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.
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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?!
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.
