A rainy sprint down The Mall

The Last Adventures of the Model Tourist

The first day’s ride took us out through the streets of Paris Nord, through neighbourhoods of Magrebian splendour, bazaars reminding us of France’s Colonial past in North Africa, perhaps indicating why their Premiere Mr Tea Cosy was somewhat reluctant to join in the boy’s playground bashing in Iraq a few years ago.

The last day’s ride took us through South London’s streets bedecked in similar fashion, only  from countries we decided needed ‘civilising’ some 2 – 300 years ago, and our taste in Colonialism became joyously reflected there.

I used not to enjoy London at all, I’m a plough boy at heart, but, of late. with the help of my kind chum Matt and a few particular books, I have come to understand London again, seeing it in a different light. Matt and I walked the Streets Of London in the breaks between pedaling and we visited many a function: the preserved Operating Theatre at Saint Thomas’s old hospital (a gruesome ‘must’ for any visitor)….

A cabinet of cures in the operating theatre, as used by Florence Nightingale

…and too many galleries to take everything in (like eating too much food, or listening to too much music in one go). Yet the real gems lay in the walks inbetween.

Despite the rampant development -  a progress that has never stopped since the Romans, and was greatly accelerated by fire, plague, bombs, greed and pogroms – one can still  feel as if one is treading through years of history and the very people on the streets serve as a reminder of this.

The Bangladesh of Brick Lane may be a conspicuous example of this, but when one hears the street cries in the flower market on Sunday morning, and though one may consider these to be ‘true’ London (Cockney) it takes a little delving to discover that, that accent derived from the immigrant, the Jew, The Hugenot and the German.

A Triumph Of Pennies

Riding a penny farthing through the streets on a fine inaugural Veteran-Cycle Club (London Branch) ride causes many a question to be asked by the passer-by. I had more questions for them than they did for me. My first was always ‘where do you come from?’ A holidaying Australian couple complained about the immigrants overcrowding their homeland, yet they happened to be children of Scots and Irish parents. There’s no convincing some people. (“you are not stuck in traffic – you ARE traffic”)

No wonder so many cycle companies used to include a ‘Tourist’ Model within their range. Though I shudder at the thought of fellow penny rider Joff Summerfield’s magnificent 22,000 mile round-the-world trek, I feel that my cycles have allowed me to become at peace with the notion of remaining a tourist, a tourist in a land full of tourists, perhaps we are, after all, all restless itinerants.

The author, on a rare day-off, pedaled a Boris Bike around town. Oh how sponsors B***lays B**k must fume that they have become better known as Boris Bikes. All shall weep.

Some time ago we agreed to take part in the London Nocturne Series, racing our Pennies around the Smithfield Market much like we did last year in Knutsford only with  slightly less fear of impalation. The London Nocturne Series is a gem, a jewel in the British sporting calendar and, somehow, manages to bring a top  sporting event to the very centre of London with totally free public attendance, much  like any other top sporting event abroad. This alone deserves immense applause, the fact that it is so well run, is deeply exciting and competitive deserves nothing but an encore. All achieved in these cash-strapped days of reluctant sponsorship as well.

Their PR company needed a ‘tie-in’ as to  how the Penny Farthing races were significant to the races, especially as they were dealing with a jaded complacent tired London media, fighting for space with Ms Gaga and various footballers. I wrote the following, it’s all based on just two photos the American cycle historian Lorne Shields sent me . They needed a ‘London tie-in’ and he had no time to provide this, his first delivery was of two fantastic photos and I did the rest:

The 1883 Showdown

Fig: 1. 1883 The Crystal Palace Grand Old Ordinary Challenge Cup, L- R Elmore Bremerton (USA) Douglas McRae (Scotland) Fritz J. Osmund (Germany) Charlie Wilson (England)

Ordinaries had a short life – roughly 30 years from 1860 onwards. In their day they were the fastest thing on the road, expensive, glamorous and used for racing with plenty of bets placed thereon.

Doping was as rife then as it is now (until recently of course) and unscrupulous managers such as the legendary’ Choppy’ Warburton drove their jockeys to any lengths to gain glory not to mention big cash on the finishing line.

The Ordinary was not used for shopping or getting to work,  that came later with The Safety Bicycle, resigning the Ordinary to village ponds, museums and circuses as it adopted the moniker the ‘Penny Farthing’.

International competition was ferocious and the famous Crystal Palace circuit saw many a showdown, but few as infamous as the 1883 battle between Elmore Bremerton (USA) and Fritz J Osmund (Germany). Having seen off all-comers through the heats, and amongst a grid of four riders, Bremerton and Osmund crossed the line simultaneously a photo-finished ruined only by the inebriated photographer being blinded by his own flash-powder causing a near-fatal tripod collapse.

After great controversy, much media bragging by Bramerton and scrupulous training by the over-disciplined Osmund the two met once again in 1887 for a showdown at the make-shift Finsbury Circus Oval (shortly before it was destroyed by fire) only for the dead-heat finish to be repeated. Soon after, the racing Ordinary was replaced by young scorchers on their pneumatic-tyred board-racing cycles, rendering the dangerous days of High-Bicycle racing a thing of the past.

The 1887 Rematch

Fig: 2. 1887 The Finsbury Trophy Left: Elmore Bremerton (USA) and right: Fritz J. Osmund (Germany) wearing his trademark Pickelhaube racing cap by Das Rapha Sports Industrie GMBH

No-one knows what exactly became of our two plucky heroes. Bremerton returned to the USA to escape several paternity suits and raced hot-air balloons whereas Osmund’s future included speed-skating in Holland and in his native Germany.

June 11^th 2011 sees the first return to London of these racing Ordinaries, this will be no costume parade, but a fight to the finish by riders from Australia, The USA, Belgium, Canada, Germany, Ireland, Switzerland and Great Britain, some will even ride their steeds over from Paris as a final training session ready for the big event.

Of course, little of this was printed. Some history is bunk, none of it is ‘the truth’ some of it is renovated for conspiratorial purposes, but the best history is simply made to fit: purpose built, if you will.

As in Premiership Football, the difference between the fastest racers (Jim Brailsford, Guy Peterson, Steve George, etc etc) and the also-rans (me) is astonishing, but here I’d prefer to  agree with the epithet that it is not the winning that matters, but the taking part.

But then I would say that, If I’d won, or even come 6th, history would be deftly re-written. Probably by me.

portrait of a winner

As part of the attempt at encouraging more cycling in London, The Barbican opt out by placing angry notices on their bike racks, keenly observed and adhered to by all law-abiding cyclists...

Today was a day out-of-the-saddle and my entire being thanked me for that, a swift return home to get washing and grounding and back to London by  train to the Guildhall where various members of our party were given ‘The Freedom Of The City Of London’ by various be-cloaked luminaries, flanked by the Portsoken Volunteers, a uniformed, highly trained private army, armed to the teeth and ready to snap into action at the drop of a sweety wrapper in the square mile that is The City Of London.

For services to cycling beyond the call of duty: Grp. Capt. Phil Saunders stands flanked by the great and the good and a private army of crack-troops.

Whilst working on the last Madness album The Liberty Of Norton Folgate I steeped myself in London history and, by learning  how close to The Vatican the this square mile City  really is- (its own Police Force, it’s own currencies, it’s own handshakes) I found that all that was missing is the Swiss Guard and the strong feelings against homosexuals. A colourful and humorous ceremony passed without so much as a bon mot, our be-decked members only slightly disappointed that the right to drive sheep across Tower Bridge has been withdrawn. It was a good thing to  find a society nearly as cranky as The League Of Ordinary Gentlemen, indeed. Group Captain Phil Saunders put on a fine show and spread, all went happily home, if a little unsteady.

A copy of the book closely guarded by Tigger: a savage big cat.

The ceremony easily eclipsed my awarding four of our fellows with a hand-made copy of ‘A Tale Of Two Cities’ (by Dickens: Charles). I made 5 copies, leather-bound with a ribbon cut from a French Tricoloeur of 1795. Unsurprisingly I awarded one to myself, the others went to Gary and Irene Saunders for battling through the trip with heads full of cold, to Glynn Norcliffe for carrying the flag from Liverpool to Canada and back, to Wing. Co. Bob Taylor for his ability to put both legs over his bars, remove his hands from the handlebars all whilst speeding down hill at enormous speed (and up the other side at slightly less vitesse,) and to Ron Miller, another Canadian who invented (and gave me ..hem, hem) a set of rear-view mirrors for Penny riders that work a treat.

and tomorrow: let battle commence..

The last day’s riding is probably the easiest. Easy because 4 days solid riding makes you fitter, and easier because you are going home. The hills on the A25 are a thing to behold and mince-meat was made of them, ending up on top of the Downs at a diner that sold vegetarian salads with added mince meat….

If this was ‘Chef’s Own Salad’ he was welcome to it back.

your carriage awaits you sir....

Whilst we were inside scoffing and talking to the Gentlemen Of The Press (surely an oxymoron?) our dedicated support team – of one – fettled the steeds outside. Throughout the ride Tim Gunn has worked tirelessly, uncomplainingly, and greatly-to-the-benefitly of us riders. He volunteered for the post, leaving his booming shop (The Old Bicycle Showroom) in the care of Nick Wenly, leaving his young family behind in Braintree, and solving our problems, doing a little jig, and performing tricks for us all.  The biggest trick of the lot was to persuade a policeman to lower the drawbridge and let us out of prison…

"Please officer, take me, let the others go..."

Last night we were visited by Joff Summerfield, a man who cycled his Penny around the world, yes, around the whole world. He removed the wooden handle grips of his penny and, with the help of Phil Saunders, burned them to  ashes. These were then sealed in a casket for to be the trophy for Saturday’s 30 minute race at The London Nocturne. Henceforth known as ‘The Ashes’ and to be battled over every year in a long-distance Penny Race.

Phil led us into London and used his monumental powers of persuasion to organise a full Police Escort to The Guildhall whereat we quaffed champagne and waited for Tim who remained, of course, locked up by the very same Police Force.

The Gentlemen's Escort

Tomorrow we attend a solemn ceremony as 3 of our lucky winners are awarded ‘The Freedom Of The City Of London”

Hurrah!

Soon to disappear: 1912 Calais Cyclists Rest

Day once dawned, and it was beautiful, we were sad to leave our Bed and Breakfast after a raucous evening’s pie and saladivities and it was downhill all the way to Calais.

All aboard

The shock came on de-boating, grey skies over the white cliffs of Dover, and a force 27 wind in our faces, it took us a mere 3 hours to get across to Folkestone… welcome home you Uk’ns and so sorry to  our Canadian and American riders.

Now to discuss why we  appear to be incapable of making a decent job of our road signs. Not only are there no distances on them, the A20 tends to disappear from time-to-time like its course is a well-kept secret. May I suggest that the CTC encourage their members to go out with a thick black felt pen and write the mileages on their local signs? It may mean little to car drivers with their Thomas Thomas on the go, but the roads are shared (surely) by the ‘pedestrian’ and the cyclist. Whilst we’re at it, just to cut down on the amount of headless chickens that appeared to be driving the same car in and out of Dover and environs, hopelessly lost, all fresh off the boat, if one sticker was applied to  each traffic light that indicated N, W, E, S, (that’s NEWS spelled wrong, or the four points of the compass) perhaps our traffic problems would be halved in a trice. I will accept no royalties for this idea.

Thar She Blows

Tonight we are in Harrietsham, near Maidstone, Five pennies have made the journey: Robert Taylor from Canada on his beautiful red Rudge, Glynn Norcliffe, a scouser at heart, but a Canadian by Geography also on a rather poorly Rudge, now fettled by Ron Miller… ‘Headwind’ Knight drove his ‘home-made’ short-crank Bogus and Sham, Gary Sanderson, nursing a head cold, on a kindly donated (by Phil Saunders) 54″ Victor and Cally on his trusty uphill 50″ Grafton Compound Roadster. Strange to think just how many of my machines have been supplied by the midwife Phil Saunders, a man that sneaks jewels out of the USA (mine in a box of bits) and gladly distributes them amongst us Leaguers in the UK.

Ancient Penny-Farthing wheel rim shaper found on Beachy Head

We visited the Battle Of Britain museum too, and met a man so rude, so aggressive I rejoiced in the fact that the skies above were once filled with 18 year olds giving up their lives for our future liberty, a liberty that sadly includes pillocks like him being allowed to get away with such nonsense.

May they rest in peace. Perhaps not he.

And so tonight  it is prize-giving dinner.

Tim Gunn: up at 6.00 am seen crouching: fettling our demanding cycles ready for a long day's fright.

Back in the early 1990s on his return from holiday, a boss told me to visit Vietnam as soon as possible ‘before the tourists ruin it’. I wondered what I would be if not a tourist ruining it, and therein lies the great deception that, when in the company of foreign friends we are anything but tourists. France is a foreign country, I’d argue that Germany isn’t. When in Germany I feel as if I’m in a cleaned up ordered version of parts of America, France seems a different culture, hence; a different time.

I was bought up to admire the British OS (Ordnance Survey) maps, but, when in France we settled for the Michelin ES (Expandable Survey) versions, where distances seem to  stretch and bend depending on the mood of the cartographer. How come that last 4 kilometers can seem to last for miles and miles? Yet the first whisk past at the slightest turn-of-pedal? I loved their flimsy yellow covers, I love their ‘collect-the-set’ map of France on the back to  show one the tiny area your particular copy  covered, and I liked their lush colour, their obliteration of detail, far less mechanical and spacious than our OS maps, in a country that appears to boast so much more room. (and far-reaching-views)

Todays’ ride was the best so far, we battled out of the Etap after a Spartan breakfast that would have been considered being put on a ‘special diet’ in Colditz, the drizzle lubricated our bearings and we were off up the N1 trying to get to Montreuil for lunch and… what a road. A surface that would bless Herne hill velodrome, the massive wheels of our Pennies glided (glode?) over the road, traffic was light and the road was straight, as straight as the Romans made ‘em in those days, destroying anything in their path, a bit like the M1 but without the traffic. Thinking of ‘the traffic’ reminded me of that great poster I once saw in London, it said ‘you are not stuck in traffic; you ARE traffic’ like a Banksy koan of great importance, though lost on most drivers I suspect.

Montreuil included omlettes and frites and we were back on the road, off the N1 up a deserted beautiful valley to Devres (past many a Desres) for a swift fortifier. Why on earth do cheating cyclists bother with EPO chemicals? One cup of hot ‘Choky’ and you’re good for another 50 with no trouble at all, it even numbs the pain that rides up through the 25 inch spokes, up the forks, up the spine, over the springs and into the regions of Nether.

Our blessed relief, Saint Tim of Gunn organises the annual Vintage Sports Car Club bicycle ride in Boulogne, has done for years. Whole families have been conceived and have grown up cycling round the ancient Boulogne Grand Prix circuit, now gradually eroded by the A16. The 15 Tabac stops are now down to 4. One is so good I built a replica in our basement at home, kitchen zinc and all. On his ride; after a monstrous picnic on the green at Alincthun one stumbles off into part two only to jettison ones lunch backwards as you experience the sobering MASSIVE hill down to a tight right turn. The hill goes on and on, my penny used to run away with itself, relief all round on reaching the bottom. So here it was again, I welcomed it as one does an old friend only…. This time it was in reverse. I am pleased to say that my tiny 50” wheel out-cheated the hill, I strode over the summit, king of the mountains, demanded the polka dot jersey, feeling right chuffed and grateful for that cup of Choky. Mr. Wiggins take note.

And so to a lovely, lovely B&B in Landrethun De Nord, Juliette is cooking  for us and I’m getting hungry, none of us want to leave for that boat that sales tomorrow….

A medley of wheels at lunchtime, Bob Taylor's 1886 Rudge to the fore

“Into the face of the young man who sat on the terrace of the Hotel Magnique at Cannes there had crept  a look of furtive shame, the shifty, hangdog look that announces that an Englishman is about to talk French”

(The Luck Of The Bodkins, by P. G. Wodehouse)

Bob Dylan gave us ‘Spanish as the loving tongue’ I’d love to ask him, then,  what the French tongue is. It was Napoleon the 3^rd (never mind the 2^nd) that decided that it may be a good idea if all the French spoke the same language, but the local dialects continue to confound his aims and, I am led to believe, The Picardois remains a foreign country.

I am relieved, I could have wasted hours at O and A level ‘French’ only to be snubbed by Parisian waiters and the receiver of perplexed (but helpful) tabac owners in the Picardy region of this great country.

I must recommend Charles Timoney’s book ‘Pardon My French’ the first attempt at describing the French as a language as opposed to a series of ‘correctly pronounced’ words. It will help me no end, but where the bloody hell was this book when I was 14?

‘The Authorities’ (for that read civil servants speeding through the country in their Renault 9’s) have attempted to rid this nation of Picardy, but I have a fine travel guide with me called ‘Peeps Into Picardy’ written in 1914 by three Engleese. They tell you that this is the secret France, the bits that people speed through, and it was updated in 1916, to include a few glossy plates of churches in Abbeville and Albert. Laughably the statue on top of the church at Albert stands erect in the photograph, though there is a disclaimer apologizing for its leaning bent at time of publication.

Dear fellows: picture the scene: Canadian, New Zealand, French and British wallow in the mud, side-by-suicide, the Royal Flying Corps just 300 feet above, shells explode all around, and some pipe smoking Brit with khaki Bhukta rucksack turns up and, despite the thunderous whizz-bangs, asks the way to the Cathedral for to do some brass rubbings, this guide clenched tightly in his hand.

Having  said that: the Brits were great at touring France: long before the ‘French’ were. Perhaps the greatest first attempt at a proper French tour guide was written in the late 19^th Century by two cycling apprentices who did their two year stint around the country, a sort of artisanal National Service. It was called ‘Le Tour De France’ and a nation of cyclists woke up.

This land we pedaled along is littered with the dead, the poppies swayed their heads in sad remembrance and three of our number cut off to Juno and Omaha beaches to see the commemoration of a greater carnage: June the 6^th lest we forget. Yet the bloodshed stretches back to Avignon and Crecy and beyond, one hears ghosts as one cycles, there is no need for the ipod, the larks call from the heavens and I am reminded of the 16^th Century saying “If the sky falls in: we will catch larks” a dear friend recently gave me carved into Dumfries sandstone.

No ipod: no, not needed on board,  but I missed the Gallic balladry of Noir Desir even as a car swung past me, his hi-fi sharing, no banal ‘heep herp’ blaring, but ‘Oxygene’ by Jean Michel Jarre, no less, a tune Edwin found hard to shake from his mind thereafter.

Today a 50 mile saunter was turned into a delightful 75 mile slog: we opted off the 901 for fear of certain death ‘neath lorry and cut through forgotten villages past monumental churches and charolais cattle. Yesterday the French cuisine lightly toasted us, today we were marinated beneath rain: the clouds descended to field level, painting a picture of Somme carnage all too familiar with those that were here, most of whom still are.  Gary Sanderson, with a head full of cold opted for the van after a drenched morning, Glen Norcliffe’s fine Rudge stripped a bolt that can be rectified in the morning but Robert Taylor’s Rudge and my trusty 50” Grafton Compound Roadster Super de-luxe continues to battle ahead, shedding the odd spoke, but no more….

And so now it is time to speak of those discreet exclusive Hotels in France one reads about in the Sunday Papers, but may never attain the giddy heights to enter. Cleverly sequestered on what appeared to be an ‘Industrial Estate’ a “Zone Activite” if you will – our hotel electronically refused us permission to plug in any electrical goods, nor were we allowed to cancel any rooms (due to our chum John Malseed being under the doctor in blighty) and we were given a 6 digit number that opened the door to our Tardis (bigger on the outside) that disallowed even the most curious of celebrity spotters. Ladies and gentlemen: I give you The Etap at Abbeville, book a room at your peril. And I write this without the breakfast experience beneath my belt yet.

Spotted en-route: how a French Farmer adapts a pair of 1890 Rochet Solid Tyre Safety rims into a far more practical use...

Wing Cmndr. Knight and his home made contraption (the building behind him)

The French trains on a Sunday conspired to mess with our military-precision meeting at the foot of Sacre Couer Basilica on top of Montmatre so it was down to Edwin Knight and Cally to lead the charge out of Paris via St. Denis and, er, more St. Denis. Me (Cally) I was reminded of France’s colourful North African Colonial history as we ploughed through housing estates, always cheered on by colourful Magrebians.. Paris still smells of Paris. The enormous heat bounced back at us off the pavements and shockingly bad road surfaces, all deliciously laced with odour de drain, two-stroke and that piquant sting of urine, it was good to be back.

Soon we were out in the suburbs, taking lives in hand as we headed for Chambly up the old N1. The French drivers give you lots of room. I suspect that they are all lapsed or practicing cyclists, the way they indicate move far away from you. The blare of a horn and shout of a window is a tad off-putting: I’m sure we’ll get used to it.

Edwin and I sped down rolling open roads flanked on all sides by the Poplar, both Balsam and Lombardy. The Lombardy avenues were the sort my father pulled up on, on long trips to Switzerland for the much welcomed lunch stop. 3 brothers would fall out of the Ford Consul de-luxe (deluxe? Ha ha) and dad would light a fire the proper way and whittled sticks for sausages (no forks in our family) before  struggling manfully with the primus for kettle-boiling before we set on our way again. The Balsam’s fragrance reminded me of lengthy Canadian trips in the Rockies where Dad would pull over the 1958 Plymouth, light a fire… oh never mind, needless to say, we ate a lot of sausages in those days.

12 of us have managed to convene in Beauvais, a town dwarfed by a bunker-like Cathedral Albert Speer would have deemed ‘ a bit over ze top’ after a half-hour hiatus in Chambly where the rain arrived on cue.. it poured and poured and… went away again just as we decided on a small re-group.

All bikes and riders behaving themselves with gusto.

a spanner, a route book, all a man needs...

…and so to this year’s fool-hardy quest. Personally I blame my recent reading of the Charles Dickens classic, a perfectly symetrical tale of revolution and love with immortal opening and closing lines. Couple this with a need to be in ‘good shape’ to race in the Nocturne Penny Farthing races come saturday the 11th and add in the fact that various American and Canadian riders happen to be in France for the IVCA rally, I thought it only made good manners to ride these ancient steeds from Paris to London over 5 days along the very coach road Darnay took in the book.

I was not surprised to find that, in the year of our lord 1790,  their coach made the journey in similar time, but they had to  climb out to allow the horses to get over Shooters Hill. We won’t have to get off, and there are more differences, besides.

“These are the best of times, these are the worst of times…..” (with apologies to Mr Dickens..)