Dublin = Worcester. The hills continue....

This is the account of days 4 - 6 on my charity cycle ride for Scope, cycling 470 miles from Worcester to Dublin and back. Days 1 - 3 have already been written up and posted. If you wish to read those they follow this post.

Day 4. Dublin - Holyhead - Waunfawr, nr Caernarfon

Rest Day (ish). Total Miles cycled: 40...yes, on a rest day!

A good night's sleep does a power of good. The Dublin City Inn on Talbot road provided not only fantastic showers and a comfortable bed, a much needed lie in, but also a mighty fine breakfast. The breakfast room was light and airy and a fine spread was laid out. Polish waitresses glided around the room enquiring whether you wanted tea or coffee and smiling at the 20 or Spanish guests who had descended en masse for their morning coffee and jamon and eggs.

There was quite a bit of cross-lingual confusion as the non English speaking Spanish attempted to convey the fact that wanted their eggs 'La Sol side up' and the Polish waitresses politely and patiently replied, 'I'm sorry, what..er, I don't understand...you want er, (elderly Spanish lady uses fingers to draw in the air) square...crunch...aha! Toast. White or brown?'


'Que?'

We had a few hours to spend in Dublin before heading to the port back over to Wales. The three of us put on my specially designed red Scope T-Shirts, for added visual impact and in case we forgot each other's names (printed top right corner of the shirt).

It was another clear day and the walk down O'Connell Street and across the bridge to the south side of the Liffey was filled with us looking up at the many statues lining one of the widest streets in Europe.


(Simon and I had previously been to a former winner of 'Widest Street in Europe 1990, when we went behind the newly torn down iron curtain and travelled around Eastern Europe, just 6 months after the revolutions that brought an end to Communism. We found ourselves traipsing around Bucharest, Romania, looking at Caecescu's palace, the 2nd largest building in the world after the Pentagon and standing on huge boulevards, deliberately constructed to be wider than the Champs Elysees in Paris.)

A brief look at Trinity College and a spot of lunch in the Temple Bar area and we had to get back to the hotel, pack up the car and get to the port for the afternoon sailing to Holyhead. We had a very strong headwind for the 4 miles to the port, but at least this time it was dry.

The ferry trip back was a swift 2 hours and was only noteworthy for the presence on board of an extended family of people dressed in the most lurid dresses, ornate flowery shirts, wide brimmed hats, Cuban heels, and pin stripe suits. I was expecting to see a camera crew in tow from 'My Big Fat Gypsy Weddings', but sadly no.

This, remember, was our day off. Our rest day. A bit of Dublin R&R and a chance to recharge the batteries. So, like the true professional cyclists we were turning into, we did what the professionals do on a rest day in a 3 week grand tour like the Tour de France. We went cycling.

We didn't really have much choice. Have you ever been to Holyhead? I remember visits to Holyhead when I was in charge of the On Board Catering for West Coast trains back in the heady days of the 90's. 5 hour journeys to and from London Euston, a cursory visit to the catering depot and a night in the Treaddur Bay hotel. That was the highlight. Overlooking the sea in a comfortable hotel with a lovely menu, you forgot the bleak and depressing town that lay a mile away. Holyhead is very much a place you pass through, but rarely stop in.

Rest day or not, we got changed into our cycling clothes, cycled off the boat and set off to cover the length of Anglesey, before crossing over into mainland Wales and travelling along the coast to Caernarfon and into Snowdonia; our final and most daunting mountain range.

Again we benefited from a strong tail wind and the relative flatness of the A5 down through Anglesey. A few miles outside of Holyhead we passed through Valley, home to an RAF base and the current residence of the newly married Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Oliver and I thought about popping in for a cuppa, but we had still some way to go to the campsite and it was getting late.

However, we did make a stop at a place of linguistic pilgrimage. A windswept and desolate railway station that is world renowned. A place with the longest, most unpronounceable name in the whole of Britain;

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch

You may ask me how to pronounce it. Well, it really is quite easy. Put a whole Mars Bar in your mouth and say anything you want....there, you're speaking fluent Welsh.

We didn't hang around too long, just enough time for a few obligatory photos before we headed off in the direction of the Menai straits and Snowdonia.

The Menai Bridge; Where Men Become Chickens

In total, at the end of 6 days of cycling, we had cycled 750km. Well, that's not quite the truth. We had cycled 749km and 583 metres. The other 417 metres were covered on foot. On two shaking, fear gripped legs. Not Oliver's, but mine.

We had reached the crossing over the Menai Straits, the Menai Bridge, built by Thomas Telford and completed in 1826. It is 417 metres long and stands a lofty 30m high over the fast flowing currents of the Menai Straits. It is an engineering marvel; not just an amazing feat of engineering, but an architectural beauty that blends harmoniously into the surrounding countryside, not an eyesore at all, but a sympathetic and stunning object to be admired and applauded. The best of British.

I hated it.

I can roar down steep hillsides at 50mp/h with nothing between the tarmac and myself other than a light aluminium / carbon frame and two thin rubber tyres and feel exhilarated. I can stand high on a mountain ridge with the slopes falling away hundreds of metres below and enjoy the view without a tinge of nervousness.

However, put me on a man made structure such as the balcony of a building or in this case a bridge that has stood for 185 years, ferrying lorries and cars day and night without falling into the water below, and my legs turn to jelly. An uncontrollable fear takes over and I can barely approach the railings, let alone look over the side. All I wanted to do was get off as quickly as possible.

That pathetic, quivering wreck on a solid, stable bridge will be crossing ravines on swinging bridges made of rope / cable and wood in Nepal in January. Wish me luck.

I made it safely to the other side and remounted the bike with a sigh of relief. Our rest day continued with a brief skirting alongside the Menai Straits, a rolling dual carriageway of long drags up rounded hillsides and fast swooping descents. We made Canaerfon and turned left to join the road into our final mountain range - Snowdonia.

Immediately the road did something strange. It pitched up in a steep, unforgiving incline. It was approaching 7:30pm and we had 3 miles to go to the campsite at Waunfawr. The hills were short, steep, leg breaking and deflating. We were tired and hungry and this last few miles were some of the most painful and difficult of the entire ride. Even Oliver admitted that he found the road from Canaerfon uncomfortably hilly. (We had to tie him down and pour soldier ants down his Lycra shorts to get him to admit it though).

We were met by Simon at the campsite. He had dutifully erected the tents, scouted the shower and toilet blocks and discovered that the on site pub would only be serving until 8:30pm. This mean a hasty change out of cycling clothes and a mad dash for the pub - missing out on a meal would have been criminal. The other reason for the mad dash was that the camping area was plagued by midges and gnats. I soon realised that these flies are not only annoying, but have a voracious appetite and their bites are incredibly itchy.

And so I entered the pub wearing my buff on my head, scratching ferociously at all bare flesh and armed with a phone charger and an empty stomach.

We had a decent meal, met a nice guy called Chris who worked for Barnados and lived near Birmingham, was a keen cyclist and kindly donated to the fundraising cause. Then it was back for a welcome shower and a sleep in the wet room (aka tent).

And wet it certainly was. Because it started raining again. In the whole trip we only experienced rain in two places. Wales (south) and Wales (north). Ireland's slight drizzle from Rosslare to Wexford is forgiven, because the road was flat and only 10 miles log. It didn't count.

Tomorrow was our last major test. 75 miles through Snowdonia, over the highest passes and mountains we had faced and on through the to hilly Welsh / English borders.

Now please forgive me, my legs need a lie down.

Day 5: Waunfawr - Snowdonia - Melverley (Oswestry)

Total Distance: 75 miles. Total amount of climbing; about 65miles.

What is the worst way to spend a night before getting on your bike and heading up and over some of the highest mountains in the UK? How about the following as a perfect recipe for a rubbish night's sleep;

• Leaky tent


• Rain during the night


• Tent invaded by biting midges


• Snoring tent mate (aha! I have ear plugs, what a clever boy)


• A menagerie of the noisiest animals 10 metres away from your tent (ear plugs aren't that good)

As was to be expected, the Welsh weather was predictably wet during the night and the first part of the morning. The tent proved as ineffective as it had on the first night. That much we could have anticipated and perhaps, tolerated.

What was absolutely not welcomed was the cacophony of farmyard animals that struck up their 'Discordant Concerto for Animal Orchestra - 'The Dawn Arrives'. First at around 4am, the cockerel crowed and proud and stupid bird that it was, didn't let up until after we left at 8:30am. Then the geese, dogs, ducks and donkeys chimed in with their bloody awful honking, barking, quacking and hee-hawing.

Midges, animals, camping area a 10 minute walk from the shower block, over a bridge over a railway line (I am not joking; you needed another shower by the time you got back to your tent)....Snowdonia Park campsite took the 'Worst Campsite on Tour' title, stealing it away from Wexford and it's pathetic excuse for a shower block.

It was a relief to get underway and head down towards Beddgelert, passing the lower slopes of Snowdon on our left.

The road is fairly straight, with slight undulations and hidden dips and not too busy with traffic. However, it was on this wet and quiet road that we came closest to a serious accident; not caused by us, but by the impatience and idiocy of Mr 'Look at me, I drive a Land Rover'.

Oliver was riding around 50 metres ahead of me. In a flash a Land Rover doing around 60mp/h over took me and remained on the righthand side of the road in order to pass Oliver. This was just as the road fell into a hidden dip and a car appeared on the other side at speed on the crest of the dip. How a head on collision was avoided is a miracle, but the LandRover driver (did I say driver, I meant Arse) swerved and braked hard, careering back over to the lefthand side of the road....his brakes screeched and he skidded on the wet surface, all the time heading directly for Oliver's back wheel. At the last moment, having wrestled control of his car, he turned the steering wheel sharply to the right and managed to pull out and overtake Oliver with what must have been inches to spare.

My heart was racing. I had witnessed the scene, not as some may say 'in slow motiuon', but in real time as a powerless witness, transifixed by the events that were unfolding in front of my eyes.

Shortly afterwards, Oliver pulled over for a pit stop and I asked him if he realised what had happened. "No, I didn't see anything", Well, I suppose it all happened behind him and I am glad he didn't see it; it was a close call. Apparently most serious accidents happen on minor country roads as people drive way too fast, taking risks they wouldn't on busier roads. With inevitable consequences.

We flew down a steep descent into Beddgelert and after asking for directions made the 'mother of all mistakes' as we continued to travel deeper into the heart of Snowdonia.

How to stop a flying German

We left Beddgelert in what I thought was a southerly direction. The lady who had told me the directions explained that the road was flat for around 4 miles and then it climbed a long way. She was right. Her directions were also correct. It was just that I had mistakenly asked her the way to Betws Y Coed.Which was not where we should have been going. Numpty.

We began a long climb (around 8 miles) past a lake and on to a long winding road that cut along the slopes of Snowdonia's finest scenery. A small waterfall cascaded down next to the road and the views were superb; especially as the weather had cleared and the rain stopped. It was steady climbing and with all the miles and 2 previous mountain ranges in the legs, the climbing was not uncomfortable. I had found a steady rhythm and a kindly gear (usually my lowest or second to lowest gear) and just plodded ever upwards.

Half way up the climb we stopped at a parking area and viewing point. We chatted to a Japanese family on holiday and proudly announced to them that 'that is where we are going - up there!'. In front of us and high above was a discernible line of vehicles crawling up a noticeably steep road to a high point that housed a small collection of buildings and the odd coach and minibus.

'Yep Oliver, that is where we are going, up there!'.

We left our Japanese friends and Oliver set off, Alberto Contador-like, to tackle the longest and steepest section of the day. I trailed behind in my Mark Cavendish 'can't climb, won't climb' style, constantly looking up at the huge mountain slope ahead and the road that kept heading for the clouds.

And then I reached a junction. An unexpected junction with a signpost.

'Hang on' I said and then I felt a sinking, sick feeling in my stomach. I think the next word was 'bollocks'. Excuse my French, but you'll understand why. The junction showed that we needed to commence our descent at this point and head towards Betws Y Coed.The left arrow on the sign pointed the way up, up, up to the high point and Llanberis / Caernarfon. Which is exactly where we didn't want to go. Caernarfon is where we had come from.

I could see Oliver's white rain jacket bobbing up and down as he climbed up the road, approximately 1km away. I tried to call him, but there was no signal. I half attempted to call him by shouting his name...but he would never have heard me. Now I had the prospect of cycling up this bloody road to try and catch up with him and tell him we'd made a big mistake.

Thankfully Oliver had taken to waiting at the top of most big climbs. I know he liked to watch me in pain struggling up the final few metres with a big smile waiting to greet me with 'This is great, we have no mountains where I live, I love the climbs...are you OK?...quick, have a drink, do you need a lie down'.

He was there waiting. There were quite a lot of other people waiting, most in walking boots and carrying backpacks. I asked a couple if they had a map I could borrow. They told me the news I had dreaded. Not only were we on the wrong route to the one I had planned, we had just cycled to the top of Llanberis Pass, the highest pass in Snowdonia. They and the other walkers were about to set off up the Miners Track to climb Snowdon.

Oliver was philosophical. "Well, at least we have cycled up to the highest point, this is GREAT!". I thought differently. My thoughts were, to use the words of Top Gear's James May, when faced by a problem or stupid mistake, 'Oh cock'.

We left Snowdon's hikers and began an extremely fast descent all the way to Betws Y Coed. I realised that this was my initial route before changing to our now redundant more southerly route. The new route was fine, but meant that we would have to spend most of the rest of the day on the A5, a road we had enjoyed / endured from Holyhead. But the A5 out of Snowdonia and down through Llangollen and on into Shropshire is notoriously fast and dangerous. But we had no choice now. A5 it had to be. Oh cock.

After a rapid descent to Capel Curig, we stopped to get directions at an outdoor clothing store. The two assistants in their twenties looked suitably impressed that we had cycled from near Caernarfon that morning. The young man (how old do I sound?) nearly fell off his stool when we told him we'd started in Worcester a little under 5 days ago and had since cycled all the way to Dublin. I was hoping for a brand new Goretex jacket as a token of the respect and esteem we were being held in. Instead they filled my water bottle up for free. Oliver's was still mysteriously almost full. How does he do that?

We then joined the A5 and kept its company all the way to Oswestry. The Vale of Llangollen is very picturesque and it wasn't too bad a road, except for the fairly regularly 'whoooosh' of a massive truck thundering past at 56mp/h. You first sense the huge presence of a juggernaut as it bears down on your rear wheel. You hear the heavy rumble of its engine in a low gear, itching to get past you. As it accelerates or you are passed at speed, you get a wallop of air in the back that can cause you to wobble, followed by a 'hole' in the air which is great if you are cycling into a headwind.

It was somewhere near Llangollen that my left knee started the first complaints and twinges that said 'alright boyo, that's about enough...I am a 42 year old joint and I shouldn't have to be subjected to this. Now can you just stop please?!' My knee was hurting, but the fact we were close to ridding ourselves of road signs that said 'Slow / Araf' and Police / Heddlu' and getting back to England made the pain tolerable.

Simon knows how to find the best places for R&R. He had parked the Ford Focus at an attractive and posh looking hotel, the Wild Pheasant, just on the edge of Llangollen. By now we had been cycling around 5 or 6 hours and the sun was out. In short, or more accurately, in Lycra shorts, we were hot, sweaty and decidedly not dressed to soil the plush sofas of a top end spa hotel. However, with the wit, charm and tact that he is renowned for, Simon sweet talked the receptionist into letting us in for a cup of tea and some biscuits. I think the use of the words 'cycling for charity' proved useful too.

A short time outside of Llangollen we approached a large roundabout and headed due south. The road signs indicated the way home...Oswestry, Shrewsbury. This was the A5 at its ugliest, noisiest and most frightening. By far the worst road we had been on with thousands of motorists in all manner of vehicles thundering up and down the dual carriageways. We were so concerned in getting off the A5 as soon as possible we missed the sign that said 'ENGLAND'.

Well, actually I stopped, briefly, wanting to celebrate the passing back into mother England pictorially. Not so my German friend. Oliver whizzed passed the Welcome to England sign without glancing up...Was this failure to stop and take my picture at the sign a case of 'schadenfreude' on Oliver's part? No, he was absolutely bombing it along the A5 in an effort to get off this hellish road as soon as he could. And I could understand why. There was barely a break in the fast flowing traffic and it felt as if we had joined the M5, not the A5. Thankfully a tiny B road blinked in yellow off my map and showed us the country route into Oswestry. All my educated life I have striven (yet failed) for 'A's...now I delighted in getting a 'B'.

Oswestry felt like the end of the day's ride. It wasn't. It was however, the location for a comedy scene. The German title for the film is something like;

Zwei Fahradder mit grossen Vesperboxen suche für Gemächte

Two cyclists with large lunch boxes search for a lunch break

or possibly even 'Two cyclists with large lunch boxes look for penis'

Forgive my rusty German. It has been some time since I lived in Germany and spoke Das Lingo.

We had chanced upon Morrisson's supermarket. How I wish it had been Morrissey's, Shelves stacked with tea, digestive biscuits, DVD's of Coronation Street box sets, row upon row of vegetables, fruit and a security sensor that detected meat eaters and refused entry to them by whacking them on the head with a large organic cauliflower. The muzak playing mournful tunes 'I was happy in the days of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now'. What a shopping experience that would be. Would dear old Morrissey let two middle aged men in bottom hugging Lycra and pert nipples wonder around his supermarket in their helmets, stinking of sweet sweat and looking a little worse for wear? Probably not, but WM Morrisson is not so picky. Either that or the security were on a break.

We purchased beers (non alcoholic for me) and doughnuts and set off on the final ten miles to the campsite. We rendezvoused with Simon at a crossroads just over the border into Wales once more, before commencing the fastest 4 miles of the whole journey (on the flat, not downhill). Something was urging us to get to the campsite as fast as we could. What it was, was a fantastic campsite next to a brilliant pub that served wonderful food, Bier von Fass and convivial company. All 2 minutes walk from the tent. The Tontine Inn in Melverley and the campsite were the venue for our last night and they sent us to sleep content, intent to finish and in tents (admittedly Simon's had collapsed and he borrowed one from the campsite owner who happened to work in fisheries management and knew Simon's colleague...as Morrissey would sing 'Trout ticklers of the world, unite and take over').

Tomorrow would be our last day, the final 60 miles and the finish of an unforgettable trip.


Day 6: Melverley (nr Oswestry) to Worcester, approx 60 miles / 100km

The final day. a few more hours of pedalling, a few more hours of pitting one's endurance against the forces of nature; gravity, wind, flatulence and hearty lunches.

We woke to a fine day and a favourable wind. The wind had been kind throughout the trip and on this final day it blew extra hard against our backs and pushed us along at record speeds. There were still 60 miles or 100km to cover, but they felt insignificant in comparison to the 650km we had already completed. I knew that the terrain was hilly - again. This was Shropshire and the hills were sharp, steep, nasty little leg biters that hurt - but that didn't matter today. today was a celebration. Our equivalent to the last stage of the Tour de France, a triumphant procession into Paris (in our case Worcester), with thousands of cheering fans lining the road (in our case a confused collection of Worcester folk ambling past the cathedral).

We made excellent progress towards and skirting around Shrewsbury and began the cross country route over towards Bridgnorth. I had a dilemma to overcome. one that involved a particularly nasty climb up and over Much Wenlock, one of the steepest in the area. I rerouted the ride to avoid Much Wenlock. You may call it wimping out (fair enough), but you try cycling for 5 days, 650km and through 3 mountain ranges and ask yourself (your legs) if you fancy struggling up a particularly hard climb so near the finish. No, thought not. The look of disappointment on Oliver's face when I told him the news was enough to make me reconsider. He seemed genuinely crestfallen that we weren't going up a steep brute of a hill. But, I insisted, I will promise you something better....and it still includes a nasty climb. He seemed placated.

What was this promise? Well, considering I had never visited the world heritage site not 40 miles from my door, I thought it about time to rectify this and pay a long overdue visit to Ironbridge Gorge, birthplace of the Industrial Revolution and a place without which, we wouldn't have been able to sit on machine crafted contraptions such as bicycles. We owed it a debt to say thank you for inspiring people to use metals and science to come up with inventions that allowed us the chance to get rubbed raw in the crotch sitting on tiny saddles, travelling the length and breadth of the British Isles for charity and pleasure.

Enough waffle. Basically it was a picturesque detour that took us through the gorge and past the famous bridge. It was a nice break in the journey and a chance to catch our breath before starting the long climb out of the gorge and heading for lunch at Bridgnorth. It was a marginally better option than Much Wenlock.

Had Much Wenlock not been so steep and unappetizing, I'd still not have been to Ironbridge.

We made good time and stopped for an early lunch in Bridgnorth. Now I really sensed we were close to home as I had cycled to and from Bridgnorth a number of times before. It was familiar territory. Lunch was demolished ravenously as our bodies had been so devoid of calories over the last 6 days they had begun to eat themselves. There are only so many gels and energy bars you can have before you start dreading the sickly goo in your mouth or the chewy nutty bars sticking to the roof of your mouth as you pant and heave up the 131st climb of the day.

We met Simon for lunch and prepared ride the last 30 miles to Worcester. As usual with any journey or tale, there is a sting in the tail....this time being the series of climbs out of Bridgnorth. They seemed to have lengthened since I last rode them. Oliver, for once, was quite surprised at their length and steepness. However, I knew that once we had passed into Worcestershire and shot down the hill at Shatterford into Kidderminster, we were but a couple of climbs away from smooth flattish cycling all the way to the faithful city.

Kidderminster to Worcester was exhilarating, not least because we could sense the finish line. The tail wind propelled us along at speeds of 25mp/h / 40kp/h; unheard of on the flat. The places and names grew more familiar as Ombersley came into view. As we exited the Claines roundabout, the city sign for WORCESTER beckoned us to dismount and take a well earned photo. 3 miles to the finish, back in the city of Worcester. Only the suburbs of Claines, Barbourne, then the Tything and the city centre to cover. The pain in my knee had been with me since starting that morning, but it was completely forgotten as we turned right onto London Road and finished the slight climb (what else?) for the final 200m to the cathedral.

Simon had gone ahead and picked up Rini and my Mum. Louisa and Milla arrived from school with our care workers Ruth and Kelly and we pulled over to cheers and welcome hugs.

We had done it. 750 kilometres in 6 days, 3 mountain ranges, torrential rain and heartwarming sun.

A personal goal had been achieved by both of us. It had been easy to talk about cycling to Dublin and back. The logisitics of the trip had been relatively easy to coordinate, if time consuming. However, the physical reality of pushing yourself to cycle day after day for 6 days, averaging over 100km per day through some of the most difficult mountainous regions in Britain and Ireland is something I had not experienced before. Oliver had done other long cycling trips, but I could see the sense of achievement in his eyes too (750km cycling ON THE LEFT OF THE ROAD!!!!).

However, the real achievement is the money raised for SCOPE. Over 4,000 pounds.

750km is a long way to travel by any means, let alone cycling. But it is nothing compared to the never ending road people living with disability have to travel their whole lives.


A few thank yous.

Oliver & Simon.

Oliver - thank you for agreeing to come along with me on the ride. I am glad you enjoyed the hills, as there were so many. You made cycling so far a pleasure and it was always a relief to see you waiting for me at the top of yet another hill, when I hadn't seen you for 20 minutes! I hope we have the chance to cycle together again in the future.

Simon - Passpartout Extraordinaire. Again you kept me in good spirits, well fed and watered and with a stoicism of epic proportions. Who else would have driven from Worcester to Brecon to Newport to Gloucester to Carmarthen in a day, without complaint?...Thanks mate, as always. One day I'll drive and you can cycle...but I won't drive a motorhome!


To all my supporters, sponsors and donors. You have been so generous, kind and supportive - not just this time, but since I began doing these fund raising challenges in 2007. Without you, the funds wouldn't be there for SCOPE to continue their excellent and important work. thank you so much.

Rini, Mum & Louisa

Always supporting me, always helping me in these crazy challenges and always there for me. Thank you, I love you!

Milla

You are my inspiration. You battle through so many difficulties and always emerge smiling. Despite all your physical problems you bring warmth to my heart and pleasure every day. I love you.

To Dublin & Back...750km in the saddle for Scope

Hi. I've done it.



The biggest physical challenge of my life, since climbing Kilimanjaro and I am back, in one piece and feeling good. As for looking good, let others be the judge.


On Saturday 11th June 2011, myself and my good friend from Germany, Oliver Gross, set off to cycle from Worcester to Dublin and back, raising money for Scope, the cerebral palsy charity. We returned on the following Thursday having covered 470 miles (750km) across England, Wales and Ireland and up, over and through three mountain ranges. Remarkably the bikes and us were in good condition, despite the wrath of the Weather Gods. But more on that later.


This is my account of our 6 day Cycle-thon (like a marathon, but on a bike); Worcester to Dublin and back - the hard way.

____________________________________________________________________

Day 1: Worcester - Llangain (Carmarthen, S.Wales) Sat 11th June

Distance covered: 125miles / 205km

After waving goodbye to my family and picking up Oliver on the way, we arrived at Worcester Cathedral eager to get underway and feeling a little apprehensive about what we were about to attempt. After a few photos we pushed off westwards at 6:45am to cycle the furthest either of us had ever done in a day.

The first challenge lay only 7 miles away. An early morning climb through Malvern and up on to Jubilee Way, the road that skirts around the western flanks of the Malvern Hills. The climb up the Wyche Cutting was a perfect taste of what was to come and it was enjoyed (if that is the right word while going uphill) in warm morning sunshine. It was a glorious morning, with views far out over the Vale of Evesham and towards the Cotswold Hills.

Tony Climbs Like a Dog, Descends Like a Madman


Climbing is not my forte. The moment a road goes uphill I am clicking down my gears until I have no more to choose from. When Oliver arrived from Germany, he saw my bike and made a classic German error..."Aah, you have 72 gears". Leider nicht...nur Sieben und Zwanzig, nicht Zwei und Siebzig. No, I only had 27 gears, though there were plenty of times I wished for 72 during the trip.

However, once I reach the summit of a climb and the road mercifully decides to go down, I shed the invisible whale carcass I have dragged uphill for the last 30 minutes and begin to descend, rapidly. I am the cycling equivalent of Wylie Coyote as he reaches the cliff edge, momentarily hangs in mid air, legs still pumping from chasing Roadrunner and then whoooosh! He plummets at the speed of light to a dusty demise on the canyon floor. That's me on a bike. Descents are my thing.

Oliver is a little more cagey on the downhills and hit a max speed of around 51kph throughout the trip. Coming off the Malverns on the road to Ledbury, I was probably touching 50mph / 80kph. If only it could be like that all the way.


Hereford gives way to Hay...where we made Hay while the sun shone


We had a brief stop on a busy dual carriageway in the centre of Hereford to admire the cathedral and the sparkling River Wye. At this point we consumed the first of many energy bars and gels. Whilst I was packing away the calories and gulping down Lucozade sport, Oliver was seemingly neglecting his water bottle, which lay forlornly on his bike hoping to be drunk. This inability to consume liquids (other than German beer) and to cycle vast distances was something of a surprise to me. 'Oliver', I discovered later, means 'Camel' in Tuareg, the language of the nomadic Saharan tribe of the same name. I wondered what that hump was on his back....

Wo ist der Deutscher?

Oliver was built to climb hills. He is taller, leaner and fitter than I am. He is also younger...OK, only around 2 weeks, but who's counting...well, me, I am. When faced with an increasing gradient, Oliver's natural instinct was to pedal harder and get to the top asap. We developed a ritual where, when the roads turned uphill, I looked to my right to see a blur of German accelerating and a bid him a 'see you at the top Sir!' and off he shot, getting smaller as he distanced me further with each pedal turn.

I would often approach the crest of a summit to see Oliver fiddling with his camera, or fiddling with something else as he emerged from yet another bush he had watered. For a man who drank next to nothing, he certainly emptied his bladder with an alarming regularity. Oliver, the bushes of Britain thank you.

In Hay (Town of Books...and little else) we spent a few comedy minutes at the sign denoting that we were crossing into Wales. Pictures of me with one arm in England and a leg in Wales made me consider that under health laws, if I needed medicine for my arm in England I would have to pay £7.40. My leg, in Wales, would receive medicines for free. Bizarre. What do the people in Number 10 (England) do if they are sick, when their next door neighbour (Number 12) gets free prescriptions....


"Er hello, excuse me... Bronwyn...yes, it's me Edward..you remember, from the English side..next door, yes, that's right...I was wondering, could I possibly pop over to yours for a minute?...It won't take long, I just need to throw up, crap myself and collapse...but on your door step...it'll save me £7.40. Thanks, I'll be round in a jiffy!"


At this point I felt it necessary to give Passepartout a ring on my handy. (Not new Japanese technology where you dial your friend using your fingers and speak into your palm....no, it's German for 'mobile phone'). Simon was tasked with loading up the support car and catching us up en route. We anticipated our first rendezvous to be here in Hay.


Due to a last minute switch of vehicles (we had to ditch the motorhome due to Simon and our other co-driver, Dan, reaching a top speed of 10mph up a gentle slope and unable to brake and stop efficiently), Simon was still in Malvern, trying to get international insurance cover for his company car. This regrettably meant he had to go and physically collect the official document from Gloucester. It also meant that myself and the cycling camel had to fend for ourselves until at least Brecon; 60 miles into the journey.


We made it into Brecon with a dry water bottle (at least I did, the camel's was still full) and a mouth gaping to suck in the drizzle that had welcomed us into Wales. The sun decided it didn't like the look of Wales and stayed in Hay.

We took the first of many cafe lunch stops in order to replenish lost calories. The plat du jour was a stodgy, characterless plate of lasagne, fresh from the microwave. It had a lasting legacy as it repeated on me on every climb until the campsite. Oliver was looking as fresh as a German daisy and revelling in the fact that the roads were full of hills. Where he lives in Germany, a small town called Marl, the appearance of a molehill leads the cartographers to redraw the maps and list the new molehill as a 'hoch punkt'. It is pretty flat for him and the sight of the lumpy stuff and the prospect of mountains after lunch had Oliver smiling in expectation and enthusiasm.

The Brecon Beacons

Lunch was dispatched, but it was rather an overlong stop in Brecon; initially waiting for Simon to arrive (which he did, slightly stressed out at the bureaucratic nightmare he was experiencing), but also to try and let the body absorb some of the stodge in our stomachs. Actually, I was trying to delay our departure from Brecon, as the looming Brecon Beacons national park were making me nervous...if I struggle up a short, gentle hill, how will I cope in the mountains?

We turned off the busy A40, after passing Sennybridge and Trecastle. As we joined the narrow road up into the mountains and felt the bite of the first serious climb since lunch, we left civilization behind. (Is Wales civilized? Discuss). The roads narrowed further and the climbs grew longer and steeper. Soon we were passing through a small copse of trees and were delivered on to a plateau. Either side were rolling hills, smooth rounded mountain tops and an empty wilderness. The only things in abundance were the sheep that threatened to dash out under your wheels at any second.

Oliver enquired if Wales was known for its sheep. My reply was something like, 'Is the English football team run by a clueless, uncommunicative Italian manager who has an uncanny resemblance to Postman Pat?'

We began an exhilarating descent off the Beacons and passed through the village of Bethlehem; birthplace of Jesus Dafydd Idris Jones, born on 25th December..hey, that's Christmas Day! They say Wales is God's Own Country and here was proof. Apparently, people do go their to post Christmas cards so that they have the Bethlehem postmark. I have been to the real Bethlehem in Israel and Jesus would have been better off being born in Wales; it's prettier... though Joseph and Mary's donkey would've been knackered with all the hills.

The last stretch of 12 miles or so was on a quiet B road to Carmarthen. I say quiet, but about 5 miles out of the town were cars parked so close the roadside bushes, that they were practically in the bushes. No one seemed to be around....either people were out walking the dog, or they were out dogging...how else to spend a Saturday afternoon?

Not that Carmarthen offered up plenty of alternatives. After 120 miles of long hard cycling, we arrived in dire need to eat. The town is best summed up as 'a one horse town where the horse upped and left'. The place looked shut. Or it had been closed down due to lack of interest. The only place that was open was a kebab / pizza fast food restaurant, staffed by Turkish guys with Welsh accents and the ability to speak to Oliver in German. On hearing of our exploits, they presented us with two huge kebabs, another mountain (of chips) and a can of coke.

We refuelled and set off on the final 4 miles to Llangain and the campsite. No one told us it was a mile of flat and then 3 miles up. The last 3 miles were an incessant slog up a horrible hill, all the while with kebab, chips and coke sloshing around inside us.The relief I felt at passing the sign for Llangain was tempered by my temper. As I turned off the road to cycle the last half mile of the day the road took off. The steepest hill of the day, the last half a mile. I think the expression 'Oh for ***** sake' passed my lips...fully justified in the circumstances.

We arrived at the campsite and were greeted by two dogs...one with a 'smile', a baring of teeth and a slight friendly growling and a daft puppy who ripped a soft toy to pieces in front of us.

The end of a mammoth day saw us standing around waiting for Simon, erector of tents and maker of coffee, to arrive. He did - much to our relief, and with the tents up, we settled down to a comfortable night, worn out from the exertions of the ride and looking forward to a pleasant, enjoyable ride to Pembroke Dock the next day in calm, clear, sunny conditions. How wrong could we be?!

Day 2: Carmarthen - Pembroke Dock - Rosslare - Wexford

Total Distance: 50miles / 80km

Total Distance Cycled in Dry Conditions: 0

I woke at 2am to a light pitter patter on the tent. The light tapping quickly turned into a hammering. It was raining, hard. The Weather Gods had decided that this part of West Wales was due a drenching. It rained for most of the next 24 hours. I couldn't help thinking how unfair this was after the warmest, driest March, April and May since records began.

I lay awake with a nagging thought that in a few hours I had to get up and cycle 40 miles down a dual carriageway to the port of Pembroke Dock. I couldn't turn over and have a lie in. I couldn't delay the time I needed to get up in the hope that the rain would pass. We had a ferry to catch.

I wondered how we could get away with not cycling. The only space available in Simon's car was the drivers seat and three blokes plus two bikes were not going to fit in there. However, I was actually more concerned with the performance of my brand new, never before used tent. The tent had the waterproof resistance of a woolly sock. If you touched the sides, the water came seeping in. Even on dry nights our breath condensed on the inside of the tent and dripped on to the sleeping bags. Every morning I woke with damp patches on the sleeping bag and the sleeping mat.

And so Oliver and I stumbled from our wet cocoon out in to the maelstrom for a hastily eaten bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee which got weaker by the minute as rain water poured in and diluted it.

The ride to Pembroke was unpleasant. That's like saying pulling your fingernails out with pliers is unpleasant. It was horrendous.

Picture the scene. Me, dressed in two pairs of Lycra shorts / leggings / two cycling jerseys / shower proof (!) jacket / waterproof jacket / cycling gloves / cycling beanie / baseball cap / helmet. Chugging miserably up the rolling hills along a dual carriageway being passed by cars doing 70mph and trucks on their way to the port spraying 18 wheels of pressurised surface water over Oliver and I.

I had a saying that I have now revised. Once you're wet, you're wet...you can't get a lot wetter. Actually you can. Every time a truck went by a couple of metres from you, you'd get a blast of super-saturated air against you, trickling down your neck and seeping into every pore, nook and cranny.

About 5 miles outside of Pembroke Dock, we suffered our first casualty. Somehow my Sony MP3 player, which was encased in a zip lock freezer bag and in a zipped up waterproof jacket pocket, let the rain in and died. The final song was being mournfully, tragically and majestically sung by Stephen Patrick Morrissey. On such a miserable, wet, melancholic day it was a fitting end. It was what my MP3 would have wanted.

After a respectful burial of the MP3 at the bottom of my day pack, the final 5 miles passed by in a splash and I caught Oliver up. Some other similarly dripping cyclists were taking part in a fun ride / sportive cycling event. Why? At least we had an excuse, 'It's for charity, ok?!', but these guys were out in the rain - for fun. Is there nothing better to do in Pembroke Dock on a Sunday?

A quick tour of the town centre in search of a lunch stop confirmed my suspicions. There was absolutely nothing open, nor anything to do. No wonder the desperate residents are prepared to don Lycra and cycle in all weathers...anywhere, out of town...to escape the Groundhog Day feeling...it must be Tuesday, nothing to do, it must be Wednesday, nothing to do.

By the power of St. Greasyspoon, patron saint of cafes, we stumbled across a sanctuary of warmth, friendliness and tasty food. The Maypole Cafe. A stones throw from the port and with a full menu of delicious, calorific meals and snacks. A cheery 'hello' from the owner soon turned to a frown as she saw the water pouring off us and collecting in a lake on the floor. She informed us we were welcome, but would supply us with a mop after we had finished. The food (a roast chicken dinner) was fantastic and the tea brought my extremities back to life. And this was supposed to be summer.

Somehow we managed to muster the energy to get ack on the bikes, in the pouring rain, for another soaking on the short ride to the port. Then Oliver and I suffered 20 minutes of standing in the rain waiting to be first to board the Isle of Inishmore ferry to Rosslare. If you are cycling, you can keep the muscles warm. As soon as you stop and stand around the shiverring begins - uncontrollable shaking and chattering teeth. The car passengers, sitting in their wam vehicles, looked at us with pity as we paid a visit to Simon to sort out oa bag of dry clothes to change into.

On board the ferry and changed out of the sodden cycling clothes, we had 4 hours to pass and to forget that we had to cycle 10 miles once we got off the ferry - and it was still raining. An old lady saw our cycle shirts and kindly gave us 10 Euros for the charity. She had also seen us dripping, cold in the rain at the ferry terminal.

As she left, I think I heard her say to her husband, 'I do hope dose boys use da money to get themselves a couple o' Kagools, dey'll catch der death o'cold, so dey will, to be sure.'

The change back into wet cycling clothes was indescribably uncomfortable. The rain had eased to a drizzle and we enjoyed the 10 miles to Wexford as they were flat. Oh the joy.

The campsite had the audacity to charge 2 Euros for a shower. Something we paid without fuss as we were desperately in need of a hot, reviving shower. Why is it when you have been under nature's own shower al day, all you want to do is to stand under more water? I stripped off, placed my token in the slot (steady now, this is not Carry On Cycling), pushed the button (enough, stop you smutty people) and .....nothing. Then a tiny dribble of lukewarm water. If someone had stood above me and peed on me it would have been a stronger flow and warmer.

I heard an 'Ach...was ist das!' of disgruntled German cyclist as Oliver experienced even less of a flow than I did. From then on it was a race against time. At any moment the water could stop as you are left standing there with soapy nuts.

The campsite also charged 4 Euros to wash and 4 Euros to dry your clothes. No surprise that the office proudly displayed a 'Most Profitable Business in da whole o' Ireland' certificate on the wall.

Irish Charm

The three wise men were in need of food - again. We trotted off into Wexford town to find a place closing up for the night. It didn't seem anything had been open for a long time. Another place devoid of life. We had a dismal meal in a fast food restaurant...sorry, a slow food restuarant 'If you want your food slow, this is the place to go!'. After an eternity our plat du splat was presented. My vegetarian pizza and chips had a profound effect on my stomach and led to me being christened with an appropriate nickname;

'On the starting ramp for this year's Tour of Ireland is hot favourite...'Lance Windstrong''.

There was life in Wexford. It was contained in the bars and pubs scattered throughout the town. We selected one that looked inviting and had some music filtering out of the doors. Oliver selected his usual local beer...a German wheat beer called Paulaner and Simon nursed a Guiness. I wished I was drinking alcohol as the bloke singing Van Morrisson and Snow Patrol covers made every song sound the same. He gave up and passed his guitar to an old boy propping up the bar

He looked like Chris Rea would after living rough for 10 years. He staggered on to the stool and placed the guitar in his lap. He mumbled something inaudible then strummed some chords...beautifully. Then he picked out some riffs...excellently...Wow, this guy is good. Then he opened his mouth to sing....

A sound like a fart from Hades stopped the drinkers in mid sentence....it was awful. And then, a miracle, Old Chris Diahhrea stopped, leant forward into the microphone and uttered the immortal words,

'I can't do it...I'm f**kin' pi**ed!'

It was the quote of the day - almost. As we made our way back to the land of crap showers we passed another drunk Irish man, around 30 years old. He surveyed Simon and trumped Chris Rea's quote in three words;

"luv yer shorts!"

The end of a wet and horrible day on the bike. I haven't mentioned saddle sores. There is no need, they were there, making themselves known. But to be honest, I had other things on my mind. Tomorrow, almost 100 miles throught the Wicklow mountains to Dublin. Please let it be sunny.

Day 3: Wexford - Wicklow Mountains - Dublin

Total Distance: 90 miles / 150km

Total Amount of Climbing: Equivalent to cycling up Everest

We woke to a damp tent and feeling a little cheated by our ridiculous trickle of a shower. As I pulled on my cycling clothes and fortified myself with a bit of breakfast and a cup of coffee, I realised that my next shower lay a long, hard cycle ride away. 90 miles away in Dublin. Today was a big day.

Thankfully, the rain had relented and the clouds parted to reveal a glimmer of blue sky and a silvery sunlight that cast a warming glow over the waters of Wexford Bay. The omens looked good. The weather was clearing up, the sun had decided to show its face and the wind was (if my wet finger was right) coming from a southerly direction. Irrespective of such benevolent weather, we still had the large and ominous Wicklow Mountains between us and Dublin and a long soak under a hot jet of water.

We said goodbye to Simon, who was left again with the task of packing away the tents and driving a fully laden car to Dublin. This might not sound too difficult, but the car contained something particularly nasty: THE SKANKY BAG.

Two days worth of sweaty and now soaking clothes were starting to ferment, ripen, decompose and stink in a Deutscher Supermarkt plastic bag. Every time Simon stopped ahead of us from now on , he quickly opened the car doors to let some fresh air in to lessen the stench. We could smell the car from approximately a mile down the road.

Oliver and I set off in the direction of Arklow, a town on the coast where we expected to meet Simon for the first rendezvous. With a decent tail wind, we made rapid progress and reached Arklow well ahead of schedule and pushing a healthy 27kp/h. It was around 11am and we opted for an early lunch in a friendly cafe, eating baguettes and cream pastries and reading the Irish Sun. Ryan Giggs and his 'sexpolits' still dominated the headlines, Jedward were on the cover, there was a story about Louis Walsh and Boyzone and the girl on Page 3 had a lovely pair of potatoes. And then the realization hit me that far from lazing on my arse in Arklow, it would be better for us to be on the bikes and gaining some height as we cycled into the mountains.

Next town for us was Avoca, or that was the plan. Having been well ahead of schedule, we now fell dramatically behind schedule due to a navigation error. In short, we got lost.

Somehow we managed to end up on the back roads and country lanes outside of Arklow. The signs pointed to places that were so obscure they didn't feature on my map. We asked 3 telecommunication engineers the way to the Road to Avoca and their reaction was to slowly shake their heads and drive off without a word. So much for the friendly Irish welcome. I actually think they were underworld criminals burying a cache of weapons they were going to use on a raid on 'Da Foirst Bank O'Ireland, Arklow Branch...Yer Money's Safe Wid Us..or So Ya Tink!'

In a village of about three houses, bizarrely named Johnstown, a postman gave us spurious directions which led us even further off the beaten track. He may have been slightly distracted by the barking dog snapping at his heels. Dogs and postman...different country, same result.

Eventually, after a long detour up ever steepening hills and skirting pretty and remote valleys, we came across old Mrs. O'Grady, tending to her garden in front of her tidy little cottage, nestling on the slopes of Mt Whatasteephill. She stopped and smiled as I approached her, stinking, sweaty and panting, to enquire in my politest English accent;

"We are a little bit lost. I wonder if you could advise us of how to get to the Road to Avoca?"

Her response, in a lilting, soft Irish voice was music to our ears.

"Oh, don't worry, yer not all dat lost...just carry on up da road fer another mile. At da church, turn roight and ya go down a verrrrrryyy steep hill...dat'll bring ya back into Woodenbridge."

We were so pleased to hear we were not too far from the fabled Road to Avoca, that we almost leaped up into the garden and finished digging her vegetable patch for her. We thanked our new friend, Mrs. Satnav O'Grady, and followed the most accurate directions of the day.

The steep road she mentioned was possibly the most frightening and dangerous road I have descended. Over 2 miles of white knuckle terror, gripping the brakes in a weak attempt to slow the bike down. The brakes were smoking by the time we reached the junction and turned on to the road we should have joined an hour before.

Now the climbing was continuous. Over 30 miles of uphill. The towns passed slowly by, Avoca (at last - and we didn't even stop), Rathdrum and Laragh. In Laragh, Simon had found the route out of town and up into the Wicklow Mountains. This then, was the last settlement until we descended into Dublin on the other side of the mountains in front of us. We were on our own now. No kindly Mrs. O'Grady to help us out. At least we couldn't get lost - there was only one narrow road up to our next destination; Sally Gap.

As soon as we left Laragh and the gradient increased, Herr Schnell Radfahrer was off like a shot and smoothly accelerating and climbing away from me. I paused briefly at a sign that read;

Road Unsuitable for Horse Drawn Caravans

I thought this a little odd. Firstly, it was discriminating against the travelling community and gypsy folk who have every right to enjoy the splendour of the mountains. Secondly, why would anyone attached a great big caravan to a horse; not least ask it to pull the bloody thing over a mountain pass. How would you attach it? Tie the horses tail around the tow bar? Stick the ball of the tow bar up the horses backside for a more secure fit?

I pondered this as I started up towards a tumbling waterfall, cascading over 100 metres of rocks into a gorgeous. lush, verdant valley. The climb up to this point had certainly been worth it. Every now and then people had painted or chalked encouragement on the roads for other cyclists; 'Come on John, Allez!'....'You can do it Peter, keep going...you're nearly there!'

I looked around at the road and was disappointed Simon hadn't bothered to get the crayons out and scrawl a message for us;

'Fly bald eagle, Allez Tony, can't you go any faster? I've been here an hour!' and 'Schnell, schnell Oliver...was ist los? Warum hast du Wasser nichts getrunken? Du bist ein Kamel!'

To be fair, Simon had been asked to take the camera and get some action shots of us climbing on the bikes, together with the amazing scenery. How he managed to make a photo of me blurred as I passed him, I'll never know. It gives the impression of me climbing at the speed of Alberto Contador, whereas he could have made a cup of tea in the time it took for me to pass him.

Onwards and upwards we went. Further and further up into the remote and desolate, but incredibly scenic mountains. I say remote, but Dublin lay around the same distance as London from Reading, but it felt a million miles away. All around were lofty peaks, the odd clump of trees, and a single, narrow, twisting road snaking its way up towards Sally Gap.

At one point we all gathered for a rest stop and a fresh bottle of Lucozade Sport. I had forgotten about a gift Oliver brought over from Germany. Hiding at the bottom of a plastic bag of cup-a-soups were two bars of chocolate. Ritter Sport. Chocolate never tasted so good - on top of the Wicklow mountains, with 3 days and over 200 miles in the legs; we didn't so much savour as devour the much needed squares of instant energy.

Eventually Sally Gap was reached. A windswept crossroads with a sign. Not much else. But for us it signified the end of the hardest climbing and we could feel the pull of Dublin, could almost smell the sea air and hear the Irish Rover being played in the Temple Bar. Not far to go.

As always, what you think will happen, rarely does. Surely after Sally Gap it is down? No? In fact it was more climbing, painfully slow and a little soul destroying. When will these slopes stop going up? The closer we were to Dublin, the shorter the descent would be and therefore the steeper and faster it would be too.

When we did start to speed down towards Dublin, the descent was as exciting, nerve-wracking and enjoyable as any we had experienced so far. The only trouble was that as we hit the outskirts of Dublin other dangers presented themselves...dogs, cars emerging from side roads, pedestrians stepping into the road, traffic lights, roundabouts, bus lanes, taxis, other cyclists, rush hour traffic, street signs etc etc. We had left the isolation of the mountains not 30 minutes ago and were now back in a busy capital city. The contrast was shocking.

We had made it. 90 miles after setting out from Wexford, a long, hard day of climbing and we were here, in Dublin. I had dreamt of this moment. Oliver and I stood on a bridge over the River Liffey and took some photos to celebrate. I used my considerable charm and chatted to a group of 6 Mexican girls on holiday, who were studying in Southampton...'near Birmingham' one of them informed me. They kindly took photos of us both...how could they resist us...me with my big red bulge and rippling thighs, Oliver with his 'I am so fit and fresh I could do it again now' look on his face with a big beaming smile.

We met Simon by the famous Ha'Penny bridge and posed for more photographs. By now we were ready to get to the hotel, put the cycling clothes in the SKANKY BAG, jump in the shower and find something to eat that wasn't a kebab or pizza. The shower was amazing and well worth the sweat and pain of the day.

My friend Giles had driven down from Banbridge in Northern Ireland, to spend the evening with us. Giles and I had stood triumphantly on the summit of Kilimanjaro in 2009. Me with a blue hat that made me look like the first Smurf to reach the top of Kilimanjaro and Giles with a patch over an infected eye. "Hey Giles, that climb up through the night in snow and -50C was tough eh? Still, it may have hurt, but we made it! Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick...oh, sorry."

We walked into the centre of Dublin, passing a new monument called 'The Spire'. It is a long thin needle, 121.2 metres tall and officially called 'The Monument of Light. Giles told us it is often referred to as The Anal Probe.

We ate a 'last dregs of the day' Chinese meal from a restaurant that was in the throws of closing for the night and was looking for an excuse to scrape the serving tins to save the washing up. Giles' pork ribs were more ribs than pork and a passing dog might have enjoyed them more. Then, a wee night cap in a pub on O'Connell street (my round came to 17 Euros for two pints, a bottle of lager and a coke...that's around £15. No wonder the Irish economy is in meltdown...who can afford to pay those prices?).

I settled down to sleep in a comfortable, dry bed. The drunks and revellers outside the hotel in the street failed to interrupt my slumber and as I fell asleep, I had the curious feeling that I was still pedalling. Tomorrow was to be a rest day, a chance for a little sightseeing and the ferry back to Wales. A rest day which included 40 miles of cycling to get to our next campsite and our final major challenge; Snowdonia.

I had already done 265 miles and there were still 205 miles to go. The body was tired, but the spirit remained strong. Keep going...you're over half way...you're nearly there.

To the Emerald Isle...and beyond

Time is flying.

It is only 2 days until the biggest physical challenge of my life.

I have climbed Kilimanjaro with a torn cartilage in my knee in sub zero temperatures and 'long drop' toilets that can only be described as 'indescribable' - a stench worse than a final year student's fetid, putrid, rank and vile socks.

I have cycled vast distances...Worcester to London and back; Worcester to Liverpool and back (but I got off the bike at Kidderminster and (great idea this) ran the 19 miles that remained; Worcester to Cardiff and ...not back. I took the train. The hills and an intolerable saddle sore persuaded me to let the train take the strain.

I have also done marathon 'back-to-back' shifts at one of London's busiest train stations - Kings Cross. Finishing a 2-10pm shift, I clambered aboard the 22:00hrs InterCity East Coast 225 service and tumbled out in Peterborough, to collapse in a heap on the sofa at a touch after 11pm, a reviving cuppa to fortify me for approximately 3 hours sleep. Alarm clock rudely sounds at 3am, urging me to rouse, shave, dress, wolf down some Weetabix and drive in a zombie-esque fashion to Peterborough station to catch the '4:10am God-Awful All Stations Service to Kings Cross'...to stagger grumpily into the office to begin a 6am early shift.

Give me the delights of a long drop toilet at 5,000m in sub zero temperature on Kili over the stupor of a back-to-back shift at the Cross anyday.


But, in 2 days time I will be undertaking a challenge equal to all of the above rolled into one.

420 miles / 670km in 6 days. Cycling from Worcester to Dublin and back in support of my daughter Milla who has severe cerbral palsy and raising money for Scope, the cerebral palsy charity. Dublin and back by bike. 3 countries, 3 mountain ranges, barely a flat road for the entire route....all at the spritely age of 42. An age when most pro-cyclists have unclipped their cleats from their pedals and dismounted for the last time...

Who decided on such an audacious and ambitious challenge? Which muppet thought it would be a good idea to wear Lycra for 6 days and venture into the unknown, the forgotten (Holyhead, Pembroke, Rosslare) and pit onesself against the might of nature (lent a hand by the devilish force of gravity). Oh, I remember now. A little evening with one's mind and I, that's me, had the inspiration. I'm full of great ideas.

What am I letting myself in for? Let me break it down into bite-sized chunks;

1. A bucket load of PAIN


2. An inordinate amount of SWEATING


3. An incalculable amount of CLIMBING


4. A ridiculous number of HILLS & MOUNTAINS


5. The joy of WIND (both flatulent and meterological)


6. The blissful British SUMMER WEATHER (forecast to be showery, cool [11C] and windy)


7. An obesity inducing level of CALORIES per day


8. The painful prospect of SADDLE SORES


9. Permanent NIPPLE ERECTNESS


10. NUMB WILLY and (thanks to my cousin Ian for this information) ERECTILE DISFUNCTION

But on the other had what will I get out of this trip;

1. Raising a LIFE CHANGING sum of money for SCOPE


2. Completing an incredibly difficult challenge and a real sense of ACHIEVEMENT


3. The chance to cycle through some of England, Wales and Ireland's most STUNNING landscapes


4. The chance to get a fantastic UNDISTURBED and peaceful night's sleep


5. The excuse to stuff myself with enough DONOUGHTS, MARS BARS and CALORIES as possible


6. An amazing road trip with great FRIENDS


7. A chance to visit DUBLIN and IRELAND


8. A chance to REMINISCE in HOLYHEAD (I was the London based manager for this outpost of the railway Empire and made occasional trips to 'The One Horse Town, Where The Horse Had Long Since Left)


9. The enjoyment and novelty of SLIPSTREAMING (ie riding behind) SOMEONE ELSE (ie Oliver) and conserving 20% of my energy. 400 miles of sitting on someone's wheel (I'll go in front for the 20 miles of downhill)


10. The possibility of PRETENDING to be a PROFESSIONAL CYCLIST. (I believe we are picking up the EPO and TESTOSTERONE in Brecon...can't beat a few performance enhancing drugs, can you?) Actually, my only drug will be a Dextrose tablet and a swig of Lucozade Sport.

The weather Gods are conspiring against us at the moment and the glorious June weather we were promised (in black and white) has not materialised. Despite this, my friend Oliver arrives tomorrow. I still don't think he really knows what he is letting himself in for.

He told me that he had been cycling to work and back (50 mile round trip); but the problem was that the roads in his part of Northern Germany were as flat as a Pfannkuchen. Keine Bergen.

Oliver, I think the British took all the German hills as some sort of curious agreement to stay out of the Euro Zone (we know the Germans and French don't want us to use Euros....it'd make your holidays in Cornwall a bit too expensive).

We have hills, in abundance. Hills to be afraid of. Hills to look up, craning your neck for the summit some 5 miles atop a 25% gradient and to inwardly scream, 'What the hell I am doing? That is just stupid....now where's the Motorhome; I am getting a lift, noone need ever know' (What happens in Snowdonia, stays in Snowdonia).

Oliver is not the competitive type and he need not fear me trying to jump him to win the Best Climber's Jersey or the Most Aggressive Rider's Jersey. I'll be manfully using every gear imaginable to get up the hills, steadily and then rapidly changing down from big ring to middle ring and then my small ring until I reach Nirvana. The lowest gear of all.

Stay Out of Your Granny Ring

I ride a triple chainset road bike. It is a Cannondale CA888D Tiagra with Shimano components. I likey a lotty. I have absolutely no problem whatsoever in cycling with a Triple chainset. The real serious cyclists out there would laugh and being purists, not deem me worthy of plonking Lycra on Saddle unless I used a compact (or double) chainset.

Sod that. I am not into adding more pain with only two chain rings to fall back (or off) on. No, I am delighted to be carrying a third, small, or to give it its very unfair name; 'a Granny Ring'.

As much as possible I try not to go into my Granny ring. I can overcome most lumps, bumps and hills on the two larger rings. However, there comes a time, when age, gravity, lethargy, a lack of sustenance and the horror of a cataclysmic road pitching up at an outrageous angle ahead when the words chant like a mantra in your head;

"Granny...granny...granny...granny."

I click down on to the reassuring granny ring and the world seems a little easier, a little softer at the edges and my troubles fade away. It is the same feeling as when my real Granny (or Nana as I used to call her) would present a pile of Club, Taxi and Viscount biscuits, a Jaffa cake or 6, some fruit cake and a mug of the finest tea in the finest China cup. That's why it is called the Granny ring, it is comforting, soothing and looks after you when you are feeling crap.

Anyway, I have gone on far too long.

One more day of teaching and then a day to prepare. Drawing similarities with my railway days, the alarm clock will very rudely wake me up at 5am on Saturday, to announce that it is LycraTime. My train will be my bike - and it may need to stop at all stations.

I will smear copious quantities of Chamois Cream to delay the saddle sores (until 30 miles, as opposed to 15 as is usually the case). I'll swallow a steaming bowl of porridge, some tea and force water down my neck like a Goose being primed for fois gras.

I'll say my goodbyes and see you soons to my wife, mother and my daughters and remind Simon and Dan that they do need to set off at some point in the morning in the motorhome to catch us up - we will need refuelling.

I'll then freewheel down the Bath Road to the cathedral (2 miles which don't count) and meet Oliver. An obigatory 'before' photo or two and we'll head off towards the Malverns, Hereford, The Wye Valley, The Brecon Beacons, Black Mountain and beyond (that is just day 1). 118 miles, with 300 more to come.

But I will head off not with trepidation, more with nervous excitement and pushed along by the amazing encouragement from family, friends, colleagues and strangers from all over the world who have so generously supported me in this challenge. The fact that with their help I am enabling Scope to carry on its magnificent wok in giving people with cerebral palsy a better quality of life will make every bead of sweat worthwhile.

The £4,000 target, which I have now reached, and the thoughts and wishes of countless people will lessen the wind, make the hills not so steep and the energy levels remain high....

Well, that's the theory anyway.