The Bike

Yesterday I saw it.

"Saw what?", I hear you ask.

It! It! In the flesh (can steel be fleshy?), beautifully crafted: the one, the only ... The Condor Fratello.

Nige and I made a pilgrimage of sorts, to Grays Inn Road in London, with empty pockets and open hearts, to take a look at all the bikes. After our weekend away in Kent, during which time we cycled 50 miles on our mountain bikes, I think we have both realized that what we need, and what we want, is a road bike to call our own. Mountain bikes were not designed to be ridden on roads! It's pretty elementary, my dear Watson.

Couple this realization with:
- numerous discussions about cycling holidays (Italy! France! England!)
- our ill-fated Lands End to John O'Groats trip, still very much a plan in my mind
- a yearning desire to get away from it all (possibly even for quite a long time)
- a vision board with a picture of the oh so slick and oh so classy Fratello bicycle,
and what you're left with is two cyclists in desperate need of a BLE (Bike Loving Expedition).

And that is exactly what we went off to do!

Nige had found the Fratello, a classically designed yet high quality road/audax bike (what exactly does audax mean again?!) that is simply quite mouth-watering to look at, on the internet. For a while, he had a picture of it as a screensaver. Then a printed photo found its way onto his wall. And at some point over the last couple of weeks, I knew that I for one wanted to go and see it, to establish whether this was a pipe dream, to investigate the build of the bike and whether it is right for our needs.

Great minds really must think alike, because when I asked him if he wanted to go on Saturday, after doing some flyering at the local Farmer's Market for our 70s and 80s club night (which, by the way, is a great night - plug plug), he immediately said that he'd been thinking the same thing. As we walked down Grays Inn Road, we were like little children who were heading to the seaside for the day and were dying to see the glint of sunshine of the waves for the first time. We walked and walked, and still there was no bike shop. We talked about the possibility that the shop might not exist, or that it might be closed. And then we saw.... a Condor Fratello! A man, walking down the road towards us, heralding that we were nearly there, nearly, nearly there.

Once in the shop itself, we did a quick walkabout until we found what we were looking for. There they were, all shiny and perfect. We bowed down and kissed the ground the bikes had rolled over.

We were looked after in the shop by a 22 year old guy called Sammy, who knew his stuff and whose customer service was second to none. He knew that we wouldn't be buying yesterday, but also that we would definitely be investing at some point in the future. He talked us through the Fratello's features and its potential rival for our affections and possession, The Condor Heritage.

The Heritage is another beautiful bike that was designed "with the serious cyclotourist in mind". It is described as a "mile-eater", and is versatile enough that it can be used for long distance commutes. Where it falls down is that it isn't quite as nice a ride for shorter day rides (apparently). Despite its appeal for round the world riding potential (the Heritage can take front panniers where the Fratello can't), it became apparent that both myself and Nige were drawn to the Fratello.

Nige was particularly taken by the bright orange version on the wall, whereas I was more attracted to the plum or the grey one. Perhaps, I thought, I'll even choose a different colour and have it custom sprayed for an extra hundred quid.

One thing is for sure though: this bike is stunning, and classy, and definitely worth the £1,500 or so that it will cost. The awesome thing about Condor bicycles is that you pay a fixed amount for the frame (in this case, £549.99) and then build the rest of the bike according to you.

For me, going to look at the Fratello was an important step towards the LEJOG journey and the more general dream of going touring on my bike.

I've just read a beautiful quote:

"The major difference between great dreams that go up in a puff of smoke and great dreams that come into being is one simple thing: action."

(Movement Medicine by Susannah and Ya'Acov Darling Khan)

We're going to start saving at the end of this month. I've got a rough quote from Sammy on a piece of paper with all the different parts of the bike and how much each one costs, and I am going to approach this saving exercise piece by piece, for purposes of morale and a psychological sense of achievement. I think it's going to be great to celebrate each part of the bike that I can now afford, from the frame itself to the group set, to the wheels, to the finishing kit, to the gears... I may even make a chart. My inner child loves that idea!

So watch this space... and any donations gratefully received!!

And if you believed that we bowed down and kissed the ground the Fratello had touched, you are sadly misled.

I love bikes but I do not kiss the ground unless I am doing a sweat lodge.

Until next time, keeeeeeeep riding!

Cruising the Garden of England

Last weekend, Nige and I loaded up Winston, Nige's not-quite-vintage Honda Civic, with bikes, bike clothing and of course, ourselves, and drove to a lovely B&B on the border of East Sussex and Kent. We'd told friends and family that we were going away, but kept referring to it as "going away to Rye for the weekend". In the end, we only stopped in Rye on the way home to buy fish and chips (and mushy peas, of course)!

We were bowled over and immersed in every sense by the beauty of the Kent countryside, and spent the best part of two days riding around there. Going into a town didn't turn out to be on either of our agendas.

I was gloriously surprised by Kent, and had never quite managed to understand why it's referred to as the 'Garden of England'. In truth (and I don't intend to offend anyone from Kent!), I suppose I thought it was called that as a kind of euphemism, softening the blow of it not really having anything to offer. In actual fact, it's a place full of curiosities and rich experiences just waiting to happen, and I would love to return there.

We learned, as we were visiting a remote and very beautiful little church in the middle of a marsh, that Romney Marsh is actually four marshes. Poor other three marshes! They don't get any recognition. Can a marsh have an identity crisis, I wonder?

As we rode and indeed even drove around, we kept coming across these strange looking conical roofs with white, wooden tips, often with a strange opening and a kind of lever pointing out of them at a 90 degree angle. I found out that these buildings were all Oast Houses, and that the roofs were specifically designed to dry out hops in order to make beer. It turns out that the South East is the home of beer brewing!

One of the sights that really surprised me was that of stunningly white swans sitting at the edge of these huge, vibrantly green rapeseed fields, next to the Military Canal. (Thanks Nige for taking the photos!) It was such an unusual sight, which sadly this picture doesn't quite capture because you can't see the blueness of the sky - a gleaming white bird highlighted against the emerald green of the field, suspended underneath a stunningly clear blue sky - and of course, it also made sense. Swans + water = no brainer.

These swans were probably cruising down the canal when they came across a nice spot for a bit of sunbathing. So out they'd get, giving themselves a shake, and they'd spend a portion of the day lounging around. I've seen a lot of swans recently, and yesterday I saw a puppy in a river paddling alongside a swan! They were just hanging out, and the pup wasn't listening to its owners whistles and calls. No no no - it had made a new friend. Two groups of people had stopped in their tracks to witness this rather bizarre partnership. I smiled and cycled on, grateful for the opportunity to see life at bike speed.

We had been advised to go and see this beautiful church, which stood in the middle of a field. The key was huge, almost other-worldly, hanging in the garden of a nearby house. Inside the church, the pews were arranged into white box shaped sections. We learned that the church had been like this since its inception, and that in days of old, worshippers would pay for the best seats. It was astonishingly clear evidence of the church's relationship with power, money and prestige. Quite a sight.

We also kept seeing strange buildings and monuments (some of which were quite phallic!); along the canal on the way to Appledore, there were a couple of what Nige said were shooting outposts. Being in "1066 Country" is quite mindblowing when you start to picture the battle that took place right there on that land. Being so close to Hastings made the whole thing feel more tangible and awesome and awful, all at once. These things happened, right here on this land! While I'm not like my sister Daisy, who's off to Oxford University in October to read History, the reality of the historical events felt both relevant and simultaneously irrelevant over the weekend.

On Saturday, we cycled 20.8 miles and on Sunday, 33.7, giving a grand total of 54.5 miles, certainly the furthest I've ridden in a two day period. We took it really gently though, and in contrast to Sussex, Kent is extremely flat, with literally one sloping hill to clim near the farm we were staying at. My legs turned all weekend, but didn't ache on Monday morning.

Upon arriving and returning to Cliff Farm, Pat, the owner, made us a lovely pot of tea. I love the ritual of stopping for a pot of tea. It's one of my life's simple pleasures.

Saturday night was very interesting indeed. We went to a gastropub called the Ferry for a delicious supper of steak and ale pie (Nige) and liver and bacon (me), and when we got back to the B&B, an alcohol fuelled gathering was in full swing. The long and short of it is that the owners had four friends over for the evening; the alcohol flowed; the voices raised and sounded like they were in the bedroom with us; the smells slipped effortlessly through the wooden floorboards until we were ensconced in their fumes. I went downstairs at midnight, thoroughly pissed off that our quiet weekend away was being disturbed.

This had happened in Glastonbury, when we'd managed to stay in the noisiest B&B ever - a strange squelching sound emitted from the bathroom at ungodly hours of the night, preventing us from getting to sleep. Here, 9 months later, the same thing was happening again. What was it for?! Taking a deep breath, I spoke to the owners and expressed my disappointment, and initially, things were tense. For a while, it looked like we were going to leave on unfriendly terms, which I'm not at all comfortable with. I wanted to see their innocence, and yet it was important for me to express my disappointment too, simply as a paying customer.

The next day, we learned that it had indeed been a celebration. For six years, Pat and her husband had been living directly opposite the neighbours from hell. The neighbours were intimidating to guests. They had CCTV cameras pointing onto the farm. They were rude and unfriendly. They set their dogs out when guests were loading and unloading their cars. And they had just moved out.

No wonder they were celebrating.

Pat kindly gave us a dozen eggs as a peace offering, and I felt so grateful that we'd been given a window of insight into her life. I can honestly say that I would definitely stay there again. If you'd have asked me that in the middle of the night, when I only had our side of the story to go on, I would have said no way!

On Sunday, we rode to Dungeness. En route, we had a fairly intense yet quickly dealt with crisis. To read the ins and outs of this, see my other blog. To summarise, we rode into Dungeness as friends rather than enemies.

Friends again!

Dungeness was cool! It's a bit of a wasteland, situated right in the South East corner of England.

 Little huts and shacks populate the shingly, inhospitable land, and Derek Jarman's house stands like a square bumblebee right in the middle of it. His garden is amazing, and if you've not seen the film he made, I can't recommend it (having not seen it myself), but I can say that Nige would recommend it! The next door neighbours had clearly taken inspiration from him, and had made a lot of 'art' in their garden too, but it wasn't, um, quite as stylish or of the same calibre. I can see the appeal of living there. I imagine it's a place full of arty, solitary types. It'd be a great place to hole up if you were working on a creative project that required one to go deeply into the core of one's being, isolated from society, alone with your thoughts and only the crash of the waves to keep you company. It's not quite the life for me though.

After our ride, after the marshes and the tension and the giggles and the sheep and the food and the tea breaks (50p doughnuts in Dymchurch went down a treat!), we ate our fish and chips in a layby as the sun set, both thoroughly satisfied with the weekend, both slightly sad to have to return home. And then we got a Mars Bar each. I swear to God, I have never seen anyone gobble down a Mars quite as quickly as Mr. Atkinson did that evening.

Here is the photographic evidence:

gobble... gobble... gobble...

Yum yum. Thanks for reading.

x

... Welcome back to Blogland ...

I'm back! I've decided that despite now not riding LEJOG, I still have a right to write.

Ah, British Summertime... a time of long days... long delays... and lots and lots of rain.

Today, for example, it has been grey, blue, sunny, rainy, and even hail-y (if that's a word). Today I have not been out on the bike, but Nige and I went out together about a week ago, and because, at 13 miles, I decided that we ought to turn right instead of going straight on, we ended up drenched, caught unexpectedly in a proper , movie-esque storm, hailstones falling onto my eyeballs and rain soaking through three layers of bike clothing through to my skin. As we rode, a sheet of lightning lit up the suddenly darkened sky, and the explosion of thunder scared me half to death. I screamed a bloodcurdling scream as we pedalled along, terrified, exhilarated, and above all, alive! My cheeks ached as I beamed from ear to ear. We are so intent on avoiding getting wet in this country, our golf umbrellas fighting for dominance on the narrow streets. It was such a relief to simply let myself be a soaking wet human riding along in the rain behind my riding buddy and best friend.

Riding a few times through winter has been pretty harsh on my poor Gary Fisher mountain bike, and there is rust appearing on the bike that I haven't even finished paying for yet. I welcome the arrival of spring, with its promise - however unfulfilled - of sunshine and warm days. Nige and I are planning whole days out on the bike, about which I'm becoming ever more excited. For the first time in months, I wore my fingerless gloves the other day when I went out riding, as well as my cropped riding trousers instead of my heavy duty leggings. I was also somewhat thrilled to discover that my cropped pants are now hanging off me, just a few months after taking up cycling. It seems that riding once or twice a week has caused the extra weight I've been carrying for a while to practically fall off me, with little effort on my part excepting that which I've exerted during hill climbs and the occasional sprint. It's a joy to be able to eat cake guilt free!

My body feels stronger, too, particularly my legs. In short, I love cycling! I would love to go on a proper bike tour with Nige. I've just finished reading "Lance Armstrong: Tour de Force", by Daniel Coyle, hailed as "the best Armstrong book ever written". I've read Armstong's books "It's Not About the Bike" and "Every Second Counts", and while "It's Not About the Bike" was truly inspirational in terms of his journey with cancer and the first Tour he won, I'd have to agree and say that this book is a fascinating insight into Armstrong from an outside perspective, as well as being a brilliant read about cycling as a competitive sport and the Tour de France. One day, I'd love to go and watch the Tour, even if just to see the peleton whirr past in a blur.

Nige has lent me a book by a lady called Anne Mustoe. The book, "A Bike Ride: 12,000 miles around the world" tells of her adventure, quitting her job aged 54 and cycling round the world, unable in the beginning to even change a punctured tyre (there is hope!). Sadly, I think she has passed away (from cancer, incidentally), but I'm thoroughly looking forward to getting into her tale.

I've also been watching "The Man who Cycled the Americas" on BBC iplayer. Mark Beaumont is from Scotland and, having realised that cycling round the world was not enough of a challenge for him, embarked on an adventure, cycling from Alaska to Argentina andclimbing both North and South America's highest mountains while he was at it! I am not a fan of the telly in general, although I can get as sucked into it's brain numbing glow as the next person, but this, oh this is good TV. Good TV should inspire the watcher to go into the world and live, and this is definitely what this show has done for me. The third part of it is on this coming week...

Since buying a bike (and setting up a 12 month payment plan - thank you Evans!), cycling has become an ever-increasing part of my life. I love the freedom it has given me, the way of life it has opened to me, and the endless possibilities for adventure it presents. It's been a brilliant anchor in my relationship with Nige, too, providing us with shared experiences, laughs and goals. I wonder where the bike will take me this year...?

In which humble pie is dish of the day

Waiter: Good afternoon madam. May I take your order?

Customer: Yes, thank you. Could I have a double portion of humble pie, please?

Waiter: Certainly. Excellent choice, excellent choice madam.

The topic today is humble pie. I have to say, it is my least favourite kind of pie, but probably the best one for me. Give me a slice of pecan pie, cherry pie or even a savoury chicken pie any day of the week. But not humble pie! It's bad for the pride. But very good for the heart.

The reason I am eating a large portion of humble pie today is that, for a host of reasons, Nige and I have jointly agreed to postpone our LEJOG adventure. We both received a call from Dave Richards, one of Nige's dearest friends and an incredible cyclist who won race after race in his day. He expressed a number of concerns to us, and I at least fell to earth with a bump. Luckily, only my ego is bruised.

Here is the uncomfortable reality:

1. May 24th is a very short time away indeed (a good thing! Long days, balmy nights, shine of the sun). With the weather as it currently is:

we are not able to train.

2. If the weather miraculously cleared up in the next day or two, we would need to begin cycling 30 miles twice a week and 60 miles once a week. To date, I haven't even cycled more than 30 miles in one session. It would be a harsh adjustment, but a necessary one, and I'm not sure I want to punish myself for the sake of proving that I can do it.

3. Needless to point out, I am extremely inexperienced - as a cyclist! There are of course a great many areas in which I have a wealth of experience to draw upon. Such as drinking tea, for example. Or eating cake. Or sleeping. None of which will really help me when I'm faced with a 70 mile bike ride in the pouring rain, other than that they may provide some much-needed motivation.

4. Nige, too, is fairly inexperienced; even though he has done much longer bike rides, he has not ever done a tour on this scale before. He has a wealth of experience with training for bodybuilding, and is one of the most determined and focussed people I know. He could probably grit his teeth and get on with it. However...

5. Neither of us has an appropriate bike for LEJOG. We're both on mountain bikes. Does anyone want to buy a couple of Condor bikes for us?! I think we're both aware that we'd better get saving.

6. The lack of experience is not simply to do with the distance we're covering. It's to do with posture, positioning on the bike, hill climbing, pace, riding in the slipstream of the person in front of you, being at the front so that your partner can slipstream behind you, dealing with headwinds (shudder), mental strength.

7. May is not the best time to ride E2E (end to end). I distinctly remember one family holiday in Cornwall throughout which it poured consistently for a week. May? May is even rainier.

8. Funds are low. For both of us. And sadly, with prices as they are, it would probably be cheaper for us to fly to Greece and have a 10 day holiday than it would be for us to cycle from one end of Britain to the other.

9. We were planning to do the ride in 15 days, give or take (probably give). I wouldn't be able to take much more time than that off work, plus we'd need to get to Lands End and return from John O'Groats, both of which would take the best part of a day. Looking at the distance, that would have meant doing at least 70 miles a day, every day, for 2-3 weeks. It's too much, too soon.

10. It's fairly likely one or both of us would get ill from battering our bodies to such an extent. I for one could not really afford to get ill, as it would mean unpaid time off work.

To go from zero to hero in one fell swoop was an unrealistic expectation. Back in October, when we first discussed doing it, May seemed like an age away. Time was on our side, deceiving us with her promise of days, weeks and months to train in. Now, she has once again woven her magic web of deceit over us, and suddenly we're halfway through January, and May is in truth extremely soon. The crux of it is, we are just not ready. A best case scenario would be that we'd have fantastic weather, get on brilliantly, pace ourselves beautifully, have a few really hard days, but would eventually pull into John O'Groats with triumphant air punches and whoops of joy. We could, however, also have such a horrendous time that we (translation of we = probably Elloa) bunk back to Sussex before reaching Bristol. It could ruin our relationship. It could put me off cycling forever.

Dave used the words "tall order" to describe what we were attempting to do. It's just too soon. So we're postponing our trip, until summer 2011, and the meantime are going to do a four day tour from Canterbury to Portsmouth, and will also ride off-road: the South Downs Link, which is 100 miles. In a way, that's almost scarier for me, because even though I own a mountain bike, the only mountains I've climbed have been neatened with tarmac.

As the humble pie goes down into my belly, I am left with a sense of disappointment, some mild embarrassment, and also, bizarrely, some relief. Perhaps I knew on some level that this really was a tall order, and that it would be a gruelling and painful experience, one to be endured rather than enjoyed. Perhaps it would have all been okay. But do you know what? We're still doing it for Jim. We'll cycle through the southern part of this beautiful land, honouring his name, and this time next year, I'll be able to say that I truly am ready to attempt one of the hardest rides people try to do. So many attempt LEJOG and do not make it, and others seem to do it fairly effortlessly. But for these two cyclists at least, the time has come to admit that end to end is simply too much, for now but not for ever. I promise myself one thing: that I will do it.

Thank you for sharing in this very unpredictable journey. May it continue to twist and turn, and may the snow clear so that I can get back on my bike!

Until next time... ttfn, as Tigger would say.

We're Doing It For Jim

Time has once again flown, and suddenly it's over a month since I last updated you. Regardless of whether anybody is reading this or not, one update in a month is simply not going to be the order of the day from hereon in. Prepare yourself for weekly installments, because believe you me, even though it is winter, and freezing, and icy, and all the rest of the stuff that keeps Britain talking, I am a LEJOG cyclist in training, and I am getting out on the bike and riding in rain, mud, grey, wind, torrential rain, monsoons, snowstorms (without a hint of exaggeration in sight).

I'm pleased to report that I finished 2009 as I intend to go on in 2010; with a bike ride of course (and a barrel of tea afterwards). I somehow managed to motivate myself enough to get my cycling gear on and ride uphill for 3 miles, up Truleigh Hill, which, as it turns out, is literally next to where I live. How convenient; it looks like I have no excuses now for getting out of hill climbing practice, which I'm definitely going to need for Cornwall and Devon. Why is it that I don't remember a single hill in the whole of those two counties from my frequent holidays there as a child? What glitch has taken place in the matrix of my brain to omit this very relevant and somewhat pain inducing piece of information from my memory? Anyhow, I've heard from Nige (who's heard from others, these faceless, nameless others who bear terrible news) that there are many, many hills in Devonshire and Cornwall, and in a matter of months, the two of us shall be pedalling our little legs off trying to get up and down them. Apparently it's like riding a rollercoaster for three days straight, except that you're the one doing all the work to get up each incline. Great. Simply great. I cannot wait.

Anyhow, on to the training update.

On Christmas Eve, and again on Boxing Day, we went out and cycled 11.6 miles through a true winter wonderland in Darwen, Lancashire. I think we only saw three other cyclists over the two days, one of whom had just returned from Norway, where he'd been touring. He stopped to borrow Nige's allen key, and I quickly aborted my plan to have a quick wee in the snow, although I did have one in the same spot the day before. A liberating moment in my life it was: I had been particularly grumpy that day (sorry Nige), and shortly after my snow moment, I attempted to cause a fight with my much-beleaguered boyfriend by calling him "Mr. Penguin", a retaliatory remark towards him because he'd said that I'd happily not fuel myself properly on a bike ride and then go home and eat four Kit Kats, when he openly admitted to eating SIX penguins in one sitting! Sadly, his comment about my Kit Kat consumption was not wholly inaccurate. Luckily, my derisively intended remark was met with a bout of laughter by us both. My mood lightened after that.

Nige and I had driven up North with our bikes in the back of the car on 16th December - 8 days earlier than we'd planned to - with presents and bags and helmets and food wedged in whatever empty spaces we could find. What really filled the car though was not physical; Winston, Nige's 1989 Honda Civic, carried a son's grief, loss, sadness, celebration, honour and memory of his father as we made the 300 mile journey to Lancashire. We drove up North earlier than intended because Jim Atkinson, Nige's dad, who I wrote about in previous posts, passed away on 13th December.

On the morning of the 14th, I had checked my phone to find a voicemail message waiting. I knew straight away that this was the call I desperately didn't want to hear. Because I was so upset, I was sent home from work, and it made perfect sense to me when Nige told me that all he wanted to do was ride for his dad.

So we rode.

We rode, a tribute to a great man and an inspirational cyclist. Nige and I rode, and cried, and prayed, and as we rode we called out to passing pedestrians or drivers, "We're riding for Jim!" Suddenly, our Lands End to John O'Groats trip had taken on a new significance, a more deeply rooted motivation.

Jim Atkinson spent his final days in the East Lancashire Hospice, and while we were up North, we visited it to thank the staff there for the exemplary care they took of Jim. Nige and I seemed to come to a simultaneous understanding, silently at first, that we will be riding for the hospice when we do our tour next year. It's sad to think that they lack basic items - reclining chairs, for example - but lack them they do. However, one thing is clear; love is present there, overflowing out of the rooms, down the corridors, and into the hearts of all who walk or are brought through the hospice's doors.

Jim's death was as beautiful as his life. He truly let go, rather than giving up, and an abundance of cards, flowers, words and laughter have flooded in since his passing. As I've said before, I find it quite mind-boggling that a man born in 1930 in Lancashire could have so deeply affected my life here in the 21st century.

I sincerely hope that in our endeavour to ride from Land's End to John O'Groats, Nige and I can raise some much-needed funds for the hospice, a small token of thanks for the care, dignity and respect they bestowed upon Jim and upon all they care for. At the moment, we don't even know quite how we're going to fund our own train journey to Land's End and back from John O'Groats, or all the hostels we'll need to stay at en route, but I'm certain that with faith, hope, and a little bit of luck (2 points for being able to cite the musical), we'll do it.

I'm going to be setting up sponsorship options very soon, and I know that this is a tight time of year for everyone, immediately after Christmas. Please, if you can and want to, swap a week of Starbucks/your next takeaway/that extra piece of cake for the opportunity to make a huge difference to the lives of some people who you'll probably never meet, but who in some respects, will be just like Jim Atkinson: a legend in his own right, a grandad, a father, a husband, a friend, a man who, like all of us, had a right to live and die with his dignity intact. I've personally met the nurses at the hospice, and it would be one of the greatest honours of my life to be able to support their work through this bike ride.

Thank you.

Much love to you for the first week of a new month, a new year, this new decade that is upon us.

Over and out.

In which not a lot of cycling gets done...

Good day, good evening, and greetings.

Earlier this year, after being a Buyer and before being a Support Worker, I spent a couple of months simply being me, and the beauty of that experience has the power to move me to tears purely by recollection. I lived a stone's throw from the Pacific Ocean in Big Sur, California:

and got to know myself, dancing every day, singing with abandon, walking among the fernwood trees, working in the grounds of the community I lived in. Six months on, my life has become a lot more settled, and my routines a lot more suburban, and the yearning heart in me is desperate to get out on the bike, to feel wind and rain and sun on my face, to push myself and push my pedals, to get up 17% gradient hills, to wave at the sheep and forget about the bustle of Brighton, the chaos of immersion in millions of lives. Because life nowadays frequently looks a little bit like this:

or this:

(I love getting a compliment with my coffee.)

As you can see, it's quite, quite different. And no, there are not any photos of bikes or hills to show you at the moment. Except for this one, which shows you my lovely bike!

Mmmmm, bike.....

There is a part of me tonight that thinks it's a little bit pointless updating you about cycling, you lovely soul who's decided to peruse this page, because quite frankly, there has been little-to-no cycling in my world recently. Nor has there been much in Nige's, as he's taken some sterling advice from some very wise people (including, ahem, me) and is deliberately not training for a couple of weeks due to illness.

Those of you who know me well will know that I will quite happily excuse myself out of doing any exercise for sometimes extended periods of time. I think the longest I've ever gone without doing something that raised my heart rate to the point where I actually broke a mild sweat was about 8 or 9 months, which is quite a long time when you think about it. Approximately 270 days, in fact. Yikes! As we all know, the hardest thing to do is get back on the rhetorical horse once you've gotten/fallen off it. The saddle is calling to me to reclaim my place on it, but due to the bike being locked away in the garage, I'm finding it far too easy to ignore. Most days, I drive straight past the garage without even glancing in its direction.

My monthly payment for the bike and all the gear came out of my account a couple of days ago. This month, I paid £70 for the privilege of having a really nice bike in a garage. Hm. I must get back on the bike!

All is not lost, however! Nige and I have officially begun to plan our trip, and I'm proud to announce that our trip date will be:

(drumroll please......)

Monday 24th May 2010!

Our goal is to complete the 1000+ mile ride (inclusive of scenic diversions) in 15 days. I spoke to a GP on Thursday whose sister did LEJOG with her son in May a couple of years ago - and apparently it bucketed down all throughout Devon and Cornwall, making it literally like cycling in a power shower. Except colder. Oh good.

What's been really interesting about the whole adventure has been people's responses to it. Some people can't really comprehend what we're planning to do, calling us "mad" and "crazy", two adjectives not-infrequently attributed to, well, to both of us in fact, but for other reasons (eccentricity and a complete sense of abandon when expressing ourselves creatively in public being the prime ones). Some people have either done LEJOG or know someone who has, and this usually sparks and excited barrage of questions from me. Some people don't really care, which I suppose is fair enough.

But for us, part of the point of doing this is to get people involved, to get them thinking about the limits they might have subconsciously imposed on their own lives and whether there's any desire or opportunity to say, "well limits, my supposed friends, you've served me well enough these past few days/weeks/years/millennia, but the time has come for us to part, and I bid thee good tidings". I'm so passionate about dreams, about transformation, and about LIVING, truly living; not existing, not getting by, not waiting for summer, not wishing this day away, not envying those who are living the life I yearn to live, but doing everything in my power to be a joy-bearer, a fierce, colourful, childlike, life-throttling adventure-seeking human, making what I can of each day and accepting my lot in this lifetime.

So I ask you, what is it that YOU want to do? What makes your chest feel like it's rising towards the sky? You know that feeling: the one where all the little endorphin soldiers in your body are fully alert, the feeling where you almost forget that you're a grown up and it's as if you're six years old and you've just learned how to ride without stabilisers, or rollerskate, or skip, or you've just done four roly-polies, or swum without armbands. THAT feeling. That's kind of what this challenge is about for me.

So, back to the bike I will go. Yes, it's raining, all the time at the moment. Welcome to England. It's windy, and cold, and I'll probably get sick. But this - this voice-in-my-head, sluggish, critical, negative feeling of bleugh - has been horrible, more horrible than the rain tap-tapping against my windowpane.

Last time I wrote, I went out and did it for Jim (if you didn't read about it, I order you to do so now, please. Do it because Jim is an absolute joy and a shining star so bright I can feel it here in Shoreham all the way from Darwen).

This time, I'm going to get back on the bike for me.

"Training" Update number 1

Hello and happy Tuesday afternoon.

As Brucie would say on my favourite show, it's nice to see you, to see you *nice*!

Rather in the style of Strictly Come Dancing, or even the dreaded and much publicised X Factor, I thought I'd give you this week's training update.

There is, in fact, nothing to report. Well, at least, nothing in terms of actual cycling. That's right; I haven't been on a bike ride since last Wednesday, although that was, admittedly, absolutely beautiful and is almost deserving of its own post; 25 miles of Sussex B roads and country lanes, lit by dappled sunlight and with fabulous company (not including the almost-argument about an apple...). It was one of those rides that makes you feel like you could just keep going and going, without aches and pains, until you pull away into the sunset as the camera behind you pans across the horizon.

And then it got dark. And we discovered that my back light wasn't actually working, the batteries having gone dead in the back of my bag. I'd never even used them! Oh, the indignity of it.

Since Wednesday, I haven't ridden, partly because it's been cold and wet and I've been a bit cold and wet too - I slept all day on Thursday, from 10am until 7pm, despite having slept 8 hours on Wednesday night. I had no problems sleeping on Thursday either, and on Friday, Nige and I got into our cars and drove in convoy "Up North".

Going up North means going to Darwen in Lancashire to see his folks. The reason we were going this particular weekend was because we found out on September 1st that Nige's dad, Jim Atkinson, has mesothelioma, an incurable form of cancer caused by exposure to asbestos, and Nige had decided to throw a party for his dad, to celebrate his life and bring the whole family together.

Since his diagnosis, Jim hasn't been well, and the week before last, he was admitted to hospital with a rare kidney disorder, the timing of which has unfortunately coincided with the cancer being diagnosed. A lot of uncertainty hung in the air, potent, about whether Jim would even be able to make the party, but the specialist doctor agreed that a 24 hour release from hospital wouldn't do any harm. The beautiful and ironic thing is that in fact, being out of hospital, exhausting as it was for Jim, actually had the tangible and positive effect of lowering his blood pressure, so thankfully he's been discharged from hospital and sent home for the time being, until he goes to Preston for his kidney biopsy on Friday.

Jim Atkinson is quite a legend. He's a renowned hill walker, and together with his wife Jenny, Nige's mum, they've climbed probably every worthwhile peak in the UK. Arran is their favourite place above all. However, Jim's expertise stretches well beyond walking: he used to sing Swing in clubs, and brought Nige up listening to Sinatra; he's a gifted handyman and has his workshop out the back of the house, where he straightens things out on every level; he has that inimitable ability to light up a room and get everybody laughing; he can talk the hind legs off a donkey (a heritable trait I'm utterly convinced); and, most relevantly, he used to be a fantastic cyclist and in particular, a monster hill climber.

Jim Atkinson would apparently simply tuck himself in on a bike and climb whatever incline lay in front of him, regardless of size or gradient. He could go for hours.

I've got a lot to learn.

It takes all my psychological strength and willpower to get to the top of a molehill on two wheels, and I get up there heaving and panting and sweating and gripping the handlebars for dear life. I get up hills but I do not do it gracefully. I have to psyche myself up, talk to myself before the ride, during the ride, on the hill, and congratulate myself afterwards. I hate it and that's why I'm determined to make friends with it, just like Lance said about the Tourmalet in his first book, "It's Not About The Bike". I want to befriend hill climbing because in cycling I see such parallels with how you live life. If I can learn to embrace hills....

For me, Jim is up there with the great hill climbers:

Mercxx, Indurain, Ullrich, Armstrong, Atkinson.

I will continue to cycle and attack the hills I encounter not so that I get a tighter bottom (although that will always be a bonus result), but so that I can honour this man who, without even knowing it, is the reason I am even on a bike at all.

A sceptic might doubt the logic of what I've just said, but stay with me here. If it weren't for Jim Atkinson, Nigel Atkinson would never have ridden as a boy and again as a man. If it weren't for Nige's enthusiasm and passion about the bike, passed on from his father, I would never have taken an interest. It would've simply been one of those things that Nige likes that I don't like. But somehow, one man's life lived in the depths of Lancashire decades ago has come to influence a girl from Putney's life in more ways than I'd ever comprehended before this weekend.

What I saw at the party this weekend was Love. Love isn't an invisible force. I saw it in action. It was there in the setting up of the room, in the people who came from all over the continent (yes, you read that right - guests travelled from Sicily and Ireland simply to be there, because of Jim), on the faces of people who hadn't seen each other in far, far too long. Love was present when Nige sang to his dad, when Jenny danced with her nephews, when Ju sorted out the buffet at the end of the day, when the girls working on the bar got tears in their eyes on hearing the reason for the party. Chris Boardman, Olympic Gold British cyclist, says in his book, "The Complete Book of Cycling", that his motivation is winning. I tell you this: my motivation is what I saw in that room this weekend.

Nobody knows what's going to happen with Jim. The doctors don't know. His family don't know. It's going to have to be a day at a time. I didn't get out on my bike today (cold, wet, grumble), but do you know something? Writing this, I regret that. Tomorrow, come rain or shine, I will go out. I'll do it for Jim.

Love,

Elloa x