Enduring pain, discomfort, exhaustion and psychological challenges during a group event quickly strips away pretences, defences and ego, and you get to the heart and soul of people pretty quickly. You bond as a group, support each other and become intimate in a way that would not be acceptable in normal life. A turn at any moment and you’re watching someone you barely know lube their arse, rearrange their tackle, take a wee, or strip down for a massage.
 
580 miles over 6 days with a total climb equivalent to just higher than Everest was a phenomenal undertaking but I completed it, along with an amazing group of people! It is your tribe that you miss most following an adventure of this type. You exist in a bubble, far removed from the real world, and though you may suffer, it’s liberating. Our particular Stockholm syndrome was multifaceted.
 
Breakfast is the first ordeal of the day. Not that it's horrible, though porridge loses its appeal very quickly, it’s just that it’s so damn early to be forcing the right amount of food down to fuel the tanks. We spent a good portion of each day shoving food down our throats. Failure to do so results in a most miserable ride.   
 
The second seminal moment of the day is the depth of discomfort conveyed in the chorus of groans and the outbreak of Tourette’s that erupts as everyone mounts their bikes ready for the off. Padded lycra can only do so much. It takes a good hour for your undercarriage to become one with the saddle once more.
 
Our group of cyclists found a natural split between two packs on day 2; the elite team, and the slow team (or the fun team as we prefer to call ourselves). Whilst the elite team zoomed off each morning in a haze of testosterone and brightly coordinated outfits, the fun team - blighted by age, dodgy hearts, asthma, injured knees and Rusty fucking Bob - usually took 30 minutes to really get going, once we’d stopped for nervous wees, loose chains and miscellaneous adjustments. Days were punctuated by a morning drink stop (the vans are laden with water, flapjacks and malt loaf), lunch stop (prepared from the van by the kitchen crew under a portable gazebo), and afternoon drink stop; each one a physical and psychological milestone.
 
There is an etiquette to group cycling, some of which is still a mystery to me:

• Hand signals – to indicate an obstacle that needs circumnavigating (parked cars, bollards, dead things, the sudden disappearance of a cycle path), to draw attention to death traps in the road (pot holes, drain covers, dead things, glass, assorted debris), to signal you are stopping or slowing down.  And others which are just plain rude!
• Shout outs – “stopping” (i.e. don’t crash into the back of me or I will beat you with your own sweaty lycra), “slowing”, “rolling” (speeding up again, you can keep going without fear of being beaten with your own sweaty lycra), “on your wheel” (I’m as close as I dare get to your back wheel to ride your slipstream, do not slow down, break suddenly, wobble or fart), “clear” (when approaching a junction, a good idea to actually check and not just say clear because the person in front did).
• Bodily emissions – evidently there are no restrictions regarding excessive wind and snot, or any requirement to shout out a warning before executing the wee through … one just has to hope one is far enough back not to taste / smell / inhale / absorb (delete as appropriate) whichever bodily substance is secreted by those in front.

 
Slipstreaming is an art that requires a certain amount of courage and trust. You need to be right on the wheel of the cyclist in front of you for there to be a benefit, and you all need to maintain a steady pace to avoid collision. Riding at the front is hard work, and you need to set the right pace or you risk bombing off too fast leaving your pack behind with the second rider cursing you for leaving them to lead the pack.
 
That I have now managed to cycle most of the breadth of England and the entire length of France on a 25-year-old road bike that is mostly held together with rust and duct tape is a bloody marvel. A custom hand built Bob Griffin, he was a shining example of modern bike technology when my Dad commissioned him. Not so much now. But despite the rust, the broken toe clips, the dodgy breaks, heavy frame, small wheels and tiny cogs, Rusty Bob has been a most loyal steed. While very expensive bikes have spontaneously broken, Rusty Bob suffered just one puncture on each of the BBB rides. A few bits came loose but duct tape is a wonderful thing … never travel without it!
 
A miscellany of uses for duct tape:

• Fixing toe clips back together
• DIY leg wax to streamline the body, incomprehensibly this offer was not taken up but I know it would work
• Fixing a water bottle cage back on after it came loose when the bike was launched through the air in frustration at the top of a viscous hill
• Attaching your bike to an outrider when you can no longer summon the energy to rotate the pedals
• Nipple tape - again this was offered as a solution when the problem of sore nipples was raised but this undoubtedly effective solution was not embraced
• Glove enhancers for when the padding wears thin
• Fixing derailleurs - am sure it would have worked but the owner of the broken derailleur was unwilling to try
• Taping stinky boys’ bottoms shut
• Strapping Rusty Bob to the outside of the van to be transported up the dangerous hill, secretly hoping this wouldn’t work and he’d fall off
• Fadi 😉

 
Ultimately, our suffering was for a reason; the ride was all about raising money for two amazing causes. Together - the riders, crew and our supporters - we raised over £30,000 for Bliss, the special care baby charity who provide medical and emotional support to families with babies born too small, too sick, too soon; and The Ashley Scrivens Foundation, set up in memory of Ash who rode with us on the first ride, to support youth sport initiatives.
 
It is one of my proudest achievements that I have been part of something that, over 2 rides, has raised in excess of £65,000 for charity! There is already talk of BBB: La Terza Fase - Nice to Naples. So, would I do it again? Hell yes. Would I do it on Rusty Bob? My sense of loyalty to him is considerably diminished and I would be foolish to attempt another long distance mountainous ride on such an unsuitable heap of rust.  But then where’s the fun in making sensible decisions?  And there’s always duct tape!

2x cat5, 1x cat1 and a shit load of descent - as much climbing as we did yesterday in just the first 30k!

Who needs a warm up? Our final day's ride went straight in to a 30k climb on the Col de la Cayolle, one of the 20 highest paved cycling climbs in France. And it was amazing! Such a beautiful ride. Despite all the pain of these six days, I am no less in love with mountains and this was a perfect climb to go out on. An undeniably de-mob happy group of cyclists were buoyed by the added adrenaline of it being the last leg. At least to start with.

This last ride was a long one! I was last to summit the Col; just two of the crew and a busload of elderly French tourists to cheer my arrival, everyone else having long since continued on their way. A quick photo stop and it was straight back down the other side. I’d love to say I conquered the steep descent with its sheer drops and endless switchbacks but, about a mile down, I looked right and my nerve went. I hitched a ride in the van for a few miles until the gradient became more reasonable.

Humours remained pleasant throughout a fabulous picnic lunch of bread, cheese and ham at a picturesque mountainside bar; and on through the final descent towards Nice. It felt great to reach the sign announcing we had just 30 miles to go. But this ride was intended as a challenge and those last 30 miles pushed us one last time. Each mile seemed to take an hour, the tanks were empty despite overdosing on snacks and slipstreaming was hard work. Utterly exhausted, we battled the elements along seemingly endless straight roads to reach the final frustration of city roadworks and traffic. Not easy when everyone had pretty much lost their mind, all control of their motor functions and the will to live. Until the last few miles along the promenade came into sight and with huge grins and a few tears we rode to the finish line and a hero’s welcome. Once I’d blinked the champagne from my eyes and the momentary blindness had passed, elation set in. The job was done; Paris to Nice accomplished. 

Of course, this post was written after that final day ... on finishing the ride the last thing I was about to do was write the damn blog! No, on finishing the ride, we celebrated. With champagne. And then beer. And then more champagne. And then many, many cocktails and sambuccas. And dancing. Until morning.

1x cat5, 1x cat4, 3x cat3, 1x cat2 ... Just a short ride today then
 
Mirages do not just occur in the desert. They frequently appear on mountains, in the form of downhill slopes that are actually uphill. AND, it can feel like you are still cycling uphill when you're actually going down. Unscrupulous mountains. I wildly underestimated them.

So much pain. Everywhere. The vagina - note we are now disassociated - is hanging round my legs in ribbons. My shoulders, back and hips permanently ache and twinge and I cannot describe the pain in my knees. Actually makes me feel sick between doses of high voltage ibuprofen. Our warm up (ha!) comprised 2 hills in heavy fog. It was so cold, visibility was bad and our clothes were moist with dew. Mentally I lost it today. My mojo fucked off yesterday morning, fickle bastard. I started the day nervous and I was right to be. The mind is a powerful thing but it can be an arse. PMA MIA.

After about 15 miles we broke through the fog and the view was stunning! Alpine villages nestled at the foot of the mountains, a very light dusting of snow on the highest peaks, just a few white fluffy clouds in the sky. Another spontaneous outbreak of morale and a quick selfie stop and we pushed on. And the hills just kept coming as we climbed, and climbed, to around 5000 feet.

I started to lose my shit when, 5 miles after Lucy told me the drink stop was just 3 miles away, Toby informed me it was another 4 miles. All lies. The drink stop was at the top of the 7 mile, 4.6% climb. A mile from the top, having stopped several times already to cry and breathe, I had a complete meltdown. Hugh - having caught up from the fast group, who left 45 mins after us this morning - found me and patiently rode with me the last mile, encouraging me until we reached the top. At which point Rusty Bob was launched through the air to the ground, and just short of a whole malt loaf was consumed.

That is the hardest I have ever pushed myself. The thing about Rusty Bob is he's twice as heavy as a proper bike and his lowest front cog twice as big. That's a heavy gear to push. Getting up hills is hard and today had some real low points. But, it's only pain! My babies were all born healthy and I am here and (almost) fit enough to take on this challenge. Riding through the fog this morning, I thought of Ash. Those of us who rode Ciren to Paris will particularly miss him at the wrap party tomorrow. We could have done with a round of Allouette today. So when I find myself whining like a little bitch, I remember why we're doing this!

The extended lunch stop on the shore of a beautiful lake, after a 20 mile white knuckle descent was a much needed boost. The scenery has been jaw dropping ... as I suppose you would expect cycling through the Alps. More hills, wee stops, photo breaks and an ice cream stop later and we're in early. It's so good to have a bit of time to relax. Most evenings it's in, eat, bed. One more ridiculously steep day tomorrow and we'll be in Nice. Thanks for all the support and messages of encouragement so far, it's really helped x

6x cat5, 1x cat3, 1x cat2 climbs - Christ on a fucking bike, today's gonna be hard. Route map in 2 sections, explanation later.
 
Sam has Vaseline in her handbag and she hands it to me with her lovely smile; an angel of vaginal salvation. Except I actually dreamt that and all she handed me was a bowl of porridge. Mercifully Trev does have Vaseline, though not in his handbag. I salve the raw areas and we're ready for the off.
The end.

I wish that was the end because the rest of the day was utterly brutal. Grown men have cried. Uphill all morning and then some more uphill after lunch. Very steep and very long. I had to stop for breath twice on the last one. It was very steep and long. Miles long. Cycling for MILES uphill. Have I mentioned how hilly it is? The route maps were in two sections this morning because so steep, long and treacherous was one section, we all had to be taken up in the vans.

Sorry, that's all I have. Oh, other than its very beautiful in the mountains and the cows have cow bells. And there are lots of hills.

Rusty Bob and I have fallen out. Not because he's done anything wrong per se but because he's just still here. Despite persistent attempts to lose him, swap him or get him stolen, he's still here, all old and rusty and ridiculously heavy and interminably roadworthy. I gave him a kick when I stopped for a wee in the sunflower field. He took revenge by catching a stinging nettle in his derailleur which whipped my legs down the next hill.

​Maybe someone - a remote Alp dwelling hermit who appreciates old workmanship rather than new fangled expensive bikes - will steal him tonight from the hotel shed. Otherwise we'll just have to do it all over again tomorrow. I'm so over cycling.

2x cat5, 1x cat4, 1x cat3 climbs ... a short, easy day, only 95 miles and all the climbing is before lunch

What goes up must come down, and it transpires that my incapacitating fear of heights transcends to being 3 foot up on a bike, travelling at great speed down a mountain. Rusty Bob gathers pace, the wind howls past my ears, my helmet strap bitch slaps my face relentlessly, cows become fuzzy blurs and each slight variation in the road surface becomes a gargantuan obstacle designed to cause me grave harm. Crazy thoughts of Bob flying apart or me just flying off with certain painful consequence fill my head and my hands cramp with the effort of squeezing the breaks. I do not like it one bit. If I can't get my shit together it's going to make the descent from The Alps into Nice a very harrowing affair.

But terrifying descents and ruined knees (every other pain, and there are many, pales in comparison to my knees) aside, we had a brilliant morning's ride passing through gorgeous medieval villages and rolling countryside. 3 significant climbs challenged us but I found my mojo today and enjoyed them. The rest of my lovely group - there is a fast group, we are not it - may leave me for dust on the descents but I can catch them up on the climbs ... for now!

The riding after lunch was not as charming. It should have been a breeze after the morning's hills but it was blighted by miles of mind crushing dual carriageway, spent trying not to get sucked under the wheels of a juggernaut whilst cycling through a thick fog of post chilli and beans after burn. Another pitfall of bringing up the rear, alongside having the support van crew staring at your arse all day. My gag reflex is so overworked it might be broken.

The ibuprofen took a while to kick in post lunch and the knee pain actually caused the first tears of the trip. At least until I gave myself a mental slap and pulled myself together.

As always, there were synchronised wees, jungle poos, groin lube stops, slipped chains, flapjack breaks and spills to accommodate. The ride through Lyon, whilst dicey what with playing chicken with rush hour traffic and going Maverick with traffic lights rules, was beautiful. The 1.5 mile tunnel which played soothing music to us and projected video of dancers onto its walls was superb. The ride out the other side of Lyon, what with a spot of road rage and altercations with traffic, was neither beautiful nor superb. After a horrible ride through what must be the meth suburb and a barren industrial estate we arrived at our amazingly awful hotel. We believe it's fabricated from shipping containers stacked 2 high and 30 across. The towels are the size of a pillow case, the communal showers and toilets smell bad and we suspect bed bugs. But, it's a bed in which to lie, groan and feel sorry for ourselves for a few short hours. Joan has inflicted great pain on me to fix my knees, and the crew rustled up a great BBQ in the car park.
​
Tomorrow we hit The Alps. I may need more jelly babies.

2x cat5 climbs, 3x cat3 climbs ... longest mileage and hill training starts today

Cyclists in various states of mental and physical health are wandering around our luxurious (compared to F1) hotel in various states of consciousness following an ordeal of a day. Some people do this for fun. Those people are insane. Arduous, excruciating, soul crushing, arse shredding is what it is!

110 is a ridiculous number of miles to cycle in one day. The hills were brutal. People and bikes are broken. I haven't cried yet but it's been close, particularly when Joan was elbowing the knots out my shoulders. But we all pushed through those miles and made it up those hills; an amazing group of people taking time off work to push their limits to raise money for poorly babies and youth sport.

Let me introduce you to the cyclists:

• The Essex Boys - Andrew, Jon, Trev, Jase, Alex and me (I am an honorary Essex Boy, except I speak the queen's English and can't keep up with them on a bike)
• The Cotswold Massive - Big Dan, Normal Size Dan, Will, Chelsey, Chris, Greg 'The Power' (and me)
• The Northerners - Phil, Dean, Toby, Asia, Lucy
• The Proper Northerners (with accents) - Scarby, Pete, Hugh
• And, of course, Fadi

And the crew - keeping us organised, fed, and safe:

• Andy - the guy responsible for our suffering, has a tendency to tell big fat lies about how many hills lie ahead; former friend
• Sam - goddess of the al fresco kitchen, keeping us fed and watered; giver of fantastic hugs
• Sian - first aider and sous chef; also my very lovely roommate
• Paul and Matt - patiently driving the support vans, administering mechanical help, operating the megaphone (so motivational)
• Ian, Mike & Toby - fantastic outriders keeping us on track
• Joan - masseur extraordinaire, making people wince and cry but ultimately feel better

At supper Mr Hammond rightfully won the 'Biggest Bell End' of the day award for his part in our suffering and for lying about that last hill! A round of pool was decided on by the Essex contingent but our interest was short lived due to lack of, well, interest, and we're now all in bed. Not together. Although who knows what Andrew and Trev are up to, and Jon's in for a night of it as those 5 energy gels Jase had will undoubtedly stage a comeback.

​I'm just hoping the liberal application of voltarol to my knees will stop them screaming in agony by morning. As for my vagina, I'm not sure I still have one.

​I love France, I really do! Especially the cheese and wine. But those damn Romans and their endless straight roads, not so much! Miles of open agricultural land; nothing to break the monotony, and the rancid smell of rotting cabbage that burns the hairs in your nostrils and makes your eyes bleed.

During the hours it took us to extricate ourselves from grey, I mean gay, Paris, we longed to reach the open roads of the countryside. Then we hit the open roads of the countryside and changed our minds as agoraphobia set in. Our lunch stop, another French village with no sign of life, was pretty enough and provided distraction in the form of a kid's roundabout. There was a momentary outbreak of morale sometime after lunch for no apparent reason and again later when the sun made a brief appearance.

Much testosterone was flying about today - of the 21 riders there are 4 girls - and some very speedy sections were accomplished by the lead pack. I must keep my testosterone in check tomorrow because it transpires I can only keep up with the lead pack until mid afternoon, at which point my thighs magically become lead weights and the energy tanks bleed dry, making for some very horrible lonely miles.  Whilst cycling in no man's land between packs, I tried to motivate myself with the thought that I like time alone with my thoughts. But my thoughts were largely shit and refused to go anywhere beyond rotting cabbages and back pain.

But enough of this maudlin rhetoric, let's discuss the really fun things we loved today ... really, I can't remember the last time I had such fun:

• watching many Lycra clad men line up at the edge of a field to synchronise pee
• listening to Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet and other such peppy 80s tunes through a very powerful speaker. Oh yes, my own personal nirvana. Though Greg was very obliging when yelled at to 'turn that shit off' (sorry Greg, you found my limit)
• saddle sore; my vagina is no longer talking to me. OK so my vagina has never spoken to me but if it had, it's not now
• riding someone's slipstream as they speed through a puddle
• riding someone's slipstream and getting a small quarry's worth of grit sprayed in your face
• Fadi

​Now, as we enjoy the salubrious delights of Hotel F1 - no really, you should try it - Joan, the masseur, is being relentlessly overworked and the ibuprofen are being abused. And that was the easy day. Unfortunately I think I'll survive the night, ready to do it all again tomorrow. I'm thrilled.

We did it!  The Bliss Baby Bikers reached their target of £35,000 for Bliss, the special care baby charity. 

I am so proud to have been part of the small group of volunteers who made this happen and of the 30 riders who worked so hard to raise this money, and indeed to complete the 430 mile ride from Cirencester to Paris!  Incredible!

It’s four days since 29 of the 30 Bliss Baby Bikers that set out from Cirencester last weekend completed our ride to Paris.  Given the ridiculously adverse weather conditions that plagued us most days, the extraordinarily challenging hills and general fatigue, it’s a small miracle we only lost one rider en route.

We arrived at Esplanade du Trocadero in front the Eiffel Tower in the rain (inevitably) around 6pm on Wednesday, after a scary couple of hours (least that’s what it felt like) negotiating Paris rush hour and crazy arsed French drivers, whilst really needing a wee (I did, anyway).

The last day of riding was not nearly as challenging as previous days … just 4 big hills (including a nice steep forested one that we didn’t actually need to climb, due to a slight navigational miscalc), all conquered before lunch.  The mood had an air of demob happy to it and we picked two thirds of the mileage off before lunch.  What should have been an easy 20 miles into Paris along the canal path after lunch actually took the best part of five hours due to 9 punctures, wet slippery surfaces (coupled with overall tiredness) causing several riders to spontaneously fall off their bikes, and the innumerable traffic lights through the city.

No-one really seemed to mind the hold ups though; the mood was so high, the team spirit so strong and there was a little bit of not wanting the journey to be over.  We stuck together through every obstacle and rounded the last roundabout en mass, oblivious to rain and traffic and making as much noise as possible.  It was the most incredible sense of achievement.

There were challenges, there were aches and pains, and there were times when humours waned, but these made the whole experience what it was … the most amazing few days, with the loveliest bunch of people.  I loved it.  And I now miss it!  I miss getting up and getting on the bike and I miss the team.  Admittedly, their bottoms are more familiar to me than their faces, so I’m looking forward to seeing them all properly dressed at the reunion!

There is so much I could say about the team, the amazing crew, the hotels, and Rusty Bob (who got me all 425 of the miles with only one puncture); and I have a whole load of Bob Cam footage to edit, but for now … some vaguely lucid memories of the after party:

• Champagne and happy faces
• Promising Abi really sincerely that I wouldn’t drink too much so as not to be really irritating on the ride back to Calais at 3am
• Immediately proceeding to drink several bottles of wine of a variety of colours
• Having what I hope was a coherent conversation with Kate’s mum
• Joining the drinking game and failing at the first hurdle
• Snorting vodka
• Charming rendition of Alouette, sung by every occupant of the bar, ably led by Ash
• A surprise visit by the cops, a period of drunken hush and placating of said officer by the bar manager
• Another round of Alouette
• A taxi ride, another bar, somewhere else
• Lucy and Kate dancing on the tables
• Walking, maybe even skipping down the street hand in hand with the Phils (sorry Phils)
• Not nearly enough Tequila!
• Heartfelt goodbyes and the best hugs
• A 2am taxi ride back to the hotel to meet up with a none too pleased Abi, a 3am taxi ride (of which I have no recollection) to collect the trucks and bikes (on the plus side, I am amazed I actually left on time!)
• Ellie puking out the window of Andy’s truck as we made our way back to Calais

I was going to tell you about the joys of cycling, after enjoying yesterday’s ride so much, but I didn’t feel much of the joy today. 85 miles we cycled, but it felt like so much more. Wind, spills, fatigue and more wind (of the meteorological variety) made for a horrible day of cycling.

Things I like about cycling:

• All the funny little hand signals that mean something very useful which, as yet, I do not comprehend
• All the shout outs back and forth through the pack warning of impending doom in the shape of pot holes, oncoming vehicles, slippery drains and other assorted obstacles
• Cycling along at the back of a group and riding their slipstream
• Lycra … yup, love it!
• The way everyone cycling in a pack looks out for each other and the team spirit
• Going fast down a hill (but only when you can see where it comes out, otherwise it’s just really scary)

Things I don’t like about cycling:

• Getting grit, flies, bugs, foliage, and random debris in your eyes
• Losing all feeling in your right foot from about 5 miles onwards
• Chuffing hills
• Helmets … yes, it has been proven that they are quite useful at keeping your head in tact in the event of a collision, but if done up tight enough to stay on your head, they are inevitably too tight for comfort and create several chins
• Ridiculous tan lines … such as panda eyes and interesting leg patterns
• Weather

We spent the entire day (the ENTIRE day) cycling into the most horrendous wind. Every mile felt like 5. It was relentless. I blame French agriculture. Mile upon mile of turnip fields stretching as far as the eye can see, all flat and open for the wind to howl through. (And the fields don’t smell too nice in the damp either).

People were struggling, the going was hard. The few miles after the last drink stop, where people were questioning whether they could go on, were a relentless soggy climb. The rain set in. Not refreshing drizzle, but hard, wet torrential rain that turned the roads to rivers and soaked us to the bone. Still, those last 20 wet miles were a bit exhilarating.

Just 61 miles to go tomorrow before we reach Paris …