Day 1.

We are very fortunate indeed to be able to spend our first overnight in 5* luxury courtesy of James' father in law. These are the views from his flat. 

This is much needed after the first day. 

We left a little later than anticipated after taking a tour around the NICU. It was really humbling to see the unit in action and it certainly hammered home why we were undertaking this trip. Some of the babies were smaller than you could possibly imagine and to see the care that they were being given was really inspiring. 

It's been a very sunny, hot day and I think that if we're to be completely honest, we'd underestimated how hilly Essex was, having come from Ely, which is flatter than an ironing board. It was a bit of a shock to the system. 

We're about to head off this morning for a slightly shorter day today down to the south coast. Unfortunately, shorter doesn't coincide with flatter and our elevation gain is +800 feet from yesterday's total of 900feet. 

Wish us luck and donate whatever you can at www.justgiving.com/C2P. 

A quick reminder

By now, you will have no doubt learned of the recent exploits of "Team C2P" and our off road antics. James' witty and comedic prose has no doubt lightened your mood and made you chuckle out loud in your office, much to the confusion of your colleagues and co-workers. Matt's twitter and facebook updates have predominantly been in relation to the sourcing of GPS equipment to avoid "detours" such as the one that he and James encountered over the bank holiday and attempting to get hold of a decent pair of shorts to avoid a "blistered gooch"... believe me when I say this - you will never want to experience this in your life and for your own sanity, definitely don't google image search it.

Unfortunately, it remains to me to cast the shadow of reality to the fun and remind you all what it is that we're doing and why. Don't all boo at once.

In a little under 11 days, the three of us, Matt, James and I will be setting off on our bikes to ride over 440 miles to Paris, starting from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Addenbrookes hospital, Cambridge with the intention of riding self-supported all the way to Paris to the Tarnier Monument in the 6th Arondissement, Paris.

A Neonatal Incubator

This is a cause very close to our hearts and we are aiming to raise as much money for this brilliant and vital service as humanly possible. The unit does receive NHS funding, however this is a drop in the ocean in comparison to the amount they need to make a real difference. Each incubator costs approximately £3000, and the job that they do is absolutely invaluable.

The incubator to the right is the one used to care for Lyra in the Special Care Unit. Thanks to the specialist care that she received she is now unstoppable and running around everywhere. The same can be said for Matt's daughter Caitlin who is a serious force to be reckoned with.

We have just under 11 days to raise our target amount of £3000 between us. We have raised approximately half of this so far and now is the time to make a huge difference. If you have experienced what it is like to have a baby in an Intensive Care Unit or Special Care Unit, or even know people who have been through this, please please please use the links to the right of this post to donate whatever you can for this amazing and worthwhile cause.

My daughter Lyra in the Special Care Unit 2 days after birth. Now she's unstoppable 

Words by Oli

.

Jeeper Creepers

All good horror films start on a bright note. College teens packing to go on a “Super awesome road trip” to the woods/beach/mountains. They then venture off to the unknown where they are crammed in their SUV (Sport utility vehicle)/People carrier where they can immerse themselves in their own drinking, drug taking, hedonistic debauchery. As sure as night follows day they will get lost! Now, what follows can manifest itself in a number of ways, but generally it results the local nutter/monster/mutated hill folk picking them off one by one until the final two characters, whom are usually the best looking or elementally most famous are left. The final act is generally the plucky fight for survival where, somehow, two out-of-schoolers overpower and outwit the assailant and deliver the swift blow of justice. But..... on some occasions, this is not the case. Sometimes, just sometimes, they all die...........

 It was May bank holiday Sunday and three friends, whom were training for a cycling road trip to Paris from Cambridge had decided to meet up for another one of their rides around the local roads.  It being a three day weekend and having some spare time, it was ideal to try a new route or two and have a bit of an explore across the fenlands (You can see where this is going right?).

Myself and Matt set of from my house at about 8am to meet Oli en route as he lives the other side of the target destination. We met up about 9am and after about 10 minutes of conflabbing about the night before and the general man talk, we proceeded precisely 100 meters down the road to stop again for another 10 minutes, this time for Matt to stop and buy supplies from the local One-Stop. Without doubt it was the strangest fuel stop ever for a training ride. After an unfeasibly long time, in what is a relatively small village shop Matt emerged with three Bananas, a 4 pack of Snickers and a copy of that weeks Cambridge evening news.  He continued to kindly spread the Bananas to myself and oli and then began the arduous process of putting the paper in his Camelbak bag without creasing it. This proved to be a less than enviable task considering the bag also housed a 2.5kg disc weight that Matt was supplementing his ride with. The Snickers sat on top, just close enough to the outside of the bag to feel the full force of the forecast 25 degree bright sunshine and just low enough to feel the brunt of a dense metal disc. The ever optimistic Matt, assuring us that “They will be fine”........

Off we headed, the three amigos, into the heat haze. The next few hours were consumed with having fun in the sun on our bikes, setting the occasional section time on our Strava Apps on our phones (Click here forthe Ex-Strava-Ganza blog), and taking videos of us biking for the upcoming summer block buster film of the C2P trip.

All too early the time came when Oli announced “I have to go home, I need to do some stuff in the garden”, it is at this point we are reminded that we indeed are not pro cyclists and yes, we all have to return to the realities of life. So Oli, the local boy to the area split off to go home, but not before giving us fully comprehensive instructions of the way we should go home “go up there a bit, take a left at the fork and follow the road for a while”. What could go wrong?

It was all of five minutes before Matt and myself had taken the wrong “left” and ended up in the middle of a village, pointing the completely the wrong compass direction and having no idea where to go. As modern aged men, out came the Iphones and brought up Google maps. We knew we were in trouble as soon as the mapping of the local area on the phone couldn’t guide us to any major roadways. So we chose our minor roads route and set about backtracking a couple of miles and started again. 15 minutes down the road we thought we were heading in the right direction. I should point out that out in the fenlands the road signage is poor at best and you can continue for miles without the merest hint of where you actually are. With this in mind we thought it best to ask a local, I mean who knows the back fenland roads like a local. As you may or may not know, the fenland habitants can be a little “abstract” in certain areas, the sort of unstable, toothless chaps you find in one of those aforementioned films. But, as luck would have it we managed to come across a normal-ish looking man washing his car, albeit in a sleeveless vest and pretty short shorts.

“Excuse me, is this the way to Prickwillow?”

“Yes, just carry on down the road, it gets a little bumpy but you’ll be OK”.

And that’s when it all started.

At first it was all happy boys and their toys, but after a while we still hadn’t seen the golf course that we were aiming for on the phone map,  undeterred we carried on. The local chap couldn’t be wrong......

Another 10 minutes passed, and we came across “MildenhallRaceway”, a dirt track motorsport circuit for the likes of Banger racing and demolition derby’s, basically a dirt circle surrounded by rusty Pick-ups and transit vans, with hundreds of overweight middle ages guys wearing dungarees, steel toe cap boots and Hi-Vis vests. This was a location that I didn’t even know existed, and I have lived in the general area all my life. We carried on, the tinny roar of whatever rust buckets were circulating at the time started to fade into the distance behind us, and almost symbolically felt as though we were also leaving civilisation (sort of) behind.

As the infrastructure of the developed world became scarcer and scarcer around us, the road we were traversing became more and more in a state of disrepair. What was once a smooth-ish tarmac road had become a very bumpy tarmac road, and further on still became two strips of bumpy concrete that were just wide enough to be used by a car tyre.

The landscape had gone from green belt to beige overalls. We were now stumbling along a road that could only be described as an afterthought of an afterthought. Surrounded by vast fields of oli-seed, ageing farmyards and broken down machinery. There was however a light at the end of the tunnel. A row of trees, which according to our phones indicated the road that would take us back to humankind. But before we reached that there was a 200m stretch of mud/grass to traverse. tentatively we picked our route through potholes, rocks and sticks and out of the other side. I can safely say the Trek 1.5 or Orbea Aqua were not made with this terrain in mind. We had made the tree-line. From here it would be plane sailing! But as we approached the turning point of the trees, any hope we had evaporated into a haze of despair and dread. What faced us was a mile long road of crushed concrete and hardcore, flanked on either side by a bank of mud and crop fields, the road terminating at a farm. A farm not too dissimilar to that of the one from Jeepers Creepers.

We were now officially lost, we had come too far to turn back and must push on. Suddenly all of those horror films made sense. Why didn’t they just turn round and go back? why didn’t they go another way? Because they thought they knew better, just like us. But what waited for us ahead? A crazed psychopathic farmer, a chainsaw wielding maniac, mutant cannibals or indeed The Creeper. At this point the sun was beating down, and it was a question of what would finish us off first, exposure to the elements or all of the horrors out there. Heroically we pushed on.

For the next 15 minutes we rode a white knuckle ride of 5mph, gripping tightly to our bars, trying not to tumble off our bikes, if we were to come off here there would only be a world of pain, with lumps of hardcore and crushed concrete the makeup of our makeshift road. Adding to the danger, the occasional wedge of  razor sharp flint. Was this flint to render us immobile, allowing the assailants to pounce??? And what had become of Oli, it’s always the “Split-off guy” that meets his demise first. Was he now hanging from a barn rafter by his ankles?

                   

Unbelievably we made it to the end of the “road”. The constant praying for the tyres to remain puncture free had seemed to work. We were now faced with negotiating the farm, what would seem a typically easy task if it were not for the road block hay bales, Security trench and steel barrier to pass, it was as if they didn’t want us to pass through..... Luckily these had all been made to stop motor vehicles and our bikes were able to find a small toe path between them. Cautiously we made it across the deserted farmyard forecourt, with a distant digger the only movement around, was it digging a grave??? I looked around as we crossed the open yard and was relieved to see no Oli’s dangling from the barn rafters. Perhaps he had made it safely home, and was playing in his garden.

As we left the front gate of the farm we were again dismayed to find a gravel topped road, but at least this road ran parallel with the river. A river we knew would bring us to our eventual destination, the mythical land of “Prickwillow”. As we continued down the road, pinging gravel at each other with our tyres, there we signs of civilisation. A small cottage, some phone lines and a runner! A real person! We even stopped to ask him if we were on the right track. Sure enough he could form a fully structured sentence and seemed to be in control of all of his limbs and emotions. Things were looking up. We even managed to see a “Horde” of mountain bikers (I believe this is the correct term for this group). They may be slightly less evolved as people and more rudimentary with technology than road cyclists, but we took heart that we had reached an area where the technology of the wheel existed.

A short while, and a toilet stop later we found a road, a real road. One of tarmac and sign posts and cars!

Weak from thirst, and hunger. Savaged by the suns unforgiving rays. Surrounded by monsters and killers and spirits, we had survived. Against all the odds we were coming home to our family.

This was truly and undoubtedly  one of the greatest survival stories ever to be told.

Once I returned home I had a shower and went to a Birthday party!

The End

Thanks for Reading - James

The Pork Train Velo Club

I thought I'd take a minute to highlight a ride being done this weekend by one of our training partners (and incidentally my brother) who is undertaking something fairly ridiculous this weekend.

Felix, is known to like (and enjoy) a challenge. He's pretty fit, having completed the Stockholm Marathon in 3 hours 39 minutes and completing the Marathon des Sables (a 151 mile ultra marathon across the Sahara) to name but a couple of his accomplishments.

This weekend, he will be cycling from London to Edinburgh as part of the Pork Train Velo Club (PTVC). The PTVC is a team of 10 friends from London, who are raising funds for Help for Heroes and the MS Society - both exceptionally worthy causes. They're going to cover 220 miles roughly on the first day, from London to York, sleeping for 4 hours, then pushing on to Edinburgh on Sunday, which is another 220 miles.

Now, knowing you all as I do and that clearly, people who read this are generally fans of "kit", especially when it's tastefully designed - you'll really appreciate the design of what they'll be adorned in.

Team Sky and Rapha - eat your heart out.

It's going to be a brutal weekend for the 10 of them, but they've been putting in the miles and hopefully they'll do well.

In case you were wondering, in order to cycle purely in daylight hours, they'll need to average over 16 miles per hour for the whole of the 220 miles per day. Hardcore.

If you want to help them along you can keep them motivated by plowing some cash into their pockets here

Do the right thing...

You can find details of the route here: http://www.ratraceroadtrip.com/course.html 

Ex-Strava-ganza

Much like the entire future of Marty McFly hinged on a single right hook by his father on Biff Tannan’s chin in 1955, pretty much all of my exercise regime over the past few years can be traced back to one critical point in time, that time, March 2011. Where a meeting of three old school friends was to shape my entire future. (You can read the full story here: The start of it all). From that point on, a new focus emerged in my fitness/lifestyle choices, with a lot of pain and suffering to follow. What was worse is I didn’t even get a future predicting sports almanac like Marty did, however I did get a bike!

Since that point in time Oli and Matt have been the root cause of a lot of pain in my life (Most notably in my bum........cycling). But without doubt the biggest culprit of me spending my money, and causing me to be subjected to hours of physical torture and mental anguish (*apart from my wife) is Oli (@0L1). He is the guy that researches everything: fads, crazes, training techniques, fitness programmes, exercise equipment etc. Being easily led,  and never one to say no, often leads me down routes that on a normal day I wouldn’t even consider. Turbo trainers, Sufferfest cycling programmes,  10k running races, 100 mile bike races and Triathlons are all products of Oli that I have somehow found myself taking part in, but if nothing else, it gives me something to blog about. I love Oli greatly and is one of the best friends anyone could hope to have, but sometimes I wonder why.

One of the latest additions that Oli has bought into my life (As well as Matt’s), is a simple App. For the Iphone. This App. Is called Strava. Strava is essentially a training tool for running/cycling, mapping your route, speed and heart rate etc. Strava allows all the basics to be stored online such as total distance, total time, top speed, average/top power, but critically, the App then allows users to create “Segments” along their rides, effectively making time trial splits, where other users can contest in a “leader board” to become “King of the mountain” (KOM) on that particular section of road. 

To those who know me well, I am ultra competitive, and unless I think I can do it fairly well, I won’t do something, this is why my son finds it very hard to play football with me (He is 3 years old). For someone like me, Strava is VERY addictive. I crave comparisons, data analysis, competition. When I get to the end of a ride, I get something tangible, a measurable achievement both on a personal level and competitive. Power, speed, distance, calorific depletion, I love it all!

There is a great sense of achievement when you come home, upload your results and find you have set a personal best time in a sector (PB) or even better, top the list of riders to have ridden that section making you “King of the mountain”!

I have a decent quality entry level road bike (Trek 1.5), which suits my purposes well, but isn’t the fastest bike out there, it isn’t draped in Carbon Fibre, held together by Titanium bolts or have a Campagolo group-set that I would have to remortgage my house for. Then again I am not a cyclist that warrants such luxuries. Because of this I like to concentrate on sprint sections, or hill climbs. Something where the speed of the bike and my general sub standard fitness isn’t such a handicap. Anything that can be over within 5 minutes I’m happy with!

Unbelievably I have achieved the KOM title on four separate occasions in my lifetime (Two of which I have subsequently lost). Each time as enjoyable as the last. In my mind’s eye, I can picture all of the Strava cyclists out there logging on to their accounts, checking the local routes, and seeing me, sitting proudly on top of the pile. I know, it is all they can do to stop themselves standing and applauding, whooping and hollering at my athletic prowess, speed, agility, power, in their own front rooms or office cubicles at work. When I reveal my achievement to the wife,  she is overcome with pride and elation. Going weak at the knees, like a teenage girl at a three hour late Justin Beaver concert.

In reality though, getting a KOM title only serves to annoy the previous title holder, and is *met by the wife with a disinterested smile and a heavily muted “Well done????”. But I’m not picky so I’ll take it!  

There is however another, darker side to the “leader board” battle. The bitter rivalry and hatred that festers in the background, one that is never openly acknowledged. A cauldron of male hormones, sweat, pain, energy gels and sweaty bum cracks, all ready to explode given the correct trigger point. That trigger comes in a very inconspicuous but deadly form of an Email notification: 

From: Strava

Subject: Notification - Uh oh.....

You know what’s coming, and the blood starts to boil, you can’t help yourself. You click on “open Email”..............

Son of a bitch! I now hate Alan Brown, I have never met him, but he must be destroyed!!!!!!!

This Email has now sparked an unstoppable chain of events.

Your life has been given a predetermined path to follow. To regain your crown. Your next ride will be given the sole purpose of becoming the rightful owner of that “segment” once again.

Check list:

·         High tyre pressure to reduce rolling resistance

·         Aerodynamic clothing – You may have to peel your clothes off later but is worth it.

·         Water bottle – No, have an energy drink before hand, any excess weight should be stripped

·         Weather – fine, any unwanted rain or buffeting wind should be avoided

Take to the road with a mission, giving good effort on the way to the battleground. Warming up the leg muscles all the while. Then POW! An explosion of energy as you hit the upcoming timed segment, no rest, no slacking, it’s now or never. Breathing like Christina Aguilera chasing an ice cream van, lungs of fire and legs engorged by lactic acid. Before you know it, it’s over and you can return to your normal riding speed, trying not to fall off or pass out.

Congratulations, You have now reclaimed your throne!

I recently went out on my bike around the local area to test out the change of height I had made to my saddle, with the intention to pop-in two or three timed sections along the route, this would mean going slightly out of my way, but it’s worth it for the extra fun of the ride.

Having already completed one of my segments, I ventured to the next, enjoying my early evening ride. I spotted a fellow cyclist coming towards me. I was heading into a mild head wind at the time, and him looking all smug as he sailed by, aided by mother nature. I recognised him as he past me from one of the various Strava profile pictures that pop upon the leader boards for our surrounding area. I knew where he had been, and I knew what he was doing........ I wanted to beat him, beat him bad!!

I turned the corner from where he had come, and drifted down the short but steep hill. In the opposite direction I knew this was the timed section he had just completed. I freewheeled a bit further to give myself a run-up, then dropped the hammer. It is one of those climbs that is very short, but gets progressively steeper, ending in a T-junction in the road.

I can only compare hill climbing on a bike to licking a battery. Very uncomfortable and unpleasant, but you will always go back for a second try, just to make sure it’s as bad as you remember, and invariably, it always is!

 Once the pain and lung busting fight for breath was over, I again turned down the hill and headed for home. My mind filled with thoughts of segment times and leader boards, perhaps too much as an elderly gentleman in one of those timber framed Morris Minors from the 70’s hurtled round the fenland corner and tried his best to detail the side of his car with my bike.

Once home I quickly uploaded my data and waited for the results to collate. Had I beaten the mystery rider? (On later inspection his name was Darran Bennet, a man who seems to often thwart me on leader boards).

 

The results were in:

REJOICE!

Just like Sir Chris Hoy, it is time to celebrate with a Pizza and a couple of cans of Coke!

James

*Disclaimer – My wife is fantastic and a great support in my life, any derogatory remarks towards her in my blog are meant in jest, and are only there to add a bit of comic relief to what would otherwise be a boring blog**

**Disclaimers disclaimer – The previous disclaimer was added so I actually will be allowed into my bedroom after my wife reads this blog.

Me and Mrs Jones

In preparation for our “Grand adventure” I have tried to balance out a mixture of cycling, running and core based exercise, not least of all because Oli and I are also participating in the “Toughmudder” on June 9^th near Brighton (www.toughmudder.co.uk) just a wekk after the Paris ride.

Due to injuries past and present I have had to adjust both my running style and the chosen platform to run on. When once, I was a Tarmac eating machine, pounding miles before breakfast with the speed of a Puma and endurance of a horse, I now am NOT! I now see myself more as an ambling goat, stumbling across riverbanks trying my best not to either a) throw-up in a bush, or b) Trip and fall down the riverbank into said bush, all with the style and panache of Britney Spears getting out of a Limo after a night out. I have come to love my new picturesque running routes, it used to be dodging 20 tonne heavy good vehicles on the main road and people gesticulating their annoyance by the fact I feel that I too am allowed to use the road when there is no path to be seen. Now I see new things daily, ducks, cows, birds and nature at its finest, although one time I’m fairly sure I saw a guy dropping trow in the wooded area next to the A10 lay-by (If you are asking, it was a driver for Yodel home delivery).

I truly enjoy running, and, as you may be aware I’m a “kit” man, I love buying the kit. And running is full of it. Whether it be the new Trail running shoes, MP3 players, Calf sleeves or Heart rate monitor, I love it all. But the one thing I couldn’t do without is my Garmin GPS watch. It’s like having a running partner that pushes you just that little further, but, all the while his stupid little pixelated body mocking you at your inability to keep up with the overestimated pace you ambitiously programmed in before you set off. The watch is also the most frustrating part about my run. The anticipation of starting the run, staring at the Garmin, waiting, watching it coming ever closer to being found by the satellite only to have the search bar drop back to the start. And yet, without it, I now feel naked. How will I know if I ran 6.25 or 6.28 miles? It’s now in my nature, I must have the satellites located before I can begin!!! I wish I had some great spiritual thought to connect because this sounds like the beginning of a fantastic analogy, but really, it’s just me being frequently annoyed by my Garmin. But once it’s connected, I’m off and running!

On these rare moments of alone time during my runs I find myself thinking about things that a normal person just wouldn’t. Questions arise in my head such a: “If a Tsunami came over the horizon now, where would I run to, to survive” or “If a Tiger appeared out of that bush/Alligator out of the river what the hell would I do”. Not every day thoughts. Although I know I’m not alone picturing myself in a feel good, action film, running a la Rocky to the soundtrack coming out of my Ipod earphones.

In my life of fun and frolics “T’days are run days”. Meaning, I go running along the riverbank on my lunch break at work Tuesdays and Thursdays. It is a small window of opportunity, but one I can’t pass up if I want to survive my two weeks of physical hell come May. I am just about able to squeeze in a four mile run and shower, then get back to work. One Thursday I was in my office getting stripped down and getting into my running gear.......

*At this point I think I should point out I work in my family’s business (plug: www.wrightkarts.com), with the family dogs also on the premises throughout the day.

.........I was just re-dressing with only my shorts and trainers on when the dogs burst through my office door, unbeknownst to me it wasn’t “Clicked” fully closed. There standing in the doorway was one of my mum’s friends (who was just passing by), she will remain nameless for purposes of anonymity, but I will refer to her as Mrs Jones. Mrs Jones, looked up and squeaked “Oh my......”.

There, through the doorway she was confronted by a glorious sight. A body that would embarrass Michelangelo’s David, backlit by the midday sun trailing through the window. Like a slow motion, high exposure clip out of one of those Hugo Boss adverts...... but better. A sight so amazing it has been known to blind people.

Quickly she turned away and I shut the door, but the damage was done. I continued to don my running kit and left my office, where I again came face to face with Mrs Jones. “It’s been a long time since I have seen a young man with a six pack”. Now, truth be told, I am far from a mighty physical specimen, and in truth not even a good physical specimen, but I do have youth-ish on my side, and an extraordinary metabolism that allows me to consume enough food to power a small continent, and therefore I’m fairly slim. This seemed to be enough for Mrs Jones! Luckily Mrs Jones and myself get on very well, and was able to laugh off any awkwardness, but to this day, she reminds me of that moment and occasionally (constantly) makes pervy “me and misses Jones” type comments, eyeing me up like Nigella Lawson and Chocolate cake or, indeed, Oli eyeing anything made from Carbon Fibre......

Needless to say, I now make sure my office door is shut when I change.

*Mrs Jones. If you are reading this, stop picturing me in your head. I’m a married man!!!!

James

I'm just going to leave this here....

Local news coverage of the team and the aim of the trip from Cambridge to Paris.

You can donate if you like either at www.justgiving.com/C2P (Oli's Page)
or at www.justgiving.com/teams/showmethemoney

Oli