Day 1: 1st September 2004 (Greg)

A day, and much packing later, I stood proudly next to my laden bike. I wasn’t sure whether I should be pleased that I could just about lift it or frantic with worry that I could only just about lift it!

My mum had popped home from work early to cook a huge fry-up that would power me to Pompey. It was a lovely thought, and vastly preferable to just leaving a key under the mat and disappearing quietly. Hardly setting off with a bang, but nice to have been 'seen off'.

I felt a mixture of emotions as I mounted my bike and set off for the longest journey I had ever undertaken. To anyone passing me, I was just another cyclist (albeit with a fair bit of baggage) but I wanted acknowledgement - I wished everyone could somehow know what a challenging road lay ahead of this particular cyclist. I wasn't commuting to work or popping back from the supermarket; I literally had no idea how long my journey would take, what I would see on my way, what problems would need to be overcome. There was no clapping, whooping or cheering, no car horns blowing. A hug from my mum was the only recognition of my endeavours.

One step at a time though, and step one was to get to Portsmouth where I would join forces with fellow fruitcake Eoin and have someone else to share the ups and downs of the trip with. It was a beautifully sunny day with a fresh wind. I had a full belly and, despite having left late, felt very positive.

I ignored Mike’s advice about getting the ferry across to Southampton. I knew roughly how long it would take to get around Southampton Water on my own steam and felt that was more in keeping with the spirit of the trip. Besides, I’m a cheapskate.

I avoided the busy A326 by cycling through Marchwood and over the toll-bridge at Eling. From there it was mostly cycle paths to the central part of Southampton. Having lived in the south my entire life until leaving home to go to university, I assumed I wouldn’t need a map to get to Portsmouth. What I was forgetting was that a sane person’s route there would involve the M27, which was strictly out of bounds to me. I wouldn’t say that I got lost, since I knew pretty much where I was the entire time, and knew that all I had to do was head east, but I certainly didn’t seem to take a direct route. I tried in vain to remember my uncle’s suggested route, and ended up just following signs along busy A-roads. At one point I saw a sign for the Hamble ferry, but with time rapidly disappearing, I decided it would be foolish to try gambling with short cuts; my cheapskatedness prevailed.

A bit further on and a familiar vibrating started coming from my left pedal. I tried to ignore it, but knew I was in trouble. It was the same feeling I had felt whilst on my test ride before the pedal crank fell off. I spotted a fellow cyclist and asked for directions to the nearest bike shop. I limped the next mile or two using my left leg to pedal and trying not to apply any pressure with my right. With the crank wobbling horrendously I dragged my disabled bike into the shop on Fareham highstreet, asked for assistance and made the worst decision of the day.

The guy in the bike shop brought out a large spanner and did the crank up nice and tightly. He asked if it had come loose before. I told him about my test ride after having just spent £100 on repairs. He said that it should hold, but that if it were to come loose again it would indicate that the thread had sheared and that I should purchase a new crank. I thanked him and left the shop. As I cycled onwards to Portsmouth I kept wondering whether I might have been better buying a crank there and then just in case, but told myself it’d be fine. Anyway it seemed a waste after having my bike serviced so recently, and after the nice chap had only just tightened the thing up.

As I neared Portsmouth I found myself whimpering along on a six lane road, wishing I had listened more carefully to wiser people about the route I should take. There was a hard shoulder, which I clung to despite the broken glass. The traffic roaring up from behind me at 70mph had me literally wobbling in fear; I was petrified. Just cycling on this road was scary enough, but doing so with a full load was more than I could handle. I got off at the first possible exit, and stumbled into Portsmouth along quieter roads.

The trouble with ferry terminals is that they don’t think of people cycling to them when they decide where to put directing signposts. I’m sure that by car, finding the Portsmouth – Le Harvre ferry is so trivial that even a Tom-Tom could do it, but taking the road less travelled makes it a whole lot more taxing. I felt like I had circumnavigated the city twice and asked the equivalent of the average home crowd at Fratton Park (admittedly not many) for directions before I finally found myself feasting my eyes on the ticket office.

According to my bike computer I had only cycled 67km, but it had taken me all afternoon, and I had arrived after our pre-arranged meeting time of 6pm. Still, there was no sign of Eoin so I figured my punctuality was at least superior to his and gave myself a hearty pat on the back for a job well done.

Almost immediately afterwards I swallowed my pride and accepted that Eoin’s timekeeping had in fact been much better – it turned out he’d been at the terminal for some time. No matter, my underlying emotion was that of relief. I suppose at the back of my mind was the possibility that Eoin had been pulling my leg with the whole plan from the start. I knew him well, and knew he was dependable, yet nevertheless had a nightmare vision of phoning his Reading home, and him picking up and joking “You didn’t fall for it did ya Greg?!”

Now we were reunited in Portsmouth, it was proof that we were going to do this. Alone I felt uncertain, in partnership I felt strong. If I stumbled onto another 6 lane duel carriageway I knew Eoin would be in front or behind me. If I got chatting to someone about the trip, there would be another voice defending the decision not to fly. If there was a problem, we were in it together and there was a huge amount of comfort to be taken from that.

We compared the weights of our bikes, checked in, went for a celebratory few pints and a bit of pub grub, caught up on the day’s stories, and boarded the ferry.