four wrong turns later we arrived in Nayland, there was no time to stop and visit the Constable alter-piece in the local church it was on to the 14th century town of Hadleigh. We never actually arrived in Hadleigh, once again we took a couple for wrong turnings and ended up on the A1071 to Lavenham. Lavenham was the next stop on the journey and we decided to go straight there. Lunch was calling and our discussions turned to the best cycling food you could get in a pub. In a two to none vote we decided that Kersey was the best village we visited on the tour. It remains the only village where we have crossed a river without using a bridge. We ploughed straight through the ford and continued up the imposing hill on the other side. In our excitement we took another wrong and ended up on another major road, into a headwind, all the way to Lavenham. On arriving to Lavenham, with 30 miles under our belts, Jon announced that he had bonked. I was a little confused, although he was a little way behind me, he must have had more energy left than I did, to stop off and catch back up. My mistake. It turns out that bonking is the cycling equivalent of hitting the wall. So we stopped for the perfect cure, two portions of lasagne, chips and coleslaw and a couple of pints of lager shandy. Over lunch, while pushing the pub's salivating Labrador away we discussed training techniques. Jon was surprised to see that his heart rate had hit over 190 for extended periods of time, but even more surprised that his hairdresser had added 4 years to his age, it must come as a shock when you have spent your formative drinking years looking about 14 and your twenties looking like a teenager. Still at least he has a hairdresser. The next half of the journey was long, windy and tiring. My knees began to misbehave, my head began to throb and the enormity of the task loomed large once more. We ticked off the villages one by one, Foxearth, Belchamp StPaul , Belchamp Otten, Belechamp Walter. Lovejoy fans (the 1980s badly dressed antiques dealer, not the modern day, badly dressed, international television star) will remember Belchamp as the home of Ian McShane's love interest Lady Jane. Belchamp is also home to the Belchamp morris dancers, sadly the village green was bare, save for a couple of kids kicking a football. To us Belchamp will always be remembered as mile 48 and only 12 to go. The best part of the day was the sign saying Bures 5 miles. We decided to see how quickly we could ride the last piece. The answer was, not very.... Most of it was down hill and we reached the car, dressed back in our Civvies and drove back to the big smoke. Cumulative mileage 548 Falls Ben 3 Jon 0 Ice-packs on knees Ben - A pack of frozen spinach on one and a loaf of Hovis, "Best of Both", on the other Week 13 This week is the week to get serious. A trip to the physio, a mad Barbadian and a new coach. Unfortunately my planned holiday falls slap bang in the middle of my training schedule, so I had the bright idea of taking my bike to Barbados and doing a couple of training rides around the island. What seemed like a simple plan is now turning in to a nightmare. First off I emailed the hotel in Barbados to see if they could put me in touch with a local cycle club. The super efficient Ruth at the Crane put me in touch with a lovely guy, Mark Grannum, who heads up the Barbados cycling federation. A classic case of Chinese whispers leads Mark to think I am the next David Millar and works flat out on preparing my training and racing schedule. The day after I land from my 13 hour flight I am due to ride out with Barbados' most promising youngster, riding 150-200 miles a week in the searing heat will get me in shape for the Bridgetown challenge. A circuit race round the capital of Barbados. This will be followed by a further couple of hundred miles around the Island with the seniors, before I am allowed to sit back, put my feet up and have a well deserved rum punch. As much as I try to back out, telling Mark that I am really just a keen amateur looking to join a nice gentle club run, the more he takes it upon himself to pit me against the best the West Indies have to offer. It looks to me that my first competitive race will be around the streets of Bridgetown, talk about in at the deep end. This week I also met with the physio to discuss my knee problems. After putting on the shorts provided to cover my modesty, I was told to balance on one leg. Not normally a problem, however on this occasion that proved just about impossible. My feet received their first ever compliment, "the perfect feet for cycling, totally flat and without shape". The faint glow of pride quickly faded as my knees were ridiculed, my posture criticised and my ability to stretch and balance mocked. If I wanted to spend the day being insulted I could have stayed at home. After a session of painful massage I was sent off with instructions on how to set up my cleats and buy some "floaters". The best decision of the week was to sign up with a coach. Jon found John Ibbotson through www.fit-for.com. John is an ex-pro that has raced with all the greats. We are hoping that just some of John's experience rubs off on us and that his training schedule isn't too gruesome. This weeks training was restricted to the turbo trainer due to a business trip to NY Cumulative mileage 616 Falls Ben 3 Jon 0 Week 14 The big ride of the week was our first out with our new coach. Picture this, it's 9.30 on a wet Saturday morning, we reach the top of Box Hill and come across 12 riders, clad head to toe in team kit, proudly showing off their carbon and titanium racing bikes. There were more shiny toys there than at Hamleys. After meeting John we got chatting to Disco Stu. Steve, as he was otherwise known, was having a mid-life crisis. He was about to turn 40 and decided to take up cycling seriously. As any seriously wealthy, semi-retired, northern haulier would, he had purchased 4 different bikes tailored for each of his cycling experiences. His choice for the day was a two and a half grand Litespeed Vortex, his training bike. To say Disco Stu was keen, was a bit like saying that Pope Benedict XIV was a little right wing. Disco drives down from Cheshire twice a week to ride the Surrey Hills, every Wednesday and Saturday he leaves his house at 4.30 in the morning to get to Box Hill. He could also barely conceal his disgust with himself when he recounted his last race. Disco was in contention coming into the final sprint for the line, however he got his tactics wrong and only managed to finish in the top 20. I would say he gets his tactics wrong every time he jumps in his car and drives 300 miles for a bike ride. The ride was about learning how to descend and how to climb. The first lesson of the day was descending. Jon learnt a big lesson here. When descending, if you want to avoid skidding like a lunatic at 30 mph down hill, it is best not to just slam on your back brake. The ride was tough, three or four climbs up Box Hill, more 21% gradient hills than I knew existed in the whole of the UK, let alone a corner of Surrey and a total of 50 miles. Cold, wet and tired we arrived at the National Trust tea shop at the top of Box Hill for some nutrional advise. The best advise on what to eat I have ever received. Because of the enormous calories an endurance athlete (yeah, I know) burns, it is important to replace them with quickly absorbed carbohydrates. Little plastic bags full of fig roles, jam sandwiches, jelly babies, wine gums and other goodies were laid out before us. We were told to dive in, Jon didn't take much telling and filled his pockets for the car ride home. The group of us had obviously bonded over the 3 hours of riding. When the nutrionist asked if there were any questions all sorts of medical complaints were aired. The question about cramps came first, a bit of salt in your water was enough for that. Then came the questions about when and how often to eat on the Etape. Then came the question that stumped her. "I have Crohn's disease, everything I eat goes through me within about an hour" If that wasn't enough the graphic descriptions that followed were enough to put me right off my fig rolls. The question askers were satiated, even if one of the cyclists wasn't, so we hoped back on the bikes, learnt how to ride up and down hairpins and added another few miles to the clock. Cumulative mileage 712 Falls Ben 3 Jon 0 (although more skids than a Sumo wrestler's jock strap) Week 15 Week 15 and the pressure is beginning to build. The sessions from our trainer, Ibbo, are beginning to get tough. They say the human body learns to sweat, mine has picked that up pretty quickly, Jon's is out pacing mine. That boy can sweat. Sessions in the gym this week involved riding for 30 minutes at 90% of maximum heart rate. Riding for 45 minutes with the legs spinning at more than 110 beats per minute, riding like a lunatic for 1 minute every 4 minutes. You know this is getting serious when you look around you in the gym, see people cycling and reading, maybe watching MTV while they pedal away and you are alongside them, face contorted with pain, so much effort going into pedalling that the exercise bike is inching towards the TV screens and juddering furiously. I'm sure I saw some of the staff coming over, just to have a look at the freak. The ride this week retraced the previous weeks ride. For the non racing cyclists amongst you (I think we have earned the title), let me speak to you about what it is like. Setting off at 8.30 on a crisp Sunday morning on an empty country road, your body is still waking up, trying to digest the bowl of pasta that you consumed at 7 o'clock that morning. Your legs are still a little stiff and cold, your mind is alert and slightly nervous about the ride ahead. As you set off down the hairpin bends that take you down from the top of Box Hill the cold air begins to shock you into life. You grab the drop bars and watch the speedo nudge up over 35 mph. You anticipate the speed bumps and listen to the rush of the wind past your ears. You silently pray that everything is tight on the bike and watch for the first hairpin. You drop your speed sharply from 40 down to 7 as you reach the bend, a quick check over you rshoulder and you move out to the middle of the road to flatten the bend, as you round it your whole mind is filled with nothing but the corner, too quickly into it and you have a choice of braking while turning and throwing yourself off, or over shooting it and hitting the crash barriers, too slowly and you lose your hard earned momentum. A mixture of fear and adrenaline comes over you as you complete the manoeuvre and you cast your mind onto the next stretch of road, ready to do it all over again. After that you are glad of the first hill, a chance to get your body warm and see what you have in your legs for the day. The first climb of the day is the hardest, your body shouts at you to stop and it is all mental. You push on and on, up and up, you glance at your heart rate monitor and watch as it climbs inversely proportionate to the bikes speed. As the brow of the hill comes into sight, you push on, drop the gear, spin your legs and get a feel for how hard the day is going to be. Today feels like it is going to be a good day. Of course, five hours later, it is sheer agony, nothing exists except the pain in your back, your legs, your hands, your head and the beauty and simplicity of the sport seem a long way away. As well as all this we also saw a great fall from a mountain biker. He was emerging from the woods at the side of the road in Peas Lake, down a steep bank, when he saw he was going to crash into us, he slammed his brakes on, catapulted over the handlebars on to the road in front of us. The language coming from his mouth was as colourful as his luminous team jersey, but not quite as bright as his red face as he tried to cover up his embarrassment. We also had our first puncture, Jon hit a stone descending Box Hill and watched his tyre deflate. After about 30 minutes trying to pump a new one up we gave up and jumped on the train back home. The ride was cut short just before we where due to climb Box Hill four more times....shame. An email from Jon the next day confirmed what amateurs we both still are when he realised that the new inner tube also had a puncture and was completely the wrong size for the tyre. Cumulative mileage 792 Falls Ben 3 Jon 0 Week 16 This was the week I bonked. It was my own fault. Another Surrey Hills run. We were feeling good, a run down Box Hill, through East Horsley on to Shere, up the horrible hills the other side of Shere, through Peas Lake, up the 21% hill, back down into Shere, a cup of coffee and some flapjacks at the cycle friendly Lucky Duck tea room, weaved through the tourists, back though East Horsley. At this stage Jon and I realised we were fast approaching a cyclist, not just any cyclist, but a racing cyclist in full team kit, riding a proper £2000 bike. We cruised nonchalantly passed him, breaking our overtaking duck and starter congratulating each other on the deed. It was short lived as he caught us up 10 minutes later. After chatting for a few minutes, I learnt he was from South Texas, no he didn't know Lance Armstrong, he had been riding for 20 miles, cycling in South Texas is fraught with danger as a lot of the rednecks believe that cycling on shiny bikes, dressed in even shinier lycra is a touch effeminate and like to make their point felt by running you off the road at high speed. We also learnt that this was the first time he had ridden since January after having broken his wrist in a fall. Being from Texas, he could see the silver lining in the cloud and was looking forward to his government compensation of £3000. Apparently the government has a fund to look after injured cyclists. Honestly, these Americans, they come over here, drink our beer, take our women, use up our government cycle accident compensation fund. We cycled together for a few miles until we reached the bottom of Box Hill, I turned the 90% corner on to the slope first and could feel the presence of two riders just behind me, Texas Tom and I assumed Jon. I upped the pace and they stayed with me. I thought OK, let's see what you have got, turned round Armstrong style, to look into their eyes. It was then I noticed Jon was nowhere to be seen and I was looking into the eyes of a cross between Miguel Induran and Skeletor, a man with such a low amount of body fat my nan would have made him eat a second plate of Tunnocks Tea Cakes. Worst of all he was on a Lite Speed bike. To the uninitiated these are the Ferraris of the racing bike world, I knew I was in trouble. We hit the half way point again and I climbed out of my saddle and put in a little sprint. I dropped the Texan, but could only watch in desperations as Lite Speed hit warp speed and sped off to the top of the hill. By this stage I had nothing left in the locker. The last five minutes were some of the longest of my life, I clung in there to stop the indignity of being passed by the man with the broken wrist, but I knew, when I reached the top, that the next 20 miles were not going to be very much fun. I was right; I couldn't keep up with Jon, to compensate for the race I had stuffed myself with cake, energy bars, tea and coke, I now had a stitch as well as everything else. That boy is now so sensible, gone are the days when he would race home after an afternoon on the Stella, through the Kent countryside, with no lights on, down hill, falling off, cutting himself to pieces, pouting TCP on the cut, passing out and waking up the next day in his bed room, with every part of him, the walls and the bed covered in blood, anyway I digress. Bonking is horrible, tunnel vision sets in, you can't remember where you are going or where you have been. The last 20 miles were miserable, especially when we reached the top of Box Hill again and realised we were 0.75 miles short of our 60 mile target. We carried on for 0.325 miles, turned round, came back, had a cup of tea and a slice of cake at the National Trust tea room and laboured home in the car through the delights of South London. Cumulative mileage 792 Falls Ben 3 Jon 0 Week 17 During week 17 I started to commute the 5 miles to work. This adds a much needed 50 miles to the training each week. It has the added bonus of gettign my lungs used to working in an environment where there is limited amount of oxygen. I'm not sure if the rarefied air of the Pyrenees counts as the same as the diesel enhanced air of East London's mean streets but you never no your luck. Adding up all miles spent on a bike to date equals a grand total of 937, at this rate my predictor graph says that we will have covered 1600 miles on a bike by the time the race rolls round. This weeks endurance ride was an epic. A 90 mile, 6 and a half hour monster. Meeting Jon at the base of the great Cutty Sark, the world's only surviving tea clipper and a steal to visit at £4.50 for adults and £3.20 for children, at 8 am, with 5 miles already under my belt, we headed out towards Westerham. The first part of the journey through Greenwich park and Blackheath was picturesque enough. It went down hill as the roads descended down to Bromley and then picked up again as we climbed towards the splendour of Keston Park and onto Downe. Two things struck me as we entered Downe, the first of which was that despite the fact it is no more than 10 miles from where we both grow up, neither Jon or I knew that it was from Downe House that Charles Darwin wrote Origin of the Species. We bemoaned the British education system that allows children to grow up learning about the history of the Tolland Man and omits the fact that Charles Darwin lived a few miles up the road. We were also pleased to see that it wasn't being besieged by creationists, just one man walking his dog, out to pick up his Sunday papers. I also reminisced about how I camped at Downe as a kid, in a tent, not dressed in pick, parading up and down. My dad used to join us on these camping trips, it was only recently that I learnt that far from being an outdoor, woodsman kind of guy, he used to get up an hour before everybody else, drive home, have a shower and shave, before heading back before the rest of us were awake. A bit underhand, but genius none the less. The next part of the route was downhill for about 3 miles, topping 40 mph, the wind in my cycling cap enjoying the blast. We found our way on to the A25 at Westerham and followed it for about 50 miles to Box Hill. On the way we joined a bunch from the London Dynamo and rode with them for a few miles, enjoying the slipstream you get riding in a bunch, and kidding ourselves into thinking what a great difference it will make on the big day. Box Hill conquered we sat with the rest of the lycra warriors, sipping pepsi, eating carrot cake and spotting who had shaved their legs. Half an hour here, just long enough for the legs to seize up and we headed back the way we came. The next part of the journey was hot and hard work, we planned to ride for 80 miles to day, but at 77 we were at the bottom of the 3 mile hill up to Downe over the North Downs. The ride up that hill was seriously hard, with 6 hours of riding in our legs it was one long painful slog, but we conquered it watched our heart rates top 180 and pushed on to Orpington and let the 'train take the strain' back to London bridge. Another 3 miles back home, 90 miles on the clock, some exceptionally strange sun tan marks, a face covered in sweat, snot and oil and some aching legs. All in all a good day in the saddle. Cumulative mileage 918 Falls Ben 3 Jon 0 Week 18 Our coach, John Ibbotson, has started to turn up the heat, just at the same time as our bodies have started to put up the white flag. John is a follower of the heart rate training technique. He now has us riding at 90% of our maximum heart rate for 35 minutes continually. Between now and the tour this will be increased to an hour. To give you some idea of how that feels, imagine you are out walking in the woods, the plains of Africa, the Amazonian rain forest, Bluewater (delete as applicable) and you are chased by a bear, a lion, a spear wielding pygmy, a baseball cap wearing hoodie (delete as appropriate) and you had to out run them. You would probably be at about 90% of your maximum heart rate, this is the same level as that masochist has us training at 4 times a week. Our long ride this week was a leisurely jaunt to the seaside for a kiss me quick hat and a stick of rock. After a quick 20 mile warm up ride each we met under the shadow of the greatest British war time leader, Winston Churchill, at the green in Westerham. From there we followed the B2026 South. Both of us have become accustomed to following the weather forecast each morning and knew that yesterday was due for strong winds, rain, hail and sunshine. We also knew that the wind was blowing from the South and we had 75 miles to ride in exactly this direction. It was quite hard going. The pace was leisurely, the wind was cold and the sun was struggling to break through the clouds. After only a few minutes in the saddle we passed the quintessential Englishmen out to buy his Sunday paper. Plus fours, waxed handlebar moustache, tweed jacket, deerstalker hat, bowl-end pipe and a shooting stick. You just don't see enough of that kind of get up. He doffed his hat to us as we passed and threw us a cheerful good morning. Shortly afterwards we met what could easily have been this gentlemen's father. We caught him on a short hill just outside Redlands. He had a strange cycling style, like watching C3PO on a bike. It was only when we caught him that we realised that he was in his late 70s and his style was probably more to do with arthritis than with choice. His age belied his speed and although Jon gallantly sped past him on the hills, he was soon up with us, chatting about how he was meeting the boys for elevenses at the local team room. In the end age went before beauty and we let him go, but not before he chastised us for planning on getting the train back from London; "May is a time for 100 mile rides, not 60s". As we reached Ashdown forest the weather closed in, the rain started and the wind blew into our faces. We did see a small deer in the forest, that looked as startled to see us as we were to see it. After 3 miles of climbing we reached the top of the forest and were disappointed that the sky was so grey we couldn't see the view. Ten minutes later we were passed through the last of the forest, the sun broke through the clouds and we came across an oasis, the Poundgate teashop. Again, my eyes were bigger than my belly and I ordered the special, a round of egg mayonnaise sandwiches, two wholemeal scones with jam and clotted cream, a slab of passion fruit cake and four cups of tea. At this rate I didn't really need the five lucasade energy bars and the bag of jelly babies I was carrying in my jersey pockets. Suitably refreshed we pushed on to Brighton. The next part of the journey was hard, the long narrow country roads were replaced by long, wide, fast A roads and we spent an hour being buffeted by the lorries, vans and four wheeled drives. When we finally reached Lewes we headed for a cycle path. Jon took his first fall as he braked suddenly to miss some broken glass, couldn't wrench his feet from the pedals and hit the grass verge. I cheered and shouted 3-1, which probably didn't help, but no harm done. A wrong turning found us in the picture postcard village of Glyne. A long hilly road then took us down to New Haven, because we wanted to follow the coast road into Brighton. The give away that it wasn't the best route for cyclists should have been the words "Telscome Cliffs" on the map, but we pushed on regardless. 75 miles after setting off we rolled into Brighton. Our plans for a 99 flake on the beach didn't materialise when we saw the number of tourists on the promenade, so we found the station, walked straight on to the train to Farringdon, blagged our way into the first class carriage and dreamt of hot baths. Cumulative mileage 1036 Falls Ben 3 Jon 1 Week 19 Having reached the 100 mile mark, it was time for a recovery week, I didn't sit on a bike for a week. I did however pack it into small pieces, throw it into a bag and head for Gatwick for two weeks, for a much needed holiday in Barbados. After explaining to the check in girl what was in the enormous bag, we were on our way. Barbados isn't going to be just a holiday, three days on the bike, one day rest, two days on the bike, one days rest, then a race around the island with the local cycling club, this is going to be fun...... Week 20 & 21 Cycling in Barbados was hot and humid. 32 degrees and 95% humidity for the first week. The first days riding wasn't helped by cycling for an hour with my back brake on! I couldn't understand why I was close to passing out and riding at a heart rate of 170 on the flat. They also now how to build some roads straight up the steepest hills and then destroy them and cover them with pot holes! After the first few runs I soon settled into a routine of getting up at 6, putting my gear on and leaving the apartment for an hour or so. Walking back in to the apartment, bright red, soaked in sweat to listen to hilarious comments about what I looked like in my skin tight lycra. I would then jump in the freezing cold plunge pool fully cold and settle down to a breakfast of porridge. Possibly the only person on Barbados to eat porridge for breakfast every morning. The now legendary Mark Grannum called me later on in the week to discuss a training ride and a race around the streets of Bridgetown. I also had the pleasure of riding with two of his club mates along the highway by the airport, but believe it or not they were too slow and I had to push on and leave them behind, who would have thought that four months ago! The training ride, with Barbados' most promising youngster was set for 6.30 on the Saturday morning. He prepared with a trip to the gym the night before for a weight session. I prepared with a surfing lesson, a couple of glasses of Barbados finest "Banks Beer - exactly", a Thai Red curry and most of a bottle of wine. On the Saturday morning I was up and raring to go at 6 am. One peak out of the window showed the storm clouds on the horizon. Barbados' most promising young cyclist doesn't cycle in the rain, softy I thought as he called to cancel and headed off on my own. There is a reason Barbados' most promising young cyclist doesn't ride in the rain, it is called self-preservation. When the rain comes down the roads turn to rivers, the pot-holes open up and the bends get a nice smear of oil and diesel over them. Not the ideal cycling conditions, still it got my legs turning before the big race on the Sunday. The day of the big race came along. I was pumped up and ready for the 30 mile sprint around the nations capital. The black clouds loomed again on the horizon and the heavens opened. Assuming it was called off we hit the beach, ate some lunch, drank some banks and a couple of Bloody Marys and headed back to the apartment for a siesta. It was at this stage Mark called me to tell me the race was called off, bit of luck really, I'm not sure Bloody Marys and high temperature cycling are the best combination. The rest of the week followed in a similar pattern, it rained for five days solidly, training was restricted to 30 minute rides on the road and hour sessions in the gym. Cumulative mileage 1243 Falls Ben 3 Jon 1 Week 22 - The London to Brighton...and back They say that preparation is key in everything you do. My preparation wasn't really ideal for the journey. The Saturday before the ride was dinner at Emma's boss, Mark's house. The evening was great, good company, good food and excellent wine, but as the clock ticked midnight I felt like Cinderella. I needed to be in Clapham in a little over 6 hours time and we still had an hours drive to get home. We left Mark's house at about 12.30, marvelled at the number of cars on the road and headed back into London. We hit the first traffic jam about 1am and sat in the traffic, as we sat there complaining about the state of London's road system, four women came by 'power-walking' in their bras. They were followed by 40,000 other power walking women raising money for Breast cancer. So at 1.45 am I arrived home. The 'next morning' (well a little over 3 hours later) the alarm went off at 5.10 and I fell out of bed, dressed and hit the road. Waiting for Jon at London Bridge I took the opportunity to watch a few hundred more power walking, bra wearing women and the odd couple of slouching, leering, bra wearing men. We reached the start of the ride at about 6.30, got through the start gate at 7, met up with a colleague and fellow cyclist, Neil Bowman, shortly after the start and set about passing as many people as we could. The London to Brighton ride is great fun, a good atmosphere, people of all shapes and sizes, bikes of all shapes and sizes and far too many people wearing lycra that really should know better. Respect was definitely due to the guy on the Unicycle climbing Turners Hill. The first climb snarls up the road as those that haven't done any training get off and push for the first time. It is satisfying to zoom past them without breaking a sweat grinning like a Cheshire cat. Unfortunately this proved impossible and I had to make do with climbing agonisingly slowly passed, shouting; "coming through" every few seconds. The ride continues through some beautiful scenery, with some gentle climbs, some fun down hills and some long flat sections. In fact it really is rather pleasant until you reach Ditchling Beacon. Ditchling Beacon is a nice 13% climb for about 2 miles, in the 33 degree heat it wasn't a lot of fun. By this stage with 35 miles completed the walkers out-numbered the riders. It was a great feeling to reach the top and and even better feeling to see how fast we could get riding downhill into Brighton. My speedo hit 50 mph for the first time and my g-force grin split my face from ear to ear. Just over 3 hours after leaving we rolled into Brighton to collect our plastic finishers badge. The route home was particularly hellish. Long stretches down the dual carriage way of the A23, long stretches getting lost and long stretches buying water in the service stations. On reaching Gatwick airport, 90 miles completed, I had had enough. A flash of inspiration from Jon had us cutting cross country and lo and behold we rejoined the ride route. The 35 miles back to London was hot and tough, the scariest thing though were how many people we passed pushing their bikes towards Brighton. 35 miles to go and they were off and pushing on the flat, now that is going to be a long day. I arrived back in Clerkenwell 12 hours after I left and 131 miles later, my black cycling jersey white with crystallised sweat on my back, my mouth like the inside of a bin man's jock strap and my head thumping. An ice cold bath, a Waitrose gourmet moussaka, 6 pints of ribena, and my head hit the pillow. Cumulative mileage 1445 Falls Ben 3 Jon 1 Week 23 - The Alpine Tour Week 23 saw the intrepid riders getting serious. Up in the big mountains of the Alps. A Friday evening flight to Geneva, a Saturday assault on Courchevel and Meribel, the biggest peaks in the largest ski resort on the world, Le Trois Vallees and a Sunday attempt to break an hour on Alpe D'Heuz, arguably the most famous of all the Tour De France Cols and a Mecca for racing cyclists. The fact that it is now Monday evening means that we survived, the fact that you have scrolled down to the bottom of the page means I haven't the time to write any more on our exploits. To give you a flavour of what is in store, an amuse bouche, if you like (and we also had one of those on Sunday), here is a picture of yours truly 2km from the top of Alpe D'Heuz, for cycling fanatics, this is hairpin 2 at about 1900 metres, with 11km of climbing. Notice the false smile for the camera. http://81.19.50.2/email/FA5C1098.JPG and here's one of me! (Jon) http://81.19.50.2/email/FA5C1096.JPG Guest diarist: Jon! If you'd told me 6 months earlier that I'd be climbing mountains on my bike that usually I'd only visit on a skiing holiday, I'd probably have looked at you like you had 3 heads. What a weekend! We left from City Airport, which is thankfully only 8 minutes from my flat. Cool. No horrendous tube journeys to contend with carrying a 6' by 4' cycle bag. Unfortunately, our flight was delayed by 3 hours due to 'thunderstorms'. I thought planes were the safest way to travel in a thunderstorm? Idiots. So we decided to spend the time in the bar (drinking water I might add - we're athletes!), and stocking up on 'high carb' meals - which actually consisted of apple cake & flapjacks...you can eat as much as you like when you're burning the equivalent of 35 mars bars in calories in one day in the mountains! .....aaannnyway, we eventually took off - on a fairly non-descript journey to Geneva...until we hit ... a thunderstorm. Jesus Christ. We almost died! The plane suddenly dropped from the sky after apparently hitting an air-pocket - either that or the pilot had suffered an epileptic fit from the strobe-like lightning flashes. It's funny how apple cake & flapjacks taste in reverse...kind of gritty. The drive to the 'hotel' wasn't much fun either (for Ben, as he was driving!) - driving rain and more lightning. We were really glad we hadn't packed any rain gear.(never believe bbc.co.uk/weather - they lie to you about the weather). Finally, a full 3 hours later than planned, we arrived at our 'hotel', a Formule 1 - at a bargain price of 32 Euros for the two of us! Excellent. I was so tired, I didn't notice the fact there wasn't a bathroom in the room until the next morning. Saturday morning and it was still raining. So glad I only brought a short-sleeved cycling jersey. We drove to Moutiers & after driving around for half an hour looking for a sports shop to buy some waterproofs, we eventually found somewhere. So we parked up & caused gridlock. Whilst Ben was causing havoc on the streets of Moutiers, I went into the shop to purchase some waterproofs. Clearly the lady behind the counter was an avid Tour de France fan as she began to ask me where we were going to ride etc.... then she asked me 'quelle equipe?' - 'which team?' ha! Excellent! She thought I was one of the Tour de France pro riders!!! Obviously this lady can spot talent. It was only when Ben and I went for the full-on Tour of Duty army-style waterproof poncho's that she began to have her doubts. Finally, the rain cleared & I ditched my poncho - Ben, I think, was rather taken with his and decided to take it with him. The ride to Courchevel 1850 wasn't too bad - 14km at an average 7% gradient. The scenery was fantastic and probably made the climb a little easier. We reached the summit in just over an hour - not bad at all! The descent was fantastic - at 45 miles an hour, it was over in a blink of an eye. Next was the climb to Meribel - not much fun for me, but Ben seemed to get into it and steamed ahead (I think he was smarting from the fact I beat him on the last climb - not that we were in competition with each other though!). A long climb ensued and I finally reached Meribel after an hour and 15 minutes. Tough. Another speedy descent and we were back in the car with the bikes 'packed' - ie taken apart and slung in the boot. We then drove 2 hours to L'Alpe d'Huez - a mecca for any cyclist worth his salt. After finding another of France's quality hotels (this one more like Fawlty Towers meets the Addams Family - only in French), we ditched our stuff and found the nearest Italian restaurant - yes, Italilan...we needed carbs! - only they didn't have any spaghetti!!! What sort of Italian restaurant runs out if spaghetti?! So after ordering dinner for four (including banana split for dessert), we head back to Chez Addams for an early night. 07:00 - we leapt out of our respective beds, well more like crawled, and headed out to the majaestic Alpe d'Huez. Alpe d'Huez is perhaps the most famous of climbs, included in the top-billing stage of many a Tour de France - 9 miles of tarmac and 21 hairpins takes you to the top. Noone tells you that the first 2 miles are a 10% incline, and that's before you even get to the first hairpin!! This was a tough climb for sure, but the vista over Oisans framed by the surrounding intensely stratified vertiginous slopes is burned into my memory. I will never forget that climb and the way we ascended to the top. We made it in 1 hour and 15 minutes - pretty good for two that had only taken up cycling properly 6 months ago!! After refilling our waterbottles from a mountain spring, another descent at breakneck speed ensued. A quick shower & we packed the bikes before wolfing down a full on breakfast. We spent the 3 hour drive back to Geneva arguing over who should take home the polka-dot jersey (king of the mountains). We arrived in Geneva 3 hours too earlyfor our flight so decided to have lunch by Lake Geneva. A true athlete's lunch followed - 6 courses, with caviar and all the trimmings. It's what Lance would have done...isn't it? Cumulative mileage 1527 Falls Ben 3 Jon 1 Week 24 - Brighton Rock What is it about Brighton that people actually like. Time Out calls it London on Sea. I don't get it. The beach is covered in stones and badly tattooed families, sheltering behind windbreaks, trying to pretend they are enjoying themselves. The streets of London are supposedly paved with gold, the streets of Brighton are lined with ice-cream wrappers, empty beer cans and hen parties. I feel suitably qualified to speak on the subject as this weekend was my third visit in as many months and the second in as many weeks. We set out at 7am to try and break the 3-hour time for the 56-mile trip. The fastest recorded time during this years London to Brighton was 2 hours 30 so we knew this was a tough ask. The first 4 miles through Sarf London were spent trying to keep the pace up, practicing our drafting and trying to work out where the swarms of blokes in shorts and deck shoes were going at that time of the morning. The answer to that question was a visit to the local pub, for a few pints of Guinness and a further ritual humiliation from the All Blacks. Once out of London we headed in to the countryside, found the hills and found ourselves beginning to fly up them. Hills that were once to be feared and climbed in granny rings, were now merely an opportunity to stand up on the pedals and power up them. Our average speed was running at 18.5 mph and would have been more if it wasn't for the amount of traffic lights on the route. We were on for magic 3-hour mark. An hour into the ride and Jon's knee started giving him gyp. He valiantly battled to take his turn at the front, but every time he tried to put the power down it was letting him down. As the ride went on I began to find myself having to slow down to let him catch up, after his heroics of last weekend this wasn't a good sign. As the scenery become greener and our faces turned redder we carried on trying to up the tempo. Jon's knee problems eased up, the sun had come out and we were beginning to enjoy ourselves. We were slightly behind schedule and knew that we still had Ditchling Beacon to overcome. A quick stop off at an ancient post-office for some more water and we powered on. The high point of the race for me was catching my first club rider. With 35 miles already in my legs I came across the familiar sight of a pair of matching shorts and club top. I gradually caught him and was gutted when he turned left 5 yards in front of me. Only 5 months ago these guys were flying by around Richmond park, now with 1600 miles of training in my legs, the equivalent of London to Malaga, I was in business. The last part of the ride involved the climb up Ditchling Beacon. Once again we turned a corner and found a group of club riders. This time from Esporta in Crawley. Three guys and a girl. Two of the guys and the girl were dressed identically in their fetching white and blue outfits. The fourth member of the team was riding a Specialised Allez with matching red specialised racing colours. He was bulging in all the wrong places and his choice of outfit clashed with his bright purple head and the veins popping out across it. The group pulled up on the side of the road and let us by, obviously worried that we would destroy them on the climb. We pedalled off up the seemingly endless climb, even after the Alps Ditchling Beacon is a brutal slog. I lost my lowest gear half way up the climb, almost fell off and had to stop for some running repairs. Jon pulled alongside and we set off for the top together. Climbing has now turned into a hair and the tortoise race, Jon sets off in a nice steady rhythm, I go tearing off, yet we invariably reach the top in about the same time. Rounding the final corner brought the welcome sight of Mr Whippy. Two 99 flakes later and 3 of 4 of the club Esporta Crawley riders had reached the top of the climb. Mr Sweaty followed a good few minutes later, puffing like a steam train. "Sorry I had to stop half way up" he said; "my heart rate was almost at its maximum". His concerned colleague asked, "really, what was it?" At that point Puffing Billy looked sheepish and stuttered, "I don't know, I haven't got a monitor, I just know that it was up there". C'mon. If you are going to wear a bright red lycra suit, at least have the decency to climb the hill. I was ashamed for him. We gave the Esporta crew a five-minute head-start and set off to try to catch them. Working together across the top of the Beacon we were really flying, looking down at the speedo our speeds were pushing 26 mph, on the flat. My legs were burning, my lungs were hurting, but 10 minutes later we had reeled them in. 50 miles of cycling and we had caught up a five minute head start. They peeled off to the right, we headed left and down the hill into Brighton. An aerodynamic tuck position on the descent into Brighton gave me a top speed for the ride of 47 mph. Still haven't reached the 50 mark, maybe the decent down Col D'Aubisque will solve that problem. 3 hours 10 minutes later, an average speed of 17.7mph, we had reached Brighton, it was windy, it was overcast, there were nutters swimming in the sea and it was still a dump. We had a cup of tea and a finger of shortbread on the sea front, got changed in a car park, met Emma and her brother and polished off a long overdue pint of Guinness, well Jon did, I'm in training, I had a pint of lager shandy. A little over a week to go....... Cumulative mileage 1649 Falls Ben 3 Jon 1 Week 25 - The Haute Pyrenees Our ferry was due to sail at 9pm from Dover. We arrived at 7pm and were shepherded onto the Pride of Canterbury for the 90-minute trip to Calais. The first thing you notice about a ferry is the number of feral children running wild. A modern day Fagin could have made a fortune rounding these surly teens up from the arcade and sending them below decks to steal car radios. The second thing you notice is the stench of stale vomit from the various toilets, heads I believe is the correct nautical term. None of that for us as we stumbled upon the 'Executive Lounge'. Two glasses of complimentary champagne later and the horizon began to move of its own accord. The lounge was a throw back to the days when sailing was glamorous; with Chaise Lounges and a wet bar, it really was a pleasant way to spend an evening. All too soon the ships captain announced we were to return to our vehicles. While families of four tried to stem the arguments Jon and I sunk back into our seats in the car and tuned the TV into BBC2 for the a classic Bond film. As Roger Moore raised an eyebrow, the French Gendarme raised his arm and we were off on the French leg of the journey. The weather didn't bode well, thunderstorms, driving rain and gale force winds made the driving extremely difficult. We arrived at our hotel for the night "The Ibis", conveniently situated at the end of the runway of the Paris Orley airport, convenient if you have a flight to catch the next morning, not so convenient if you want a good nights sleep before an 800 mile drive and a 111 mile cycle. The next morning we woke with sniffles and sore throats, the room was like an igloo. If you want to stay somewhere to help you train for that artic expedition then the Orley Ibis is your place. 32 degrees outside and -32 degrees inside, no adjustment on the air-conditioning. We sped away from the hotel and hit our first traffic jam of the day. The Grande Vacance happens every year in France, the Saturday before Bastille day, to celebrate Bastille day, every French family straps their bikes to their car, adds a trailer/boat/caravan/another car to the back and sets off south. It took three hours just to get 50 miles south of Paris. What a nightmare, the sat nav predicted that we would arrive in Pau at 11.50 that night. All thoughts of a quick spin on the bikes and a relaxing evening quickly evaporated. The drive was long. It was like a scenic gastronomy tour, we passed through Gascogny, Bordeaux, Cognac, Armangac, Roquefort. We obviously stopped at the "Croque en Route" on the side of the motorway for a baguette and a can of coke, it is all about the carbs. The traffic gradually cleared, the temperature rose and the road death rate soared. In the UK if a road is particularly dangerous it is subject to a speed camera, a speed limit, a traffic calming measure or some other such nuisance. In France they put up a big sign telling you how many people have died on the road and then they erect a full size, black wooden man at the side of the road showing you where the driver had met their maker. In a kind of eerie way it really works, as you ease out to see if it is safe to pass the overloaded hay lorry, you catch one of these shadows eyes and pull back in a tout suite. We eventually arrived at 8pm, just in time for dinner. Our tour company, sporting events, had arranged for dinner that night. Sporting events specialise in cycling holidays around the world and in particular the grand tours of Europe, the Giro, The Tour de France and the Spanish tour. So a company that were specialist in cycling would lay on a nice high carb meal to begin to prepare your body for the rigours ahead. Well not this company, the 'amuse bouche' arrived first, delicious but 90% fat, this was followed by the Fois Gras, then the deep fried lamb skins, then the second amuse bouche, the sorbet, followed up by a large piece of chocolate gateaux. We washed it down with a half bottle of wine and six litres of water. The day before the race we checked out the Eddie Mercx velodrome at the start town of Mourenx. In the 1950s a subterranean natural gas was source was found in the Bearn basin turning it into one of the ugliest towns in the whole of France. To add insult to injury the surrounding countryside is beautiful, but to enjoy it you need to wear a full gas mask and quite possibly add a peg to the end of your nose. On the upside it is the home to the national women's basketball team, so if you are in to really tall women, have a gas powered car and no sense of smell then this is the race for you. We checked out the race exhibition, picked up our race numbers and timing chips, a small number of freebies, including an extra special Skoda beanie hat and decided to drive the route. First stop petrol. This being a Sunday and this being France this proved impossible, the 24 hour petrol stations would only accept French credit cards, you could get a feel for this after you had inserted your 5th credit card into the machine, or by looking at the American's staring in utter amazement and disbelief as for the first time in their lives they were unable to get at any oil. So we abandoned the idea of driving the race route, had a quick spin up the first 20 miles of. It seemed OK, just a few gentle climbs, mostly long flat roads, really well signposted and generally very picturesque. We headed back to Mourenx and queued for the pasta party. You have never seen so many skinny men devour so much pasta. All you could hear was the clip clop of the cleats of the racing shoes and the slurping of spaghetti sauce. The pasta was tasty and the garlic in it strong enough to drown out the smell of sulphur from the near by gas distilleries. Back at the hotel we changed ready for our second dinner of the evening. Our tres chic waiter, Jean-Paul presented us with the Sporting Events menu and looked like we had just insulted his grand mere when I ordered a plate of pasta. It is the first time in my life I have been served a bowl of pasta preceded and followed by an amuse bouche. We steered clear of the wine for this one night, drank 12 litres of water and headed for bed about 9. After a restless nights sleep and a dozen trips to the bathroom (12 litres of water) the alarm woke us at 3.30am. This was a bit of a pisser as we were not due to get up until 5.30. It later transpired that Jon isn't the best when it comes to translating CET to GMT. We were up, comically dressed in our respective national costumes, the Irish flag and St George's cross worn with pride on this cool French morning. We shovelled as much breakfast as we could down our throats and drove the short ride to the start. If you are about to cycle 111 miles, over four mountain peaks, one of which is an Hors categorie (beyond classification) then you want a good breakfast before you set off. The race organisers were one step ahead of us and had laid it on at the start. Great, we thought, and followed the signs. This being France they do things a little differently, the only breakfast on offer was a paper cup of Espresso, great to kick start the day, but not really the sustainable fuel us athletes need. The race started at 7 am, we were in our start pen at 6.30 ready and raring to go. The sound of Euro-pop drowned out the sound of the chattering teeth and the smell of the gas works drowned out the smell of the gas production around us. Finally at 7.30 we were on our way. The road straightened out, the peloton got faster and my heart rate soared. This was it, six months of training and it was finally happening. I can't describe how cool the feeling is of riding a stage of the Tour De France, there are hundreds of people at the side of the road cheering, shouting 'Allez' and 'Courage', you fly along, surrounded by hundreds of cyclists, at speeds that you can only reach when you are surrounded by hundreds of cyclists. Without going into the physics of it, which are actually quite interesting, speed is 2 dimensional, when you cycle it becomes a 3 dimensional challenge. Therefore increasing your speed by 10 % doesn't require 10% more effort, it requires 3 times as much effort again, or something like that, I read about it, I didn't say I understood it. If you then surround yourself with people the peloton effectively reduces the wind resistance and literally drags you along the road. Either way it is absolutely fantastic. We reached the 10 km mark at an average speed of 20 mph, the pack in front all raised their hands to signify we were stopping. At the side of the road was an extremely portly English cyclist, bleeding profusely with a bike folded in half, he had missed the central reservation up ahead and when he reached it hadn't missed it. He looked dazed and confused, I was more dazed and confused at the thought of how he would drag his 17 stone frame around the course The first mountain, the Col D'Ishere appeared after 50km, it was a nice warm up for the bigger climbs ahead, however for some it was a climb to far. Approaching the top of the 5 km climb the pushers began to appear, the road narrowed and we hit the first traffic jam. I should also point out at this stage that I had lost Jon, I had no idea whether he was in front of me or behind me and I had no mobile phone signal to find out. The traffic jam meant I walked the last km to the top of the climb, hopped back on my bike and set off down the descent. My phone picked up a signal and announced a message. Thinking it was Jon I screeched to a halt at the side of the road, rooted around in my saddle bag, spent another 5 minutes working out how to call my voicemail back in the UK. I'm sad to say it wasn't Jon but Nick Patow calling me to tell me he would be in shortly after 9! Halfway through the message my phone run out of power, so that was that, I'd have to go through it alone. The valley between the first and second mountains was all lush greeny and mountain streams, it was beautiful. I cycled past a couple waiving an enormous union jack at the side of the road, gave them both a high five as I went by, they loved it! A fellow Brit joins me and discussions turn to the Col De Marie-Blanque. Our coach, John Ibbotson, reckoned that the Marie-Blanque was the hardest, it was to be a good test. We hit the foothills of the mountain together, a couple of twisting hairpins before the road narrowed and stretched out for miles ahead. The 12 km climb averaged 7.7%, some bits were as high as 13% and were heart thumpingly tough. At this stage of the race I still felt strong and put my head down and began to pass a few people. My rhythm was only really disturbed by the ambulances flying by on my right and the helicopter filming us above. With 2k to go the road really reared up. Unfortunately this was the bit that sorted the men from the boys. The same guys that were chasing us down around Richmond park 6 months ago were now pushing their carbon fibre frames up the road. I cycled passed a couple of London Dynamo guys, a few Islington cycling club guys and numerous replica kit wannabes, all walking. Under the 2k from the top banner the road narrowed and the walkers outnumbered the cyclists. Again I had no choice but to walk. Those 2 km took about 30 minutes and lost a lot of time. Luckily 500 metres from the top the road cleared and I was off and riding again. The final climb of the day, the Aubisque, was all that stood in front of me and my goal. A little about the Col de l'Aubisque, one of the classic Tour De France cols. "Assassins!" spat Octave Lapize, eventual winner of the 1910 Tour de France, as he reached the summit of the Col de L'Aubisque. He was walking, leaning on the bike that he was too weak to ride. His eyes bulged with exertion and distress. At 1709 metres this climb was far higher than had been attempted in previous Tours. The road was unpaved, the air thin and the heat overwhelming. But Henri Desgrange sent the early 'convicts of the road' up there in the sure knowledge that the resulting drama would make great copy. Octave had it bang on. 19km of climbing. It took almost 2 hours of lung-busting effort. The hardest thing wasn't the legs, but the stomach cramps, the light headedness, the shaking arms, the back pains, the shooting pains through the kidneys. As a climb it just went on and on and on. The road was littered with broken men, guys with cramp, guys hiding in the avalanche shelters, people pretending to mend their punctures. Words cannot describe how difficult it was. When I finally reached the top, I filled my bidons with water, ate two bananas from the feed station and began the long decent to Pau. How quickly the brain forgets, there was still another mountain to climb, the Col de Solour, only 3 km long, but the longest 3km in my life. Once over that surely it was down hill all the way! It kind of was, 40 miles to go and we could ride at high speeds round the hairpins. If you ignored the crashes on the side of the roads, the sheer drops and the puncture victims, as well as the pains shooting through your body, it was really pleasant. I'm sure the guys I saw in the ambulances with bleeding heads and on drips weren't enjoying it as much, but I was. I say it kind of was, because I forgot, 10km to go we had 2 category 4 climbs. Damn they were hot, if it wasn't for the kind folks spraying water at you from the side of the road, I may of spontaneously combusted. The ride to the finish line was one of relief, where I was expecting jubilation, all I felt was relief and exhaustion. I finished in 8 hours 35 minutes. The winner in 5 hours 30 minutes, and the pros that did the stage in the Tour proper 5 hours and 2. I was very, very pleased with myself. I managed to find Jon some time later, eating everything he could get his hands on at the side of the park and we headed back to the hotel for a Jacuzzi and a well deserved beer. NEVER AGAIN! Cumulative mileage 1800 Falls Ben 3 Jon 1