Home in time for 1993.
Posted: Sun Nov 09, 2014 6:16 pm
In December 1992, Myself and a friend had gone out to Chamonix. We'd been “employed” to decorate an apartment, and the initial plan was to sub let said apartment once it was decorated. Suffice to say that finding people to share the apartment was not as easy as had been hoped. We were expected to pay an amount to the landlord, and it soon became apparent that the sums just didn't add up. I decided to bail and head back for the UK.
I had a mountain bike that I'd picked up in Chamonix for getting to the crags. I decided that I'd ride it back home. I spent a couple of days getting the bike ready and paring down my gear to a minimum. I had a 1-2 season sleeping bag, and a myog bivy. To finish off my sleeping system, I bought a survival blanket, which with some pebbles, and paracord I created a tarp.
Early on Xmas day I left the apartment with a plan to be back in the UK by New Year Eve. Roughly 600 miles of riding and 6 days too do it.
From Chamonix there is a long descent down towards Sallanches. Even though I was wearing all my clothes including a proper down jacket, heading down the hill I recall I was shivering. There was snow on the ground, and the temperature was well below freezing.
I warmed up somewhat on the road to Geneva but once into the Jura hills, there was freezing fog, and I remember putting my down jacket back on, even though I was riding up a big hill. I felt out of place. The people I did see out and about as I passed through the little villages, were going for their fancy Xmas dinners. All dressed in their Sunday best and carrying beautifully wrapped presents. I was in another world though. My Xmas dinner was to be a few handfuls of nuts and raisins, stale baguette and cheese.
I rode until dark, got into my bivy bag fully clothed, and fired up the stove. Supper was a packet of angel's pubes (a fine pasta noodle) and bouillon cube. As would be the case for the next few days, I'd be asleep by 7pm and would wake around dawn. Ride, sleep, repeat.
I managed for the first 3 days to keep up my 100 miles a day as forecast, but a mountain bike with chunky tyres was proving to be hard work on the road. I think I was averaging around 10mph. On day 4 one of my knees flared up badly, and my speed dropped. There was one particlular section which consisted of miles of rollers, not big hills, but it was impossible to maintain a rhythm and reduce the pain in my knee. That night I crawled into my pit. The sign on the chemist Id just passed said It was -12C. The last few days had taken their toll I was cold and hardly slept.
Next morning was another cold grey one. Spirits weren't lifted either by finding I had actually been asleep in the entrance to a cemetery. My knee was sore before I'd even got on the bike, and after a couple of hours, it became clear that riding the rest of the way was not going to be an option. I was intent on getting home though to see my folks.
These days, I'd find the nearest train station. Back then I travelled on the cheap though. Hitchhiking was my usual means of long distance travel when not cycling. There was the small problem of what to do with the bike though. It was nothing special, it had cost little, but I couldn't bring myself to leave it behind.
I rode painfully slowly to a motorway service station. Once there I had my first proper hot meal in several days. Revived, I took my tools out, and proceeded to almost completely dismantle the bike. With the paracord I secured the bike into a package which I then wrapped in my tarp. I reckoned it would fit in a car boot no problem.
I didn't have to wait long before someone nearly stopped to give me a lift, that is until they saw the size of my package. :)
Back in the day there was a hitchiking strategy where a pretty girl would wave down a car. When the driver stopped a boyfriend would appear from nearby bushes. I used a variant on the theme.
I chucked the bike in the undergrowth, and when the next car stopped and I'd ascertained he was going the right way I dragged out the bike saying can I chuck this in the boot. This worked.
A few lifts, a ferry, and I was soon back in the UK.
My last bivy of the trip was in Folkestone, my “tarp” was thankfully not needed, as it due to its alternative use was full of holes. A good nights sleep was had apart from being woken up early by the police.
I can't remember the details of the UK journey, but I did make it back to Leeds on New Years Eve as I'd hoped.
