We made it home.
I have to be honest: we didn’t reach a thousand miles. I’m not going to rehash it but, if you have read the blogs, you know that the ramifications of days 3 and 4 meant we were unlikely to reach one thousand. We were just shy of 950 miles, 945.4 to be precise.
I guess both Malcolm and I could have gone for a 60 mile bike ride at the end but that would have finished us. We just didn’t have a few more miles in us; we were running on empty. You’ll have to decide if that doesn’t meet the challenge.
We left the Premier Inn at Belsize Park – the bar of which seems to be a bit of a hotspot with the locals – and immediately went the wrong way. Not Komoot’s fault; our fault in in the way we read her. Besides, it was depressing cycling down a road with a skateboarder overtaking you.
Komoot led us through some of the most elegant districts of London, such as Kensington and Chelsea. I can see how, if you are minted, London would be a wonderful place in which to live; it may be wonderful for those who have far less money too. We made fairly decent time, although not as far as the boy-racer who was trailing us through Kensington was concerned, then we found ourselves slaloming through the pedestrians, joggers and cyclists of Kensington Gardens, trailing a couple on bikes through Chelsea and crossing Putney Bridge, at which point the traffic slowed to a standstill. We thought the traffic might be like this for several miles and the ‘Give cyclists space’ signs appeared to be a twisted joke for streets so narrow. Yet when we reached Wimbledon, the traffic was far more manageable. Wimbledon Common looked parched but Wimbledon itself offered some gentle descents that certainly helped the legs. It was not long before we reached Epsom Downs and the hills began (I think they are a little north of the main Surrey Hills). My older brother phoned me on one steep ascent but there was no way I could answer the phone on that climb and keep going.
Soon we were in the Surrey hills proper with lots of pro-cyclists. We seemed to climb and climb as we headed towards our destination (Dorking), which left me with the feeling that Dorking must be like some Alpine village on a mountainous plateau where the air was thinner. There were some glorious views but the downhill descents were seriously worrying at times and twice, I almost came off due to cracked road surfaces and potholes, leading me to ride the brakes and leave any glorious footage un-filmed.
Komoot was excellent and led us into the outskirts of Dorking and the chicken roundabout – you’ll know it when you see it. Then Malcolm became a little disorientated and took a moment to find his way to his brother, Andrew. Andrew and his family kindly fed and watered us and it was delightful to have rest in the shade from the fatiguing heat of the sun.
Andrew was going to see us out of Dorking and we had a choice: follow the dual carriageway (nope) or take smaller wooded roads up into the hills to Ockley. The ascents were punishing and then we came across a motorcyclist blocking the road. Up ahead, a cyclist had come off his bike and was lying prone across the road. Several people were already helping him and the man was conscious and talking to Malcolm. As he was being well-tended, we carried on up to more hill summits. Eventually the downhills arrived and offered stunning views. Due to heavy use, the buttons on the camera can become stiff (it recorded 32 minutes of my groin and pistoning legs at one point and that is footage absolutely no-one needs to see), I tried to push the button on to record a view and almost ran into a verge, and then over-compensated and had to lurch back to avoid a motorcyclist – that was the only time I felt I was a bit complacent with the camera, and it wouldn’t happen again.
The downhills quickly brought us onto the Roman road of Stane Street, running from London to Chichester, and then the linear village of Ockley, with its attractive houses and long, beautiful village green. And that’s where Andrew left us. There were many miles to go to Chichester and this was definitely our mid-ride slump. The long straight Roman road offered good riding but the destinations seemed so far apart: Five Oaks, Billingshurst and Pulborough. Malcolm was falling behind and, to be honest, the thought of home, seemed to make both our legs weaker, as if we were unplugging our energy early and our bodies were expecting to coast home. There were plenty of hills to come and very little coasting, especially under the relentless sun.
In the broad meadows to the south of Pulborough, we contacted everyone to tell them we would be later than our estimated time. I can’t speak for Malcolm but I felt I was on exhausted, old man ‘s legs and home was a dangling carrot but on a stick so long, I might just be trounced by the challenge.
At Fittleworth, we briefly stopped at The Swan Inn for two pints of lime and soda and some food. It was just enough to boost, if not totally revive us. The hills to the Petworth road punished us but, in the distance, was the looming monster of Duncton Hill. For most of the climb, I could not look up, as to see how little progress I was making would have utterly defeated me, but I did reach the top and waited for Malcolm by a farm gate. A few moments later, he emerged from the bend and explained how the road surface had caused him to fall onto the verge about two-thirds of the way up. Three cars passed him in his fallen state but no-one checked on him.
We had some fabulous valley riding in a stunning golden hour and then one long shallow hill left up to the junction above Slindon woods where there is a right turn towards Goodwood racecourse. I hugged Malcolm then, whether he wanted to or not, because, other than a few kickers, we had defeated the hills. The subsequent downhill is fast and goes on for about two miles, cooling the body wonderfully.
I was enjoying the downhill when I heard my name being called. My older brother, Ben, was waiting in a layby but, as soon as I applied the brakes, he shouted ‘No, don’t stop’. Home was near and I tapped into the last of my reserves, pelting down the roads to Halnaker and Westhampnett.
At one point, Ben and I were talking and Malcolm was enjoying the double drafting of both our bikes. Into Chichester, across the cycle lane at the bottom of the Litten War Memorial Green and into Priory Road by Priory Park. Ben told us to stop while he alerted the reception party. But, when we rode on, we came across Malcolm’s wife, Lorri, and his son, Ollie – of course, we were going to stop and greet them. Into North Street and then cheering beside the assembly rooms and a finish line of flags. Not keen on the attention, Malcolm lagged behind but no way was I going to cross the finish line in front of him.
It all becomes a little hazy then. Greeting all sorts of kind people, family and friends, but not seeing my wife or my son, until I almost stumbled across them. We had a few moments with the photographer, balanced precariously on a planter, taking pictures of Malcolm and I with what seemed like everyone. If you happened to be passing by North Street then, we probably had our picture taken with you. We were home.
Whilst talking about cycling to the custodian of the assembly rooms, Tim, I spotted a bike with our panniers being ridden away, and not by Malcolm. I gave chase for about 10 feet before it dawned on me that the cyclist was Ollie cycling home Malcolm’s bike. In truth, I hadn’t thought about what to do with my bike. I suppose I could have left it at my mother’s house but my family insisted on winding me up by suggesting I cycle it home.
As I unpacked the bike, Roama, to put it into our car, I kissed her and thanked her. She could fall apart now and I would still keep her: she has gone from John o’Groats to the south coast with me and now has taken me up and down England (and partly North Wales).
Getting home, I wanted to find out everyone else’s news but they all wanted to discuss the challenge. I cannot foresee another one on this scale… but never say never, I guess.
In an attempt to gain more exposure and traction for the challenge and the charities, I have tried a social media experiment by producing what I thought was lots of content for Instagram and, it was hoped, a little more money, as well as trying to produce videos of the days and the blog. But I’m not sure how successful I have been in this. After three-and-a-half hours sleep on one of the earlier nights of the ride, I realised I just could not keep up with the demands of all of these strands and had to jettison the videos, which took the longest to produce. I still intend to create videos for each day but I am well aware that, with the event over, this is likely to be an archive for Malcolm and myself, rather than engaging people. Besides, neither Malcolm nor myself like our faces and voices on camera.
We were seven years younger when we did JogChi (John o’ Groats to Chichester) than we are today and there is not doubt our recovery time is longer – sadly, we are older men. The Roman roads challenge has been longer and tougher than JogChi. That said, I am pleased with our determination and resilience to get the challenge done both physically and a mentally; sometimes willpower can propel the mechanical functions of the body onwards, especially when the road goes ever on and on…
Thank you to Stonepillow and The Pallant House Gallery, particularly Flo, Hilary and Liv. Thank you to Clare Apel and Martyn Bell, as well as Harriet and Kieron, for facilitating the opportunity to attempt this challenge. Thank you to my son, Dan for the photos and poster design. Thank you to my daughter, Jess, for running a lot of my social media. Thank you to Dale for the laptop. Thank you to Kateryna from The Guilty Cyclist (the shorts I bought from her are my favourite cycling shorts) for being so generous with our nutrition and paying for the servicing of our bikes – The Guilty Cyclist is worth a visit, particularly if you have a dog. Thanks to Alex from Fettle. Thanks to Malcolm’s friend, Chris, for helping us understand how to manage the bikes better. Thank you to anyone we met, friends and strangers, who talked to us or helped us. Thanks to our wives and children for letting us go on this “unhinged” (as Lorri Meaby called it) challenge. Thank you to everyone who donated any sum whatsoever and thank you to you for reading these blogs or following the social media.
The road no longer calls. Maybe someone else will take up the challenge in the future.
But this is Justin and Malcolm saying farewell and thanks for coming along for the ride.
Rogues of the Roman Roads 