Day 12 San Sepolcro to Assisi "To travel hopefully? Or to arrive?"

I am conscious of the fact that every country I have ridden through has been eliminated ignominiously from the world cup. I may have the chance to nip into Germany next week if anyone wants to make it worth my while. Otherwise we look forward to some real British success in the TdF. Cav in green and Wiggins on the podium? Boasen-Hagen to give Cav a run for his money? It may be a sitting down sport but unlike the England squad it is not completely on its arse.

In the prayer of St Francis we are enjoined not to seek to be understood so much as to understand. I will try to put the full text of the prayer on a separate page. Today was a stark illustration of the difficulties of that enjoinder. With only about 80k down the Tiber valley today was no big deal on the cycling front. The ride was as good as over. I was through the first 60k in just over two hours which was a reasonable clip given the roadworks, a string of small towns and countless sets of traffic lights. I fell in with an Italian guy who was cycling out of Perugia. He knew a better route to Assisi. It was about 4k longer but, to be fair, missed out a couple of hills and a lot of traffic. We chatted for a while and then he turned off. I was on my own again for the last 10k.

I confess to feeling a bit emotional when I first saw the Basilica up on the side of the hill. The climb up to the town was shorter than I remember. As I entered Assisi itself around lunchtime I was overwhelmed by the crush of tourists. When you cycle through unfenced country roads you become familiar with the hazard of sheep. If one of them crosses the road you can be sure that others will follow heedless of your presence. So it is with tour groups. Nothing can stand between them and their guide. Do not try. But I took up the challenge laid down by Francis and made an attempt to put a human face on the ovine horde. He never promised that it would be easy.

But the reception at the Basilica was far better. The picture shows Madeline with the banner she made yesterday and me with the expression of someone wondering what to do next. Now I could stop ignoring the pain in my right shin. I didn't need to get back on the bike and cycle another 80k in the afternoon. I could stop shoving food down my neck at every opportunity, although I rather liked that one. There was a vast empty space. I found a quiet part of the lower basilica in which to reflect. I had no inclination to run around punching the air. But 1200 miles in eleven and a half days. I had done it.

For getting out of grouchy old scrote mode I can recommend an apero in the square at Trevi followed by a meal at the excellent Osteria della Siete. Some cask strength ibuprofen washed down with a bottle of Montefalco and a grappa soothes the aches and pains physical and otherwise. Cycling mode is now turned off and holiday mode is slowly booting up.

Acknowledgement and thanks are due in many directions though this is not an awards ceremony, just a bike ride. Thanks to the cycling lads for their assistance with the preparations, especially Richard and Pete who did the domestique duties for me on the way to Goring. Jill could reasonably have been expected to do all in her power to discourage such a stupid scheme but in reality did the opposite even to the point of coming to Italy to fetch me, not to mention fetching me off a cold dark moor in Yorkshire at Easter. Rachel did an invaluable job operating mission control from London, booking hotels and finding bike shops. She has also managed this blog since I started the ride. I should stress that the nonsense contained in the blog and particularly the errors are my sole responsibility. Without Rachel's help there would just have been more of them and I would have spent more than one night in a bus shelter. Finally my thanks to Andrew not just for the feed on the way down to Portsmouth but for the fact that without him I would not have been in Assisi this lunchtime.

Day 11 Imola to Sansepolcro "To sleep, perchance to dream . . ,"

A few days ago as I was trudging along listening to what I later discovered was my chain disintegrating, I had time to think and the occasion to do so. I had fitted an entirely new drive train against precisely this eventuality. New parts correctly fitted to a decent bike should not fail that quickly. It is a decent bike and they were all branded Shimano parts. Logic allowed only one conclusion. I spent the next couple of hours devising a cruel and lingering death for John and Tony at Beacon Cycles. It was not until the next day that I discovered the nature of the defect. It may not have been their fault after all. Too late of course. That is in the nature of capital punishment. Anyway it may have been the chain or it may have been the fitting of it. I have left the boiling oil on simmer.

Today has been a day of contrast. On the map Imola looks like a bit of a roundabout on the Via Emilia with a motor racing circuit attached. It is actually a pleasant place with a striking main piazza. The Via Emilia looked like it could be busy with traffic itself but, in the event was no worse to ride on than many other roads. After leaving the Via Emilia at Forli hills appeared for the first time for days on the road from Forli to Santa Sofia which winds and undulates. At many points it is not very wide but was suddenly heavily populated with trucks. Artics were bad but the long drawbar trailer units were the worst. Fortunately by the time the real climb started after Santa Sofia the road had emptied. I've no idea where the trucks went.

It may sound perverse but it was a pleasure to be climbing again after two days of unrelenting flatness. At 765m it was a decent climb as well. Lunch at the top then hurtle down to S Piero in Bagno (is it the S Piero or the town that was in the bath?) Then the main event, Montecoronaro at 876m. I came upon a bit of a crash on the way down. The man in the Alfa Romeo was plainly not expecting a bus to come round the bend in the opposite direction. The descent from Montecoronaro to Pieve di San Stefano was a strange but enjoyable affair. Autostrade (motorways) often follow the line of the old Strada Statale (A roads). The old SS will still be used by those who don't want to pay autostrade tolls. The autostrada which replaced the old Via Tiberina is free so everyone uses it. The old road is almost unused and seems to have been left to decay. It is quite eerie riding alone down the ghost of this old highway which clings to the steep sides of the Tiber valley in an unending series of hairpins. At one point I did wonder what would happen if I fell off the road on one of those hairpins.

140k meant an earlier finish in Sansepolcro though not early enough to catch any of the Piero della Francesca stuff in the local gallery. Culture must wait. I often end up writing this in bed. Last night I fell asleep with it in my hand (the phone). This post comes from a bar in the Piazza in Sansepulcro as I sit sipping a spritz and eating the associated nibbles - see picture for spritz and nibbles. Tonight I sleep empty handed. Tomorrow it should all come to an end but for now I do not count chickens.

Day 10 Cremona to Imola "Soave sia il vento . . "

The leg. When I was in hospital and the nurses wanted to adjust the anaesthetic or the pain killers they would invariably ask me to assess the pain on a scale of 1-10. One is easy. Most of us live in a state of oneness most of the time. Then there are those who look as if they constantly to sustain a higher score. I have always put this down to the burdens of judicial office. Ten, though, is more of problem. I'm not sure I've ever had a ten and, if so, I am quite happy to keep it that way. But how do you know? I was always reluctant to ask the nurse for fear of getting a sharp whack in the bollocks by way of illustration. I used to make up a number which I hoped would keep the epidural cranked up without appearing to be too much of wimp. I explain this to assist those who have been anxious for news of the leg. I can report that it was bumping along quite happily at about pain level 2 or 3. It hurt more walking than riding. The stroll around Cremona last night was a bit of a hobble but no worse. The French shin creme was totally useless. 100% girl stuff. I had a go at translating the instructions. It is made from thermal spring water and promotes the healing of damaged skin by dint of "trace elements" of which "potassium is the best known". It made potassium sound like a holiday destination. It is often reported, possibly incorrectly, that the Eskimo do not have a single word for snow despite being surrounded by the stuff. In the same way I suspect that the French do not have a word for bullshit. If perchance they do, then "cosmeticobiologie" must surely be one of its synonyms. If the stuff can repair damaged tissue let's see if it can repair my arse after a week and a half in the saddle. Now there's a challenge. The other French bum cream is fine by the way.

Back to the leg. Half an hour after setting off this morning the pain level moved up a notch or two. About 10 minutes later it shot up several more points, missing out those in between. After an hour or so, I was just weighing up the chances of completing the event on one leg (and swearing, of course) when the pain subsided to the point where it was hardly noticeable at all. I intend to declare the cure to be a miracle and crank up the price of the indulgences. Walking around Imola tonight has restored it to level 2/3.

Today should have ended in Bologna after about 160k, a reasonably steady ride. It occurred to me that I could avoid trying to get in and out of Bologna during rush hour. Indeed I could avoid Bologna altogether if I pushed on to Imola. A quick look at the map seemed to show Imola to be only another 20k or so which holds no fear for a sore arsed pro like me. Pride comes before a fall. There was a slight headwind as I set out this morning. It took a couple of mph off the cruising speed. The terrain was the same as yesterday but without the rice, flat and straight. Tedious cycling. The wind steadily gathered strength. There is nothing to slow it down this side of Yugoslavia. By mid afternoon the flags were sticking straight out and flapping and I was riding into the teeth of it. Suffice to say it was eventually 125 miles - all of them into the wind. I am now knackered and going to sleep.

Day 9 Chivasso to Cremona "Go with the flow"

The air was cool and still. A cloudless sky gave a hint of the heat to come. It was Saturday and no one in Chivasso was going anywhere in a hurry. A fine mist hung over the Po as the sun began to warm the moist reeds. A group of egrets in a pool stood as still as any living thing might achieve. It had all the makings of an uneventful day and so it proved. The route from Chivasso to Cremona was flat, straight and passed more rice fields than I had previously believed existed in Europe. The traffic was light for the most part though it flies by at quite a speed on the straights without  much margin for error. There was a bit of truck suck. I forgot to mention that I was sucked by a Romanian caravan a couple of days ago. Some people can go through life without ever having that experience.

I apologise if the quality of these posts has deteriorated over the past couple of days. On both nights I was in bed with the urge to sleep overtaking me. Anything written in that condition should be reviewed the next morning but I hadn't the time or the energy. Thursday night's meal was a contributory factor. It was a mix of complex and bizarre which in less remote places is no longer fashionable. The first course mentioned "St Jaques" and something to do with lamb. Scallops and lamb is an unusual combination but, whatever. Live dangerously. When it arrived I recognised the scallops. I did not recognise the taste of the lamb but sure as hell recognised the shape. Balls to it, I thought, get them eaten. The main course was a breast of duck so rare that it gave one last quack as it left the kitchen.  Four raspberries were impaled on a knotted bamboo skewer and rammed  into its bloody heart. A single half carrot sat next to a white purée of unspecified vegetable. A timbale, if that's the word, of courgette in tomato sauce balanced precariously next to a complex creation in spud. Next to it was placed a large bowl of unadorned spaghetti. I must look as if I need feeding up. Cheese followed then lavender flavoured creme caramel. A meal far better to eat than it sounds. All in all it filled the remainder of the evening nicely. And you wonder why the blog wasn't up to much?

Another 190k has been bashed out. Cremona is marvellous. I will attempt no further description as I could never do it justice. I sit at a cafe at the back of the Duomo. The blazing heat has faded to a comfortable warmth. I have a spritz, a dish of olives and some lumps of focaccia to assist me in watching the world go by. And it is well worth watching. Clouds of swifts gyre and swoop around the Duomo and its tower. It is a long way to come on a bike but there are compensations.

A small refinement to the kit washing plan. If you use the socks as a flannel it cleans sock and body in one procedure, especially the oily marks on both.

Day 8 St Jean to Chivasso "All's well that ends well"

What the chuffinelle is that? You might well ask. It belongs to a genuine bona fide pilgrim and not some cycling charlatan. It is a cross between a sack truck and a golf trolley as modified by Heath Robinson and Torquamada. It has everything a pilgrim could possibly need including, if you look carefully, a washing line and a row of pegs. He had all the pilgrim kit including a beard and more scallop shells than you could shake a stick at. What he appeared to lack was a map which explained why he was in a village halfway up a mountain in France asking in a shop for directions to Rome. The answer, in so far as I could understand it, was that if you were going to Rome you definitely wouldn't start from there. I was reluctant to take a photo of the man himself as I felt he might be sensitive to suggestions, express or implied, that he was a complete nutter. I tried selling him an indulgence as he was plainly at the centre of the target market. He declined but if you don't ask you don't get. Sales should pick now I am in Italy.

Today was not without incident. Within a quarter of a mile it was apparent that the bike was no better. I decided it was not worth going back to the shop in St Jean and waiting for him to open. By the time the chain began falling off the small front cog again I was several miles up the road and it was too late. Eventually I found a bike shop in Modane. Half an hour and 7 euros later it was pronounced fit. But it wasn't. I decided to grit my teeth, cross fingers and press on, an awkward posture on a bike.

The Maurienne valley is narrow and steep sided. Down the middle is the river, a motorway, the old main road which the motorway replaced, one or two unclassified roads and a railway track. There really isn't much room for anything else which rather sums up St Jean de Maurienne - although they are hosting a stage of the tour this year. Once the autoroute and the railway disappear into the Frejus tunnel the scenery takes centre stage as the road ascends steadily to Val Cenis where the real climbing begins.

With clunking gears and chain regularly dropping off progress was slow. I got to the rather cold bleak summit, just over 6200 ft, around lunchtime  and then spent about 40 minutes without turning a pedal speeding down the exhilarating descent to Susa for lunch.

The next two hours were spent flogging into the teeth of a gale blowing head on up the valley. I was entering the outskirts of Turin when there was one last almighty clunk and the chain broke. I actually asked the guy in Modane to check the chain and I saw him do so with his measuring tool. He said it would be good for at least another 1000km. He was 950 km out. I had a couple of 10 speed pins so I set to, got rid of the broken link and re-joined the ends. I had no confidence that the repair would last long so I decided to look for a bike shop. I found one - 100 yards up the road. They put on a new chain and the bike seems fine. More than can be said for the rider. But the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, thankfully not always in that order. I was just in time to ride through Turin in the rush hour.

I am now ensconced in a hotel in Chivasso more or less up with the schedule. There are several regular tasks each night, one of which is to wash the day's kit as soon as possible. I have devised a new scheme for this. You throw the kit in the shower then take a lengthy shower whilst moving round and trampling on the kit. By the time you have finished the shower the kit is washed and ready to hang out. The first time I tried it a sock blocked the plughole and flooded the bathroom. But with care it works well and saves water.

You know you have had a hard day when you have sunburn on the inside of your lower lip. Mouth shut tomorrow.

Day 7 St Sorlin to St Jean de Maurienne "The possibility of failure. . ."

It is the possibility that something might go wrong that makes the thing worth doing in the first place. There would be little excitement in climbing if climbers never fell or motor racing if cars never crashed. The actual going wrong is a different kettle of fish altogether. The crashing or the falling do not enhance the experience of the participant. It is an interesting philosophical point but not one that concerned me greatly as I left the Chateau d'If with a spring in my step and ne'er a backward glance.'

The bike had done everything asked of it without complaint until towards the end of the previous day when there began an ominous clicking from the rear mech. Adjusting gears at the roadside is not easy especially when the bike is filthy and there is a large bag on the back. I was not too concerned when I could not sort it out at the time. I seemed to have fixed it that evening. It was something of a disappointment when I set off to find that the gears were still jumping all over the place. Adjustments made no difference so, in the absence of a better explanation I put it down to a sticky chain. For the next 40k or so I looked out for somewhere that might let me have a bit of oil. As I started the first climb of the day there was still nothing in sight. Luckily I met a couple of local cyclists at the top of the Col. They told me how to find the ironmongers in the next village. I was slightly anxious about what I should ask for not knowing the French equivalent of WD40. It's WD40 by the way. Big spraying left oily gunk all over the pavement outside the cafe so I moved on and tried to adjust the gears again at the foot of the next climb. Instead it all got worse. The chain was falling off the small chain ring and wedging itself against the frame. I couldn't use the big gears I was counting on to get me up this and several more mountains.

I spent at least an hour on and off the bike trying to sort it before flogging up to the top of the 989m climb in the wrong gear. I felt like throwing the bike into the hedge, like frustrated pros do on the Tour de France but what is the point of histrionics if no one is watching. Anyway it was quite expensive and there was no team car coming to pick me up . The next 60 miles were like having splinters pushed under your finger nails with gears jumping all  over the place. The bike shop man in St Jean thinks he's fixed it. A 2000m col tomorrow should prove whether he is right.

The body is also starting to crack up. Some sort of swelling has appeared at the bottom of my right shin as if I had been kicked playing football. If anyone has any idea what this might be do let me know. There are the usual aches and pains in the usual places. The Sudocream is about to run out so I had to go into the French pharmacy tonight and explain to the smart young lady what I wanted and where I intended to put it. Pointing was not an option. I also bought some sort of potion for my shin. If only I could remember which is which.

On a happier note the scenery today has become increasingly spectacular. The Rhone valley soon gave way to typical alpine scenery with small areas of cultivation and high pasture. The two climbs up the Col de la Cussille(573m) and Col de L'Epine (989m) were pleasantly tree lined. The view from the top was spectacular across Chambery to the snow capped mountains of the Haute Savoie.

All set for Italy tomorrow. I feel as though I am starting a tour of countries eliminated from the world cup. I will be back in England shortly. I am surprised Slovenia didn't put them out of their misery. Let us hope that further bike problems remain just a possibility.

Day 6 Dijon to St Sorlin "Royston Vesey doesn't do hotels but if it did..."

You can have too much excitement. Some people realise this when they are quite young. Indeed there are those who seem to have been born with this insight. We all know who they are. I am still considering both sides of the argument. I mention this because most of today passed off without significant incident. The first 60k or so followed the Saone valley, flat and straight. For reasons already discussed, we don't knock flat. In any case it was still more interesting than the Ile de France. The landscape there was so featureless that there was nowhere to go for a pee; hedges, fences, trees, bushes - nothing. For the first time too today was warm. Gilet and arm warmers were soon removed. The sun shone and the breeze blew on my back. The kilometres flew by. I have changed the gps to kilometres because they go quicker. The gps deserves a further mention. It has been priceless. Navigating from a map would have added a couple of hours to each day. I had to do it for four or five miles today as I had cocked up the route on the computer. There is the odd foible. I had a completely unnecessary detour through a village this morning. But it led me perfectly through the back streets of Beaune yesterday. Sadly they are mostly cobbled. My head was shaking out of time with the bike which made the screen quite hard to read.

Another 106 miles were completed before I arrived at tonight's hotel (pictured). How to describe it? It's a former chateau, a couple of hundred yards outside a village which is no more than a couple of hundred yards itself. It is set in several acres of landscaped and lawned grounds running down to the river Rhone which is about 70 yards wide at this point. It has an avenue of ancient plane trees and several magnificent cedars which must be even older. In the grounds there is a large old stone out building with a spit over an open grate. It has two tennis courts, crazy golf and a boule piste, all with weeds growing through them. There are over 50 bedrooms in the main building and two annexes. I am the only guest.

I arrived, opened the large wooden doors and walked into the stone floored hall. There was no one about. I hit the bell, the sort that goes ping when you hit it, first tentatively then after a couple of minutes with more conviction. No one came. I looked into a couple of rooms. A sort of ballroom in some disarray. A large banqueting room, untouched since last used. The atmosphere was one of activity unexpectedly interrupted. Faded elegance occasionally surfaced above the completely dilapidated. Miss Havisham or Norman Bates? Too soon to tell.

Back out in the sunshine I wandered the grounds for ten minutes or so. Two young women appeared round the corner of the building. They stopped their conversation abruptly when they saw me. One of them took me back inside where she collected a key. She showed me to a door to one of the annexes, told me I was in number 49 at the end of the landing on the first floor. Then she left. The unlit landing led to a tatty but functional bedroom. I realised I was in time for the second half of the England game. There was a TV in the room. It wasn't connected to anything, aerial or plug.

I went back outside. A couple of doors opened to the outside on the ground floor. One was locked but I could see inside a number of bunk beds that looked as if they had come from some sort of institution. The other door was unlocked. I opened it tentatively and went in. It was a large room with half a dozen old chairs scattered around. On a table in the middle of the floor was a half eaten meal, breakfast probably but not today's. Across the room was a large screen tv. I found the remote and sat down. French TV was showing Algeria versus the USA.

Kit washed and showered I emerged to find a man of uncertain age standing by the building opposite. Le Patron. He explained about breakfast and showed me how to operate the massive remote controlled gate. He asked if I would require dinner. I asked if there were any other restaurants nearby. He shrugged and smiled. There was no alternative.

At 8pm sharp I found my place set in the dining room. Monsieur appeared with water and a small jug of wine. There was no menu. As he brought each course the sound of his unseen footsteps on the stone floor rose to a crescendo before he made his appearance and died slowly as he left. I thought I could hear distant voices, female probably, but maybe not. As I returned to my room the last rays of sunshine gave the sandstone cliffs opposite a warm pink glow. I was going to sleep with the door unlocked but you can have too much excitement, can't you?

Day 5 Auxerre to Dijon "Another day, another douleur"

Don't knock "flat" until you've tried the alternative. Today actually started better than flat. I followed the valleys of the Yonne and the Cure downstream from Auxerre to Avallon. The French specialise in pretty tree lined river valleys and these were no exception. Sadly the road briefly became busy with heavy traffic which got worse around Avallon. If you thought Avallon was something out of King Arthur or even a Brian Ferry song then you are mistaken. Truck suck is scant consolation for having forty foot artics flying by. Indeed, thinking about it again, the suck and the blow must eventually cancel each other out otherwise all the trucks would end up in the same corner of France.

But my subject is hills and the pity of hills. After Avallon the traffic eased but the road went up and down relentlessly. There was nothing massive, just flog up, hurtle down, then repeat. The whole thing was made more than tolerable though by the lush Burgundian countryside, with the section between Pouilly-en-Auxois and Bligny-sur-Ouche outstanding. From Bligny it is just over 10k to Beaune and I was counting down the k's. I had forgotten about Hill of the Day. It turned up unexpectedly, just like the Spanish Inquisition, just 9km from the finish and 675m (1700 feet or so) according to the gps. Still it was a cracking descent down into Beaune.

Beaune is a pleasant place with the Hospice and Hotel-Dieu being the main architectural attractions. But what everyone except me is after is the wine. Caves and degustations abound. I confess to a fine glass of Beaune Premier Cru with dinner. Dinner was in yet another traditional hotel salle a manger. I was delighted to be one of the younger diners amongst the predominantly French clientele. I was concerned that my shorts and flip flops might attract disapproval. Luckily there were two Americans who beat me into a cocked hat on inappropriate attire. I was also surprised that they allowed a customer into the dining room with a dog. It was a small animal and was carried in what appeared to be a purpose built dog bag. I assume it was a live dog. There was only its head sticking out and I didn't see it move.

Time on the bike gives an opportunity for reflection which I have largely spurned. I spent most of the morning singing "Ca plane pour moi" a song by Plastic Bertrand, a formerly famous Belgian. I only know two lines and the second is "ooh ee aah". You must let me sing it for you sometime. Co-ordination has never been my strong suit but the last 5k into Beaune did not involve pedalling so I could think better, mostly about not running into stuff at 40mph. I also thought about the pilgrimage lark and the indulgences. Just because I won't get an indulgence from this doesn't mean I am prevented from dishing them out to other people. Not to put too fine a point on it I will be passing through parts of Europe where religious practices are less than sophisticated. If I bull up the pilgrim thing I might be able to sell a few indulgences to the locals and defray some of the cost of the event. You can get those scallop shells from most restaurants. Sackcloth is harder to come by in these days of man made fibres and obviously not as practical as Lycra. Holy relics? I must have passed more bones than you can shake a stick at, road kill mostly but who's to know. I will give it further thought tomorrow.

The bottom line is another 150k done but still a long way to go.

Day 4 Chartres to Auxerre "He who would valiant be, 'gainst all disaster"

After the more general "Why?" to which there is no sensible answer, there is the occasional "Why Assisi?" Assisi was the birthplace towards the end of the twelfth century of St Francis, the founder of the Franciscan order. We have a long standing association with the Franciscans. Fr. Andrew McMahon OFM has been a friend for about 40 years. He married Jill and I in 1972. He baptised both our children and later presided at both their weddings. He baptised both our grandchildren. Andrew once walked from Southampton to Assisi. Is this a pilgrimage? Well, no, not really. I would not dignify it as such. Andrew has advised that there are no indulgences available for this sort of thing. Indeed references to bicycles are rare in Canon Law. He fairly makes the point too that it would take more than a bit of a bike ride to atone for my life of sin. But promises have to be kept, even those made to someone who has been dead for nearly 800 years.

The main feature of today's route from Chartres was flatness. Flat as a witch's tit and almost as cold. For almost 80 miles there was not so much as a hill, more a series of wrinkles. At some points the road stretched out straight for so long you couldn't see the next bend. It should have had a shimmering heat haze except that it was too bloody cold. I was talking to a man at lunchtime whose dog had run away. He said he watched it for nearly two days before it disappeared from over the horizon. Traffic on some of the roads was a problem. As there are are no real bends the traffic moves very quickly - especially the trucks. The blast of wind from an oncoming truck blows you backwards. On the other hand overtaking trucks suck you along. Disconcerting though it is, I never thought I would be grateful to be sucked by a truck. But there you are. Auxerre was rocking tonight. It is the Fetes de Musique. There was a band playing on every corner by the time I came to bed, three going at once in the main square. If you positioned yourself carefully you could get punk, hip hop and Rolling Stones covers simultaneously.

Another 125 miles has now been completed. It was hard work at times despite the flat start, especially when the stiff breeze moved round more to the east. Tomorrow's route to Beaune is a bit shorter, thankfully.

Day 3 Caen to Chartres "Fair stood the wind for France"

I was a bit miffed that I was last on the boat and nearly the last off. The boat was fine, what little I saw of it. I was awakened at 4.45am by soothing music, a prelude to a series of raucous tannoy announcements telling us to get out of the cabins sharpish. But I took my time and got the kit neatly sorted out. So I was particularly disappointed as I stood with my bike on the car deck to discover that I had my shorts on inside out. This is not an easy problem to resolve. Like a kilt cycling shorts are worn with nothing underneath. Bib shorts also have straps over the shoulders so you can't take them off without also removing your top. At some point in the process you have to be stark naked except for shoes and even they get in the way. There is also the issue of sudocreme now conspicuously on the outside instead of the inside (don't ask). The car deck of the ferry was obviously not the place. The problem was ultimately resolved. No further details but apologies to the two cows.

In other respects the day was shaping up to be the sort that God grants to cyclists only rarely. The sun shone, I had a decent breeze on my back and there was not a car in sight on tarmac which appeared to have been cleaned and pressed for my exclusive use. Nothing is ever perfect and after an hour or so clouds covered the sun and the temperature seemed to drop steadily. Cafes were scarce. When I did find one it was occupied by the Smokers Federation of France. It is years since I have seen smoking on that scale. It was a rural area and they were obviously all local. All it lacked was a six fingered banjo player. Lunch was also a problem. There are vast tracts of Normandy with almost nothing in them and what little there is was closed. I was close to starvation when I chanced upon a marvellous place, totally unchanged since the Liberation in 1944. Chartres was achieved just after 4.30pm. It may have other attractions but they are dwarfed by the magnificent cathedral. I was approached by an albino monk offering to sell me a hair shirt. He claimed it was autographed by Dan Brown but I am alive to that sort of scam. It wasn't much of a book anyway.

120 miles were completed in reasonable order. With about 10 miles to go I contemplated the prospect of another and more demanding 120 tomorrow with foreboding. But tomorrow is another day. By the way it is now absolutely bloody freezing. People are going round with full winter kit. I fear I look like a Geordie on a stag weekend in my shorts and flip flops but it's all I've got.

Day 2 Goring to Portsmouth "By roads unadopted, by woodlanded ways"

One of the pleasures of cycling is the incidental birdwatching. Sadly, I am quite poor at identification. The last two days have featured larks and yellowhammers in profusion, greenfinches and the always entertaining goldfinches. Buzzards abound, today especially. There have been at least four red kites unless, worryingly, it is the same one and it is following me around. All this contributed to a pleasant ride from the ridgeway across the South Downs often along single track roads. There was plainly quite a bit of rain last night. This made a two foot deep ford a significant obstacle until I found the footbridge. There were some welcome bursts of sunshine on what was otherwise a very nippy morning for mid June. The real star though was the wind which blew briskly at my back all morning and got me to Wickham for lunch at Park Place in good time. The afternoon has been spent watching football with Andrew before heading for the ferry at Portsmouth. Now that I have seen what I will be  missing I am almost relieved to be out of the way for the next couple of weeks.

Day 1 Quorn to Goring-on-Thames "Le Grand Depart"

For the first leg I had the benefit of two highly experienced domestiques - thanks Richard and Pete. With their help, a cool day and a modest following wind this was about the easiest 120 miles you are likely to find. Everything was going well until 7.30 pm when the first England player kicked the ball. Still, as long as England manage to qualify, France should still be an enjoyable experience. A shorter but hillier day tomorrow before the real test begins on Sunday.

"Let's face the music and..."

So the time has come. What I glibly proposed a few months ago has proved more complicated in practice. Plotting the route on a PC then downloading it to a Garmin Gps does not necessarily require a degree in computer science. The Garmin Edge likes tcx files, a format unique to Garmin. It will tolerate the more widely known gpx format. Memory Map produces mno files which can be converted to gpx but not tcx as far as I can see. Routes and waypoints use ten times as much memory as tracks and track points but then there are courses and course points, which contain more information than trackpoints but use less memory than waypoints, in tcx that is. You are starting to get the urge to self harm when slowly it falls into place. NatWest are now beta testing a new patience testing program at their Loughborough branch. I swear the woman was about to say “Computer says no”. when she caught the malevolent look and thought better of it. ShuttVR advertise cycling kit but don’t actually provide any. But everything is now more or less place, I think.

Three days before departure is not a good time for a radical rethink of the route but I have done it anyway. Switzerland and the GSB have been abolished. Instead of going east through Burgundy from Auxerre I will go south through Beaune and Chalons. The line of the terrain is better with less climbing and easier stopovers. There is a big up and over to Chambery. Then it is a long steady climb up the Maurienne valley and over the Col Cenis which is lower than the GSB but still tops 2000 metres. This brings you into Italy further south than Aosta and gets you involved with Turin before joining the original route at Pavia. The full itinery is now at the bottom of the route page for anyone who is interested.

The bike stands ready The kit is in the saddle bag. The time for talk is over. And so is the time for portentous cliché. This is a bike ride not a scene from Henry V. Tonight Quorn, tomorrow Goring-on Thames. Not really a slogan you can run with.

Cymru am Byth

The Dragon Ride is one of the major sportives in the UK with over three thousand entrants. The event starts (and finishes) at Pencoed near Bridgend then travels up the Rhondda valley across the Brecon Beacons and down to Neath. There is then an almost interminable climb to the high point of the event at about 1600 feet before descending back to Pencoed. The 190 km route involves a total of approaching 3000m of climbing. It also provides a final opportunity for me to practice what I hope to be doing on a daily basis at the end of next week.

The weather on the day was largely benign with none of the predicted showers actually landing on us. The brisk westerly wind was not quite the problem I had expected in the middle stages and provided welcome assistance towards the end. The organisation was excellent give or take a bit of queuing for the start. The three feed stations were well spaced and provided supplies of bananas, apple pies and crisps. It is not supposed to be a gourmet experience. The route was demanding but scenic. We passed through some remote Welsh villages which established to the satisfaction of those who suspected otherwise that few, if any, of the Welsh still live in caves. There were, of course many sheep mostly on the mountainside. I did spot one sheep grazing contentedly in the back garden of a suburban bungalow. There is no law against keeping pets.

It all went well for about seventy five miles. A group of eight set off together but it was soon apparent that the senior members could not hang on to the (relatively) younger element. Pete had a nasty wheel wobble on one of the fastest descents. Wheel wobble is an unpredictable phenomenon. It is hard to convey the sheer terror of speeding downhill on a bike at 45mph with your handlebars oscillating in your hands at an uncontrollable and ever increasing amplitude. Pete survived, pale but unharmed. I was next. My bike hit a pothole at the start of a steep descent and, seconds later, I was doing 40 mph with a punctured rear tyre. I managed to stop without losing control, changed the inner tube only for the valve on the new tube to shoot out as I took off the pump. I was deciding whether to reach for the puncture kit or to phone the emergency number when loyal friends dragged themselves back up the hill with a spare tube. (Thanks, Adey and Rich). The puncture and the ensuing confusion cost us at least half an hour. It also seemed to sap what little strength I had left, resulting in a slightly disappointing time of just over eight hours.

Congratulations must go to Tim for getting round in 6h 45, waiting patiently for nearly 1½ hours for the rest of us then being too polite or modest to tell us his time. Beer and blackened burgers were later consumed at the excellent Ty Tanglywyst farm. Plans were made, with the help of the beer, which will ensure that we all do much better next year. Jimmy the Snapper was also in attendance and delighted in running in and out of the sea whilst we toiled in the hills.

"Too late to back out now"

For reasons that I may try to explain when I understand them more fully myself, I intend to cycle from home in Quorn near Loughborough to Assisi starting on Friday 18 June 2010. This blog is intended to satisfy the bemused curiousity of family and friends and to elicit helpful information and advice from anyone who has attempted anything similar, assumimg such persons exist. Comments of all kinds are welcome since I hardly know what I am doing either as a long distance cyclist or a blogger.

From Quorn to Portsmouth is about 190 miles if you avoid A roads and large towns. From Caen to Assisi is about 1000 miles without taking into account all the twists and turns which usually add another 10% or so. Allowing two days for the trip to Portsmouth I have booked onto the overnight ferry on Saturday 19 June. I hope to complete the continental leg in about ten days which means averaging a little over a hundred miles a day. This should be feasible if nothing goes seriously wrong with me or the bike. I have to be in Assisi by Thursday 1 July. My wife, daughter and granddaughter will be spending that week in Umbria but will be leaving on Friday 2 July to join the rest of the family for a week in Switzerland. I could, of course, spend part or all of that week riding back to Switzerland to join them but prefer to avoid doing so. You can have too much of a good thing.

Over the next couple of weeks I  will try to post a bit more information on kit, accommodation and other aspects of the preparation including an account of the Dragon Ride next Sunday. Since it is in Wales this will count as experience of cycling in a foreign country. It is also an opportunity to commiserate with all the Cardiff fans after their loss at the hands of a rampant 'Pool at Wembley last weekend. Assuming I can sort out how to send posts from my phone I will send a daily progress report from the route once I set off.