Darlington to Vienna for Autism

The Route

2008-12-04T10:57:00.001Z

Here is the approximate route we plan to take. I'm sure there will be many changes as the planning process goes on and I expect there will be a few detours for various reasons - primarily lunch! The map is interactive so give it a moment to load.

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I've archived the rest of the blog in order to speed up loading. You'll find it all under 'blog archive' on the right hand side.

Blighty

2008-12-03T18:03:00.001Z

Setting off from the Education Village was an emotional affair - after months of preparation and training, the time came to say goodbye to everyone and what a turnout! It was lovely to see so many friends, The Worshipful Mayor of Darlington and of course children of the village. There were many photographs taken and I began to get very nervous as the time to leave approached - rituals that were to become second nature were gone through for the first time - the smearing of the Vaseline amongst them - and I began to contemplate the absurd distance ahead of me. I climbed into Myfanwy to change and it was a haven of quiet - I wanted to sit down and stay there - the noise and chatter outside began to make me anxious and I knew I had to move now or I was sunk. Back outside the clamour fills my head and I begin to feel sick – more photographs – I straddle my bike, Becky tells me how proud she is of me, I want to stay and I want to go. “Will you cycle round the roundabout once so we can get some cycling photo’s?” I say I will but as I push down on the pedals for the first time I know that I can’t and head straight down the drive and out into the road. I wave once and then: “It’s just you and me now Jamie.”
I wonder: should I have stayed longer, should I have said a few words of thanks? But I’m glad to be away at last and at home on my bike.

The Worshipful the Mayor of Darlington - Councillor Ian G Haszeldine.

The weather is good, and after getting through the Darlington traffic, I head out into familiar countryside on a route I've done many times before. I meet Phil and Jenny in Easingwold and get some massive sandwiches from the deli' for lunch. Fortunately we've all watched the David Attenborough programmes avidly and as a consequence are able to dislocate our lower jaws in the manner of cow eating snakes, which is fortunate since our sandwiches are indeed the size of a medium sized ruminant.
Jaw back in place and stomach swaying from side to side I head off again – perhaps a little slower than before but nonetheless in good spirits.

At the end of this, the first day I have reached Pocklington, (or Pock, to the locals) and I’ve covered 72.3 miles. I meet up with P & J again and as we begin to load the bike onto Myfanwy I’m stopped by an old lady who kindly gives me a couple of pounds for the charity.
We’ve decided that since it is not far, we’ll drive home and spend the night there rather than pitch up in Pock’, so there’s a good deal of confusion when I rock up at my local bar in the evening.

Sat 24th May (day 2)

The second day sees me heading through the slightly less familiar countryside of the Yorkshire Wolds and there are one or two stiff-ish climbs that take me by surprise. I pass through the ancient market town of Market Weighton, a place with a colourful history of giants and witches – one of whom, Peg Fyfe, reputedly skinned a local youth alive in the 1660s. Hanged for the crime, she swallowed a spoon to save herself but upon escape was hacked to bits by two passing knights – so not a good day for her.

The first major landmark of the trip is the Humber Bridge which I’ve been looking forward to crossing but it proves more elusive than I’d imagined and I get lost within sight of it’s towers. The delay is frustrating but soon I’m on the bridge and the wind that had been against me changes direction, increases tenfold and whoops me across at brake melting speed. I should have made the most of it since it’s not long before I’m battling into the wind again, and as the landscape flattens out it gets stronger and stronger. We meet up for lunch in the prettily named Barnetby le Wold; It’s name by far and away the prettiest thing about it. There don’t appear to be any restaurants or pubs open so we sit in Myfanwy. So. Pasta for lunch then!
It begins to rain in the afternoon but I’m not worried – it’ll pass over and we are heading south. What with the wind and the rain it is quite a hard afternoon and I’m pleased to finish the day in Hemingby with another 72.5 miles behind me, sore legs and an aching bum – more Vaseline needed!

Jenny has arranged for us to park up in the car park of the Coach and Horses pub. Good Lass! So, after a shower and change we head in for dinner, noticing as we do that the pub holds a couple of ‘Tastes of Lincolnshire’ awards. Here’s a tip: If you’re ever tempted to have a nibble of Lincolnshire – resist! If this is the best, there must be some pretty rotten stuff out there. Anyway, the beer’s good so we get plenty of it down our necks and misguidedly top it off with a bottle of the ‘House’. Who’s going to be waking everyone up in the middle of the night?

A hot day for the Lincolnshire newshounds.

Sun 25th May

We stayed in the car park of the Coach and Horses pub in Hemingby last night and it's from here I set off into the wind once more, bound for Boston where we stop for a loo visit and some breakfast. If I'd thought the wind was a problem I now find it has started to rain and boy, does it rain! Now you'd think, as I did, that things can't get worse. Just as this comforting idea is formulating in my mind I get a puncture.........Bugger! Phil and I spend what seems like hours fixing the damned thing whilst hiding from the weather in the lea of a village hall and then I'm off again. I manage about four miles when I get.............Another puncture. The rain continues to lash down and the wind continues to whip across the endless miles of bugger all and Jenny and I sit glumly in the steamed up Myfanwy whilst poor Phil changes the tube and tyre. We have some pasta for lunch and sit on whilst the rain drums on the roof.

We try to sit it out but after an hour or so it becomes obvious that I will have to set off again and I'm getting pissed off with wet lycra. On and on; water pouring off my waterproof top and running down into my shoes. It runs down my face and mixes with snot, turning me into a kind of cycling slug and the landscape is remorselessly flat. FLAT. Did I say flat? Well I meant FLAT. I finish the day in Chatteris

In the restaurant - Chatteris

In Chatteris we go in search of somewhere to eat. There are two or three restaurants and pubs along what appears to be the main street so we split up and recce the joint. Jenny recons she’s found the ideal spot – well I think that’s what she said! So in we go. It’s a funny little place – half pub, half restaurant, we get some drinks, plonk ourselves down in some leather armchairs and grow stubble whilst the woman behind the bar decides whether to bring us menus or not; we give up and collect our own. It’s an odd menu, and even odder, I notice is a line at the bottom saying, ‘We do not serve tap water!’ What the hell is that about? After ordering we’re taken through to the restaurant where we order wine and, of course, tap water. The young waitress disappears and returns with the wine and a nervous tick.
“I’m sorry, we don’t serve tap water” She says.
“Why not?” I snap. “It’s not as if there isn’t plenty of the stuff about”.
She squirms with embarrassment and says she doesn’t know; she’s new. This sort of answer cuts no ice with me at all, but I can see I’m in a minority of one – Phil and Jenny clearly feel sorry for her and I soon begin to see their point. She’s as pleasing to look at as a Sumo’s gusset and she’s far from the brightest star in the firmament, so we let it go.
What possible reason can there be for a restaurant not to serve tap water; other than to mug its customers? We are allowing ourselves to be conned and dictated to by silly fashionistas who think that an exorbitantly costly bottle of French bog water looks more sophisticated than a jug of the recently precipitated with ice. Well think again!

Monday 26th May (Bank Holiday) Spitting on to rain!

First sight of a windmill. No, not in Holland, but in Suffolk A beautiful day as we enter EssexA lovely view of Harwich ferry terminal from my bedroom window on Myfanwy. This is where we spent the night. Below that, the ferry, and finaly, boarding.
Also. I'd like to thank the guys I've met on the cycle ways of Holland and Germany. send me your emails, I'll reply when possible and thanks for your kind comments.

Holland

2008-12-02T18:02:00.000Z

Holland
I can't remember where the photo below was taken but I like its balance so I'm putting it in..... O.k. so it's a bit arty farty but get used to it ..... it's my blog and I'll farty if I want to.
Anyway, here we are - on the continent. Well you know what they say - Harwich for the continent - Ripon for the incontinent.......................Sorry!
We docked at Hook of Holland this afternoon and we've made it as far as Dordrecht. On arrival Jenny throws a bit of a wobbly and refuses to look round the place, so Phil and I go for a bit of a wander. I'm excited to be in a foreign country at last and I like the look of the place. We return to Myfanwy and look for somewhere to stay.
We're in a great campsite in the outskirts of the town/city? and in celebration we've garlanded half the site with my gaily fluttering washing, cheering up the other campers no end. We plan to head into town for some food. By accident we stumble across a brilliant place called the Grand-cafe Boekmans which serves really good, simple food and good wine, but it is without doubt the service which makes the place what it is. The waitresses are smiley and chatty and enjoy using English - they even have a menu in English - Ein Englische Karte - Needless to say we have a great time and I'd go back like a shot.
This is a view of Dordrecht.

Holland, as many of you may know, has a tendency towards the flat. And as you can see, not only are the roads flat but they are unchallenging in the steering department too. This piece of straight went on for at least fifteen miles! Despite an unpromising landscape, this is a country I really like. The people we meet are unfailingly friendly and love to speak English and I would very much have liked to speak Dutch back to them, even if only a few words but we are here for such a very short time.And then of course, there are canals. They carry the biggest barges I have ever seen and they are still very much used for carrying commercial goods, thereby freeing up the roads, though the one below may have seen better days.
My first ferry crossing - The first of many. Notice the cycle route: These are all over the place here and it does make for safe cycling. Some of the routes are by the side of roads and quite a few are separate and make for easy, quiet cycling. The attitude to bikes is different here - they are a legitimate means of transport, rather than an oddity. Wed 28th May

Not the best of days. Set off from Dortrecht this morning and got as far as Woudrichem where I had to catch a ferry across the river; I waited 45 minutes only to be told it was the wrong ferry and I would have to catch a smaller one up river. After half an hour's searching I found a small boat tethered to a jetty but the place was deserted I wandered about shouting and getting very cross when the ferryman appears. He’s the most surly, monosyllabic old ……..I’ve had the misfortune to be afloat with and is clearly employed to prove the rule. I pay the man and cycle off in a huff, past the unremarkable Schloss Loevestein and on for a few miles until I get a puncture. Aaaaaagh! Phil comes to meet me and we fix it but as I reach Beneden-Leeuwen where we are scheduled to have lunch it becomes clear that there are further problems with the bike. Bizarrely and very fortunately, since this is a small place there is a bike shop. Phil borrows some tools to affect a repair but it soon becomes clear that the problem is more serious so it’s back to the shop. Michelle, the owner, sends me across the road to the workshop where his Father is hard at work surrounded by bikes – he doesn’t look pleased to see me.
“Er, hello”. I say. “Did your son phone to say I was coming?”
“Yessss”.
“I have a bit of a problem”.
“And now I suppose your problem is going to be my problem”.
It’s not a promising start and I stand around nervously for what seems an age until he’s finally ready to look at my bike…..Apparently it’s his first day back after his holiday and the work has piled up.

Michelle

Arnold in his workshop
We get chatting and he begins to thaw a bit.
“It could be bad news”. He says. “Or it could be very bad”.
It turns out that Arnold worked on the Dutch national cycling team’s bikes in his younger days and he’s been doing the job for 44 years. He clearly knows what he’s about. He dismantles the rear hub, sucks his teeth, tuts, changes the bearings and various worn out bits and pieces and then begins to check the rest of the bike.
“Where you are going you will need new brake pads”. He says worryingly but by now I know I’m in good hands and we’re getting on well. When the time comes to pay, he and Michelle insist on giving us discount and we shake hands warmly. If you’re ever in the area even without your bike, pop in to ‘Geer Tweewielers’, they are great people.
We push on to Nijmegen.

A genuine dutch windmill.Here's a barge that doesn't move.

And here's one that does!

Our second and final night in Holland is spent at an all singing & dancing campsite outside the town of Groesbeek, near Nijmegen. The showerblock is a memorably misguided extravaganza of Trompe l'oeil and lurid coloured plastic plants, but the facilities are good and we are able to wash all my cycling kit as well as ourselves. Also, when the campsite owner learns that we are raising money for autism he waives the whole fee. Good man! The weather has improved a bit so we can sit outside the bar near the campsite entrance and contemplate tomorrow and Germany. I think the border can only be a couple of Km.

My time in Holland was far too short and I'll be returning for a longer visit soon. It struck me as an open, tollerant and fun-loving society and though the landscape can be a little monotonous the towns and cities are lovely. Also, we found a great wine bar in Dordrecht called the Book Bar or Library Bar or something like that,so if anyone from there reads this- email me the details would you - you were all great. And the girl that served us our drinks and meal smiled a lot - not something I was to witness often over the next week or two.

Germany

2008-12-01T18:02:00.000Z

Germany
The early part of our journey through Germany follows the valley of the mighty Rhine. Huge barges pligh thier trade up and down its length. They seem to carry vast amounts of cargo ranging from coal to cars and that must make a significant difference to the amount of trucks on the road since many of them are piled high with containers.

I suppose it was inevitable that it would happen sometime, but that it should have been such a nightmare! We stop for lunch in the pretty little town of Xanten and as we do so the heavens open. I leave my bike chained to the railings outside the restaurant and we enter the strange old fashioned world of the German middle

Rain through the restaurant window; Xanten.classes - they don't seem overly pleased to see us – there’s a woman sitting opposite me with a face on, and when I get up to go to the loo everyone looks as though they’re sucking lemons for lunch! We choose from a menu that is to become all too familiar over the next couple of weeks - heavily biased towards pork which is odd because throughout the trip I don't see a single pig. Where do they keep them? I sit, damp and shivering, wondering what's going on at home. After lunch I leave my all too familiar calling card – a bum shaped damp patch and head back out into the rain. The day drags on and I cross the Rhine and find myself in the hideous, industrial conurbation that is Duisburg. The place is ghastly with heavy traffic, terrible signage and bridges everywhere so that it’s not long before I’m totally disorientated, and I can’t find anyone who speaks English. I ride through dirty grey streets, past miles of railway sidings and factories for what seems like an age, never really knowing where I am and I feel tired and stressed. One dour satellite town joins another until finally I begin to see fields again. I reach a village called Ungelsheim and ring Phil:
“Where are you?” He says.
“I’m in Ungelsheim”.
“We’re at the campsite on the other side of the river”.
“I’m tired and my phone’s running out of battery and it’s beginning to get dark”.
“I don’t know how to get across the river”. He says.
I’m incensed and snap my phone shut; partly because I’m so cross and partly to save the battery.
“FIND A FUCKING BRIDGE!” I shout; at no-one in particular, and cycle on.
I re-join the river and eventually spot a ferry – it’s across the other side so I wait……and wait. It doesn’t take too long to realise that they’ve stopped for the day and it is getting darker and I have no lights, and I can see things are going badly. Back on the riverside path I see a huge bridge in the distance and pedal like mad; and the path gets narrower and narrower and grassier and grassier and runs out. “Bugger!”
I re-trace my route and finally make it to the bridge – it is enormous, with a dual carriageway crossing it and two cycle paths. Cars and lorries thunder past - all with their lights on. I cross the bridge and ring Phil.
“Where’s the campsite?”
“We’ve left the campsite”.
“Well where are you then?”
“Ungelsheim”.
“Oh Fffff. Look, I’m on this great big bridge across the Rhine; It can’t be far from the campsite; my battery is about to give out.”
“We’ll be there in ten minutes”. Says Phil. And then my phone battery runs out “Oh Great!”
I hang around in the increasing gloom for 20 minutes and no-one appears. I’m fighting a rising tide of panic and I cycle back across the bridge – nothing! Back across the bridge again and I realise that even if they do turn up they won’t be able to stop on a motorway so I leave the bridge and join the riverside path.
“But what if they’ve turned up on the bridge?”
Back on the bridge and there’s no-one there and the panic has taken hold. I try to think rationally and leave the bridge once more. I ask a couple of people on the path if there are any campsites by the river. One tells me there’s nothing to the north but 4 or 5 Kilometres to the south there is a site; and the other tells me the exact opposite – I head south. After a few minutes hard cycling I come across the campsite and spend ten minutes dragging my bike and stumbling through the thick undergrowth trying to find the entrance……..It’s the wrong site. The campers are having a great time on the jollily lit veranda of the campsite bar but there’s no sign on Myfanwy. I’m devastated. I try not to look too wretched as I pass the bar on the way out. What now? I’m in a country where I don’t speak the language, I have no money, no friends, no phone and it is now dark
There’s nothing for it; I pick on the first two people I see, fling myself weeping at their feet and with little hope of a positive reply:
“Sprechen sie Englisch?” I say.
“Actually I speak very good English.” Says the woman - in very good English. I could have hugged her there and then.
They introduce themselves as Carmela and Peter.
I tell them all my woes and Carmela says;
“No problem – you can ring your friends from my mobile.”
“I’m afraid it’s not as easy as that”. I say. “You see, their number’s on my phone and the battery has run out.”
“Is there no-one else you can ring?”
“Well, there’s my wife”, I say hesitantly, “But she’s in England.”
“It’s fine.” She says and hands me her phone.
Phone calls zip backwards and forwards through the ether and we wait for contact from Phil
“We were just going to a bar for a drink”, Says Peter, “Why don’t you come with us and wait there.”
“Well, I’d love to, but you see: I spent all my money at lunchtime.”
Once again it is no problem and we spend a lovely, and hugely relieved, half an hour together sitting in a bar called Sonnendeck, sipping our cold beers and waiting for Phil and Jenny to arrive.
Thank you both, you were utterly brilliant and I look forward to meeting again soon - though under less trying circumstances!
P.S. It turned out that Phil and Jenny had been waiting for me on another bridge entirely……Ah well, all’s well that….etc.

Reunited at the end of a very long day!

I will write more over the next couple of days and hopefully put it on the net when we reach Wurtzburg.

Many, many thanks for all your texts, calls and encouragement. Keep the coming

Much love to all............David

The Dom, Cologne

Great pub at Poll near Koln
Railway station at Bingen Cooling down in Rudesheim - What! it's not raining?

Phil praying to mecca in Worth. Thats the wrong way Phil!
Oberwesel
And here are Phil and Jenny at last night's campsite in Worth - Jenny appears to be picking her nose! No. She's not really.........
View over the river from our pitch in Worth. Tues 3rd June 11.44 pm
I'm sitting in a hotel room for the first time on this trip. it's been a very long day and I've notched up 102 miles from a little village called Worth, a few Km to the west of Wertheim, to Ansbach. We couldn't find a camp site in the area so, by about 8pm we decided to abandon the search and book in to the first hotel we could find. This place is called the Weinstube in Lichtenau and the delightful owners are looking after us wonderfully.

The whole journey has been dogged by bad weather and rain means punctures. the worst I've had is three in one day so when today dawned bright and sunny I was hoping for the best, particularly with such a long day ahead. After 80 miles we stopped at a touristy, but handsome town called Rothenburg, where we had coffee and the best cake I've ever tasted and we spent a long time discussing whether or not to press on to Ansbach; it was four 'o' clock and I was tired, but in the end I decided to press on. Within five miles I get a puncture. I think it's the law in Germany that I have one every day!

Thursday 5th June. 11.30am

I'm sitting in a sunlit square in Regensburg watching the world go by. This is my first day off from the lycra, Vaseline and bottled food as, after riding 190 miles in two days we are ahead of schedule and this means that I can sit around in internet cafes drinking coffee and eating cake. I've never been a great fan of cake in the past but Germany has given me an unexpected taste for it: in the first place, they do make exceptional cake, and in the second place, sadly, our experience of the other food on offer has been dismal; most of it consisting of flattened pork steaks covered in bucket loads of gooey sauce.

A massively tall nun is strolling by licking an ice cream.

There is a quiet, Sunday feeling to Regensburg and it is the most relaxed place since we left Holland. Phil and Jenny are off doing thier own thing and I've had a pleasant, slow morning. I had a look in the Dom St' Peter and fealt immediately at home: the sights, smells and sounds are those of Ripon Cathedral though on a smaller scale and there was a service going on and these are the same in any language.
Friday 6th June. 16.24

Pulled in to today’s campsite about half an hour ago; P& J have already set up camp. We’re in a little village by the Danube called Muhlau about 30Km from Passau and the Austrian border. When I arrive Jenny is in a hurry to show me the showers which are spacious and self contained. I’ve really had quite enough of the sound of half a dozen Germans belching, farting, hawking and spitting in the mornings to last me well into my next lifetime which, having written this, I will have to spend as a Lederhosen moth! I’m pretty sure that when I go for a morning shower, I do so silently, but these guys can make more noise than an Autobahn full of HGVs.
I left Regensburg this morning and travelled down the Danube (or Donau) via Straubing, where there was a market and I bought a fishcake sandwich from a kiosk (I know it sounds odd but it was good), I would have liked to spend more time in Straubing – it looks an interesting town but Vienna calls; then on to Bogen and Deggendorf, neither of which seemed to have much to recommend them. By the time I get to the camp site I’ve covered 73.4 miles which for a gentle day is enough.

As we get further south it becomes increasingly obvious that Catholicism plays a large part in the lives of the people here: There are large, roadside crucifixes dotted all over the place, often with votive offerings, as you would expect to find in Mediterranean countries though not necessarily here in Germany. But along side this is what I can only imagine to be a pagan rite where most of the villages have enormously tall maypoles, some of which have what appear to be heraldic shields attached to them, but some have baby clothes, dolls and prams hanging from them and a figure of a Stork! It’s more like being in Albania than in a modern European country.

Sat 7th June. 13.50

I'm sitting in yet another internet cafe, this time in Passau on the German/Austrian border. I arrived here this morning at about 11.00am, about half an hour after the inevitable puncture. I had a good ride into town with two cyclists I met en-route - Tony and Auguste who kept me entertained on the way in with lively chat. I know they'll be watching the football tonight so good luck to your team guys and enjoy the beer and chips!

Above: Auguste and Tony when we parted company in Passau.

This is an all too familiar sight. My trusty steed taken through Myfanwy's back window at the campsite near Passau.
Confluence of the rivers Inn and Danau - PassauCampsite restaurant, Passau. It looks like I'm drinking beer but I'm just holding it for a friend.Well, between the thunder showers the sun is shining and it seems a shame to spend the day in the cafe when a new and interesting city awaits exploration.

Austria

2008-11-30T18:01:00.000Z

Passau is a beautiful city with much to arrest the attention. It is comfortable, cosmopolitan and relaxed and I would like to return here when I have more time to enjoy it. I haven't spent a great deal of time looking at 'sights' partly due to time constraints and partly because it is no way to get to know a country since you spend your time mixing with other travellers. I'm pleased to say I made an exeption to this in the case of the Dom St' Stephen in Passau: what an extraordinary building. The outside grabs your attention from the off with it's onion domed towers but it is the inside that staggers - it is the hight of Baroque and then some. The sound of my jaw hitting the stunningly tiled floor was drowned out by the 'biggest organ in the world', the cocophony of sound and vision overwhelming. To try and describe the experience is way beyond my capabilities so I will just post the photos I took and hope they convey some of it's splendour.

We left Passau and Germany by crossing the river Inn which flows down at a great rate from the Alps.

Looking back to Germanyand forward to Austria And so, entered Austria.

Sun 8th June. Outside the Pizzaria Casa Vecchia, Ottensheim. We're staying just outside this little town in the wierdest campsite in all Austria (well I hope it is!). The pitches are dark and overhung with too many trees, and people seem to be living in semi-derelict caravans surrounded by small, obsesively trimmed box hedges and gardens full of gnomes. The roofs of the caravans clearly no longer waterproof, they have errected canopies over them in order to keep out the rain. Our fellow campers look like 1970's holidaying Russians - Speedos, almost completely hidden by beer bellies, tattoos and long, lank hair tied up in pony tails, and the men look bad too. They don't seem overly pleased to see us and I'm sure they're watching us through the net curtains. Trips to the spider infested hell-hole laughingly called the Shower Block will be kept to a bare minimum.

Glad to escape, we walk into the little town of Ottensheim and what a surprise: it couldn't be more different. A smart, pleasing town with a chic little market - expensive clothes, pottery, glass. There are bars and cafes dotted around the square so of course - we go for a beer and then end up in a Pizzaria with great food and really good service; we sit outside and have a lovely time. But all good things have to come to an end and as it begins to get dark we head back to Royston Vasey and the gardens full of 'precious things' We lock the doors securely!

Barking at the Moon (cloud formation on the way back to the campsite)

Mon 9th June

It was to be a short ride today since we are well ahead of schedule but I set off from our weird campsite at Ottensheim early, little knowing what a strange day it was to be. After long discussions and much thought I’d decided not to visit the site of the camp at Mauthausen as it would have put a cloud over the final part of the trip. Within the first few miles I got a puncture, which was easily mended at the roadside and I head towards Linz. I thought I might get some late breakfast in Linz but it turned out to be an unprepossessing place in a heavily industrialised area so I pushed on and got another puncture………in Mauthausen;

I change the tube – again, buy a new one from a bike shop, just in case, and resume my journey, only to discover I’ve left my sunglasses behind. It’s just not my day! On the road again and the Danube accompanies me through some beautiful, wooded countryside and after 50 miles I reach our destination for the day: Grein.
A small, agreeable town, Grein sits on a bend in the Danube below steeply wooded hills and as I arrive the sun is beaming down. Phil, Jenny and I have a light lunch, pop into town to do a bit of shopping for dinner and have a cooling beer and then, as we walk home Bang! I didn’t know what it was at first – the bang was loud, and then the pain struck me. Though I’d been on the pavement, the wing mirror of a passing van had smashed into my arm; God knows what the driver was doing but he must have been almost on the footpath. The wing mirror bounces down the road as Phil sets off on foot after the van and with great presence of mind gets a photo of the number plate. At this, the van stops. The driver comes over and wants to take me to the doctor, I’m persuaded to go. Somehow, and my memory of events is a bit hazy, I end up in an ambulance being attended to by two cheerful young guys who turn out to be utterly brilliant;
they take me to a doctor and then on to the hospital 30kms away in Amstetten for Xray. The two lads – Markus and Dominik remain with me the whole time, doing the translations when necessary and going through the paperwork. We laugh and joke and learn a little about each other’s lives and we become friends for the day. After a short time I’m told by Ralf, the duty doctor, that nothing is broken and I’m bandaged up and allowed to go. Back in the ambulance we return to Grein; a short interview at the police station follows and then back to our camp site, still in the ambulance. Everyone involved treated me with great good humour and kindness and I hope they read this and accept my thanks; I wish you all good fortune.
So, here I am, the following morning, bandaged from wrist to armpit, looking like a trainee mummy. I took some mega pain killers last night which knocked me out cold and this morning I’m feeling rested and fit (if a little sore). I will give the bike a brief ride round the campsite later to see how it feels and all being well, will set off again tomorrow. In the meantime I’m going to sit in the sun, eat, drink and generally have a lazy day.

Wed 11th June 15.30

Klosterstuberl restaurant, Krems, Austria.

Something extraordinary has just happened: I’ve just had the worst meal of the trip so far. Yes. Even by Austrian standards it was utterly dismal. We are in Krems, or at least we think we are – we might be in Stien – the place seems to have two names. This is obviously a cunning ploy to confuse the hell out of any foreigners that might stumble in to the place so they can do unspeakable things to them with sausages.
We’ve already spent what feels like days walking round the place in a futile attempt to find the centre and it starts to rain so the water fills our shoes and creeps up our trouser legs as far as our pants. A smart woman comes out of an office,
“You’re obviously a lady that speaks good English,” I say, giving her my most winning smile, “We’re looking for a really good restaurant for lunch.”
“What sort of Restaurant?” She says, without troubling the smile muscles.
“Oh I don’t mind: German, Italian, Chinese, Indian, anything really.”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know.” She says and walks off!
What the hell was that about?
Eventually we find a reasonable looking place and we’re taken through to a kind of covered courtyard, or shed, at the back. We are seated next to a table of four Austrians who spend the next half hour amusing themselves at our expense and our order is grudgingly taken by the supercilious owner. The food arrives. Mine is a lake of slurry masquerading as Goulash, with some strange and thankfully tasteless things that may be dumplings or they may be potato cakes or, well, who knows what they might be. Jenny has chicken that she thought was fish; and Phil plumps for the safety of indistinguishable cheese wrapped in plastic ham in a pool of ersatz mayonnaise. Service, and I use the term wrongly, is by an obese and surly girl of about twenty five with an I.Q. to match, who tells us they don’t have any beer, they don’t have any coke, and the only wine they have is some fizzy garbage – probably local – the advantage of which, being that at least we won’t have to drink it anywhere else. 5 minutes later she walks past us carrying a tray of beers for some locals in an adjacent shed. It is at this point we decide exactly how small her tip is going to be……..exactly nothing
Here’s a photo of the front of the place so that should you ever find yourself in Krems (and I strongly recommend that you don’t), you won’t be tempted to try it.

Austria's worst restaurant.........So far!

Thurs' 12 th June 2008
We’re camped just 8 miles outside Vienna at a small town called Klosterneuburg – or Colostomy Bag as Phil likes to call it. My arrival here was a triumph of navigation; or it may have simply been that the campsite is right next to the Danube Cycle-path. I cycle through the gates and on my right, I’m delighted to discover, is a bar. The downside to this is that it appears to be full of English football supporters yawping at the telly. I find Myfanwy and Phil tells me I don’t know what I’m on about – England aren’t even in the European Cup. I return to the bar and sure enough; no-one’s been sick and no-one’s dead – they’re Polish – noisy, but jolly. We sit and have a beer to ‘celebrate’ my arrival but my only emotion is a vague feeling of confusion and certainly not one of elation or achievement. Ah well: the beer’s good!
I get a text from Chris and Lucy saying they’ll arrive today which they duly do and I’m very pleased to see them. Brilliant though Phil and Jenny have been, after 3 weeks together it’s really nice to have someone else to talk to.

Fri' 13th June

Well, today is the day. Phil, Jenny and I take the train out to Vienna airport to meet Becky, Neil, Jane, Nick & Jenny off the plane. I'm thrilled to see them all and Becky doesn't let go of me for about an hour. Back in the City we drop off the bags and decide what to do next. I decide I'd like to get the final 8 miles into Vienna over with so I head back out to Klosterneuburg with Chris to put on my kit and collect the bike.

Heading out to the campsite with Chris for the final ride into Vienna

Having forgotten her contact lenses, Becky welcomes me into Vienna WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! WE MADE IT! Phil and Jenny - no doubt looking forward to some time on their own!Now this may not look much from the outside, but believe me: this is one of the world's great bars!We found it by accident; turning up at about one in the morning. Getting the drinks I noticed someone was eating pizza. Starving, we asked if we could buy some. The girl behind the counter said no, but she could do us a cold meat platter if that would be any good. Well of course it would! The meats are freshly sliced. There are cheeses, breads and olives all accompanied by a very palatable Rioja and do you know; I think we may even have had a second bottle. Ah yes I remember now: we did have a second bottle because I remember seeing it rolling about the table between the fourth and fifth bottles.
“What time do you close?” I ask.
“Four”.
Four! I think for a moment I’ve died and gone to heaven, but then realise I can’t have done – we have to pay for the drinks.
The girl behind the bar is chatty, the customers are chatty too, it all feels a long way removed from the grizzly food and the surly bird that served us in Krems.
We slurred our goodnights and headed back to the hotel. It will come as no surprise that we made a return visit the next night,

I can't believe it: after all these miles here I am, sitting with Becky opposite the university of Vienna where Hans Asperger worked. It's a beautiful day and we're forcing down coffe and cakes in the interests of research. it's hard work, but sadly we have to do it!

Here's Becky researching hard!Here are some more pics I'll write more soon and take a load more pictures but here's a few to be going on with:

Blogging at the cafe.

The palace of Emporor Franz Josef.A rare drinking picture.Another rare drinking picture 'The Strudel Eaters' by David 'Van' Stead.

Team Vienna, on location
WE LOVE VIENNA!

Sunday 15th Jun

This morning Chris and Lucy climbed onto their motorbike and shot off in the direction of Salzburg, and this afternoon the rest of our party: Becky, Neil, Jane, Nick & Jenny, all left for the airport. It was hard, I think for all of us, to say goodbye, and now I’m feeling a little lonely and deflated. Phil, Jenny and I are back at the campsite in Klosternueburg, which is absolutely heaving with football supporters – mostly German – over for the European cup. I think it will be a noisy night! The city of Vienna is also alive with supporters chanting and shouting and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many police in one place, though it’s sometimes hard to tell which are the police since they have extraordinarily varied uniforms and very few of them seem to fit the wearers; often being bunched up at the waist so that they look like so many refuse bags on bin collection day. This, coupled with the fact that they carry guns, makes you feel as though you’ve somehow tipped up in South America.
I think the plan for tomorrow is to follow Chris and Lucy’s example and head out towards Salzburg, listen to a little Mozart, and perhaps, perhaps, get a flight home. I feel that now the job is done; there is little point in my staying on here. I think too that Jenny and Phil would probably like some time to themselves to wander and explore. I’ve often been asked – and indeed wondered myself – how I would feel, if and when I reached Vienna. Would I be happy or sad? Would I have a sense of achievement? I felt none of these things – I felt nothing, except perhaps, something of a fraud when people congratulated me. I don’t know why this should be since I have just cycled from Darlington to Vienna. Maybe it’s because each day was broken down into small chunks: ride to the roundabout, to the next corner, to the house in the distance. So that it never seemed like I was riding a long way; and in my head that’s the way it has remained.
I feel a fraud because I didn’t think about it properly.

Mon 16th June 09.30

We are, albeit in a round- about way, on our way home. We’ve just left Klosterneuburg bound for the main, A1 road to Salzburg on a warm and sunny morning. If there is one thing this trip has done for me, it’s taught me never to buy Satnav; the thing is a menace and my advice would be to get a good map. Whereas with a map, Phil and Jenny only have two way disagreements; with Satnav it becomes a three-way argument: the calm, modulated voice of electronic reason shoving in her twopenny-worth at every juncture:
“In two………hundred metres…turn………left”.
“In three……hundred metres leave the roundabout second……….exit”.
“At the junction keep……..quiet”.
“When leaving toilet wipe……..bottom”.
I may join in later and we can have four part disharmony.
As we drive, the landscape begins to change: after the flat, floodplain of the Danube valley we are now travelling through undulating countryside, possibly the foothills to the foothills of the Alps. The valleys are planted with wheat and corn, and the hillsides are thickly wooded. Dotted around are small villages of Alpine-style houses with steep, red tiled roofs, balconies and colourful window boxes full of Geraniums. Some of the hilltops are surmounted by castles, or ‘schloss’, well sited to keep an eye on the local peasantry and ensure they’re not overindulging in the local bier, or spending to much time at the mirror, snipping away at the bizarre facial hair that seems popular in these parts. Of course they’d have to keep an eye on the men too.
Travelling through Austria in Myfanwy is a very different experience to doing so by bike: the place seems normalised, less foreign; the hills and the character simultaneously ironed out. The emotions so keenly felt as I looked into the eyes of oddly wary villagers when I passed, are now completely absent as we hurtle along the autobahn. The heavily scented, wind rustled woodland I cycled through is now a still from a film or a photograph. We pass Tulln and Krems, we pass Amstetten, where I spent an evening in the hospital, Grein, Mauthausen, Linz, All places I’ve tasted, touched and experienced, now reduced to glimpsed names on roadside signs. The distance between me and home has been massively reduced by the familiarity of the motorway. White Van Man and the Doppler Effect exist here too!
My feeling is one of relief, mixed with regret – I’m at the beginning of understanding that something has been completed.
Now the skyline is saw-edged with distant, cloud touched mountains and we are in a place I don’t know.

Mon 13.50

Driving along the shores of Lakes Attersee & Wolfgangsee, the water is the most spectacular shade of green. The mountains, and bare, vertical rock faces rise to almost 6000ft from the shores and we must drive through a long and brightly lit tunnel in order to continue our journey. This is classic Alpine country as seen on tv.

Tues 17th June Salzburg

My final full day in Austria – I’m getting a flight home at 20.00 tomorrow - Wed. I’ve spent the morning doing my washing and drying and I’m now in a smart café in Salzburg which is one of the few that has wireless internet connection. The young guy that is serving me is excellent and has very good English, the food is fresh and modern – Bruschetta with tomato & cheese, Smoked salmon, prosciutto, and I’ve had coffee and two small beers for 13 euros. What a change from the usual stuff. I’m going for a look around the Altstadt to see what I can see.

Wed 18th June Salzburg

My final day in Austria. We breakfast early and head off in Myfanwy to look at Hellbrunn Palace, a strange and interesting place, it has water gardens which are designed to squirt the unwary.......we all got wet!
Leaving Phil and Jenny to continue their journey was very strange. We'd been together almost a month and in very close proximity. I could think of nothing to say to them that would adaquately convey how gratefull I am for the way they treated me; I still can't. So, once again: Thank you Phil, thank you Jenny. See you when you get back. X X

On the subject of Jenny: as well as thanking her I must also congratulate her on her selfless dedication to researching both German and Austrian cake. Few would have had the stamina and determination to keep going, but keep going she did and I'm sure when she gets round to writing up her findings it will be a learned tome indeed. Here she is outside a cake shop in southern Germany, about to put in a spot of work whilst Phil, ever concious of his figure, refuses to enter the cafe.

And here we see Jenny at her laboursHaving taken on the Austrian Strudel mountain, she was not found wantingThe Austrians have a strange sense of humour, but this was taking things too far: a cruel joke.
Wed 18th June 15.45

So, here I am at Salzburg airport It’s almost four ‘o’ clock and my plane leaves at eight. I’ve already been here for three quarters of an hour and it seems like a week. This is a very tiny airport – one coffee shop and people are smoking in there and no chance of missing the check-in desk. I sit surrounded by people, most of whom are English and who’s average age far exceeds my own, showing that Austria is not a destination sought out by the young – no surprise there!
After aeons of sitting around my flight is called and we all shuffle forward for the humiliation of having our bags emptied in public. I’m also told to remove my belt which is a worrying moment since I’ve lost so much weight my jeans don’t fit any more; I have a vision of myself standing in front of the table containing the detritus of a traveller’s life with my trousers round my ankles.
The flight itself is great: the sky is clear and we skirt the northern edge of the magnificent snow capped Alps; a sight I first saw twenty five yeas ago and which has stayed with me ever since. We turn north, flying over France and the Channel and within no time we are fastening our seat belts for the descent into a cloud covered Gatwick, arriving at 20.50 local time. The journey from Salzburg takes 1hr 50mins. It now takes me 3hrs to cross London and I finally arrive at my friend’s flat at twenty past midnight. Bob bungs a pizza in the oven and we’re soon devouring it with salad and a couple of bottles of red.

Euston: a different pace of life.

Thurs 19th June 12.38

Feeling quite bright this morning considering the long day yesterday; I was up early-ish and I’m now on the train to Leeds – passing through Grantham to be precise. I texted Phil and Jenny this morning and they are enjoying fine weather in Innsbruck which sounds great but I’m glad to be back in England and very much looking forward to getting home.

On the final leg to Leeds

Mauthausen & Meeting Thomas

2008-11-29T22:38:00.000Z

The whole subject of the war and the holocaust was something I had intended to avoid on this trip (Don’t mention the war) but as I followed the Rhine there were many poignant reminders – sculptures, Plaques, destroyed bridges etc that put me in mind of my own father’s experiences on the push through to Germany in the months after the Normandy landings. As I progressed further south, I became more and more uneasy with the idea of ignoring – glossing over a period with such resonance. Mauthausen had been praying on my mind for some time; in fact ever since I’d realised my route would take me close to, or possibly even through it. Mauthausen was one of the most feared concentration camps of the Nazi regime – a place of grotesque inhumanity where the most appalling treatment was visited upon its inmates; usually resulting in death. I’d talked it over with Becky and decided not to visit the camp, but instead write about my reasons for not doing so. I am of a generation whose fathers fought in the war and so, oddly, the events of sixty years ago seem quite close and personal. I am fully aware of the arch cruelties perpetrated by these unspeakable people and felt that such a visit would be an unnecessary trauma near the end of my journey. As I’ve already said elsewhere on the blog, Mauthausen wasn’t that easy to avoid and seemed to keep dragging me in, but I stuck to my decision and moved on. Holocaust memorial, Judenplatz, Vienna

A few days later and I’m walking through Vienna with Becky and the crew. We enter a beautiful, sunny square surrounded with tall, handsome and richly decorated buildings. There are restaurants with tables and chairs out; people sitting enjoying themselves and a lovely sense of calm. There are many such squares throughout Vienna but this one has a special resonance: It’s the ‘Juden Platz’. At one end, seemingly at odds with the elegance of the square is a kind of bunker – a large concrete cube with double concrete doors at one end – no handles. In the floor, all round the cube are the names of the concentration camps Auschwitz, Belsen, Buchenwald, and of course, Mauthausen, and in front of the doors is an inscription in memory of the 65,000 Austrian Jews murdered by the Nazi’s.
The memorial, by British artist Rachel Whiteread, was unveiled in 2000 and resembles an inside out library, the spines of the books turned inward. I think it sits well in its place, striking the right balance of spatial empathy versus incongruity.
We spend quite some time taking in the enormity of what it represents. Then take a seat outside a café and order a drink, but before it arrives we spot a small gallery in a corner of the square. Becky and I leave the others to their drinks and wander over to take a look. The gallery is closed but the man inside motions to us to wait a minute, then comes to open the door. He’s a man of presence, about 70 years old, with strong features and long, grey/white hair; his name is Thomas. We are to spend the next two hours with Thomas as he takes us on a tour of the gallery and tells us about his life and that of his father – the artist, Adolf Frankl – whose pictures fill the gallery.
Adolf Frankl, along with his family, was arrested in his home town of Bratislava on the night of 28th September 1944 and taken to the railway goods yards, where he was separated from his family and pushed aboard a cattle truck bound for the concentration camp at Sered, Slovakia. Here he survived in appalling conditions and continual fear of transportation under the command of Alois Brunner whom Frankl describes in his writings as a sadist – “I saw how he had people buried alive, and how prisoners were pushed into fires composed of burning Torah rolls”. After several weeks at Sered, Frankl was moved to Auschwitz-Birkenau - a journey he describes as ‘the longest and most awful of my life’ – where he witnessed and experienced many atrocities. By the middle of January 1945 the Allies were advancing on all fronts and the Red Army was closing in on Auschwitz. The order was given to evacuate the camp and the so called, Death March, began. Days of forced marching followed under the most fearful conditions where hundreds died or were shot but somehow, Adolf Frankl survived and was finally liberated in early 1945 by the Red Army.
His wife and children had escaped being incarcerated through a combination of luck and courage and spent the remainder of the war in hiding. As Thomas says: had they not been able to do so he would certainly not have been here to tell the tale.
The paintings bring home the terrible fear and helplessness of this time in a way that photographs can never do – they are witness to the mind’s torment rather than simply that of the body and we are compelled to share in that experience – ‘Shades of the prison-house begin to close about us’. For many nights after witnessing Adolf Frankl’s paintings, my dreams were filled with his images brought to life – I spent my sleeping hours with him in Auschwitz – Birkenau - proof surely of the work’s power, and ironically, in the end, this was every bit as disturbing and thought provoking as visiting any concentration camp. Probably for me, more so.
Meeting Thomas Frankl was a great pleasure and a privilege and I send him my regards through this blog. All images are shown with the kind permission of Thomas Frankl

You can view more pictures and there is more reading at http://www.artforum.judenplatz.at/ or better still go to vienna and, if possible, talk to Thomas.

Back in Lycra

2008-11-29T15:41:00.000Z

I’m preparing for the moment when I have to slip back into the lycra. I don’t have to do any cycling (well, a few yards for the cameras at most) but I have to make my triumphant appearance at the Education Village on Tuesday, with bike and all the kit.
I’d prefer to do the cycling bit and not wear the kit but apparently they want the whole package (if you’ll pardon the pun). The thing is: I look ludicrous in lycra; everybody does, but me more than most. I thought of ringing the school and pleading with them for the sake of the children but it’s no use….Dame Della has decreed bike and kit so bike and kit she must have. I think she’s forgotten what I looked like when I turned up last time for the ride – several children went into hysterics, two newly qualified teachers fainted and then gave up teaching for good, and the school’s much loved goldfish drowned.
Well, I’ve lost weight since then – I look like so many bits of piano wire stretched over a broom handle. I remember when I crossed the Humber Bridge in high winds, the suspension wires were making a deep humming noise. If I stand out in the wind I’ll probably set up a high pitched whine and shatter the school windows.
My bike came back to the UK on the back of Myfanwy and is now in Devon so Martin at Kudu Bikes has offered to lend me another one for the day, which is a double cause for worry – firstly I might fall off and damage it. And secondly and more likely, he’ll lend me something I’ll want to keep ‘cause I’m sucker for shiny new bits of metal.

Return of the Native

2008-11-28T11:35:00.000Z

Dame Della Smith welcoming me back to the Village and at the same time trying to make off with my bike.I’m feeling ever so slightly foolish cycling round and round a housing estate waiting for Becky to give me the signal; well you do don't you? We’re waiting for the TV and radio people to set up their gear so I can ride into the Education Village as a symbolic end to the trip. The only thing is, I’ve been up and down the same road several times now and the three blokes fixing their car are beginning to give me the - evisceration with a tyre lever would be too good for you - look; so, not being overly fond of offal I decide that a change of scene might be good for me. The problem is: when I eventually get the call from Becky, I’m half way across the county. By the time I get back to the Village I’m sweating and panting and I’m sure many of the children think I’ve just cycled back from Vienna, which, incidently, some of them believe to be in Australia - Now that would be an impressive ride!
A countdown begins when I cycle through the front gates and then cheering and clapping but I’m barely aware of it as I’m in a self-made cocoon – my mind is concentrating fiercely on getting through the next few minutes – so much so that as I draw up to the Alpha Radio stand, there’s a moment of near disaster for me, and no doubt endless hilarity for everyone who knows me - I forget to unclip my pedals and very nearly crash to the ground in front of a hundred or so children and staff and the Tyne Tees Evening News. Phew!
I do a radio interview and the TV camera is in my face and the children surround me asking questions. My mind is saying, “Keep calm, keep calm.” And I do, and I begin to enjoy it. The children are much more interested than I expected and they seem to have made the project their own which is what I’d hoped for.

Dame Della isn't giving up, but Martin Lowes of Alpha radio is on hand to helpFifteen minutes later and I’m hopping about a classroom cupboard, trying to change out of my cycling clothes. It is only as my hitherto successful attempts to remain perpendicular fail, and I crash to the ground like a poleaxed moose, I realise that the pair of trousers I’m trying to get my leg into are in fact not mine, but those of a six year old – I’ve got the wrong bag.
Reunited with my own- and it has to be said - eminently more suitable trouserings, Becky and I swing along to the children’s party, but in common with one or two of the children, I find it too noisy, so after accepting the kind donation of a bike to raffle from Alpha Radio, I make a quick speech and leave.

Quo Vadis?

2008-11-27T10:15:00.000Z

So: what next? The fundraising will continue, so if you’ve found some spare change down the back of the sofa cushions, please send it in; but what of the blog? I’ve sort of got used to writing it now but of course Darlington to Vienna is over. It’s finished, completed, at an end. Who am I writing for now; is there anybody out there? Knock three times on cyberspace if there’s anyone there. If one of the first stages of madness is talking to yourself, then where along the line of looniness does writing to yourself crop up? I’m not even sure my own family read this stuff and of course, quite a few of them have died; even further reducing my potential readership.
If only my parents had had me when they were younger – not only would they have still been around to read this, but there would have been legions of aunts and uncles too.
The children are on holiday at the moment, so I might try bribing them to read the blog and if that doesn’t work it will have to be force. Phil described some torture implements he’d seen in a schloss in Salzburg and I think with a little modification…….

As you may have noticed, I’ve altered the blog’s format so that now it loads from the top – ok, so I’m a slave to convention but I reckon it probably works better and I should have done it earlier.
I have a belated meeting with the Worshipful Mayor of Darlington this afternoon so I’ve just spent half an hour riffling through my wardrobe to find something to wear, but there’s a snag – nothing fits me anymore. I was hardly Charles Atlas when I set out on this trip, but now I look like a split pin – if the wind gets up, it fills my shirt like a spinnaker and I’ve all-on to stop myself ending up in Lancashire. And people keep saying:
“Oooo you have lost weight; there’s nothing left of you”. And I go into the: lifting the shirt and showing them the thrice scarred belt buckle routine, and the fact that my jeans are rucked up like the blowy end of a balloon. So why is it ok for these folk to tell me I’m skinny and yet if I say “Wow, you’ve bloated up since I’ve been away”, they get a bit tetchy and go and talk to someone else?
Anyway, I hope the mayor doesn’t see this afternoon’s meeting as a photo opportunity because I will be turning up looking like a refugee

New Blog

2008-07-18T14:47:00.000+01:00

I have a new blog at http://www.throughthegallerywindow.blogspot.com/

Perception

2008-07-18T14:43:00.005+01:00

The scope for misunderstanding and acrimonious squabbling on this strange trip was vast. A pair of eccentrics and a depressive-Aspergic-artist cheek by jowl in a camper van for a month in the rain; throw Sat-Nav and the fact that I’m cycling upwards of 80 miles a day in to the mix and the potential must surely be explosive. That we only seriously lost each other the once is a miracle on a par with anything Jesus knocked up to entertain his mates. There occurred a series of coincidences so bizarre as to be almost unbelievable: at the end of each day, in the middle of Holland or Germany or Austria we bumped into each other by accident! Yes we did!
Each morning we would tell each other where we were going to be at the end of the day but of course we none of us believed each other. We would then make every effort to avoid going to the place we had nominated and yet – and yet, at the end of each day we would catch site of each other across a crowded Aldi car park or bump into each other at a roadside café.
The truth is of course that there was a good deal of misunderstanding: I couldn’t understand why Phil would say “We’ll meet you at the car park next to the supermarket on the main A8 Passau road out of Vilshofen when my perception was that of a cyclist – Main roads, supermarkets and car parks were things to avoid and certainly not meeting places. Phil on the other hand couldn’t understand that I’d be keen to meet at the most obvious landmark in view – usually a church or Dom in the centre of a village, town or city. Surely, my thinking went, this would be ideal – the likelihood is that the cycle path will pass close by and I can ride right up to the gaff. I can shower and change in Myfanwy and we will be surrounded with everything we need: cafés, bars, shops etc. Perfect!
Phil’s reluctance to accede to this view, a complete mystery to me at the time, was probably based on the fact that a) he would have to drive into a town/city centre, b) he would have to find somewhere to park and c) the road he had nominated headed in the direction of that night’s campsite.
So, at the end of each day, and sometimes at lunchtime too, there was often a period of tight lipped, eye avoiding silence which in my case was meant to convey: “Phil, though I understand your problems (I didn’t), at the end of a long day’s cycling I’d rather not have to cycle beyond what has, in my mind, become the destination; i.e. that effing great spire!
And there is the problem: once I have it in my mind that a certain place is the day’s finishing point it is very difficult for me to go beyond it; not because of any physical restriction but rather, an inflexibility of thought process. It affects everyday ‘normal’ life every bit as much, causing anxiety when there are unforeseen changes to plans or routines; an Aspergic trait which I’m aware is a part of my makeup but at the same time am reluctant to admit is immutable.

Day off......Gone fishing.

2008-07-01T12:33:00.004+01:00

I first spot him from high up on the bank: the telltale ‘Glop’ and the widening rings betraying his position, and now I approach him slowly and quietly. Feeding trout always face upstream, allowing them to expend minimum effort in catching their food as it floats down to them and so I wade cautiously upstream towards his Lie. The river bed is stony and I’m careful where I place my feet so as to make as little noise as possible. A Dipper zips past and sits on a nearby rock, his brilliant white chest bobbing up and down, and my fish rises again, further giving away his position. I select my fly, tie him on and pull out a length of line, and now I wait.
The river is at its most exciting and vibrant at this time of year: insects abound and the birds and the fish make the most of that bounty. Wagtails indulge in acrobatic displays plucking midges and mayflies out of mid air to feed their young and occasionally a thrilling glimpse of the Kingfisher – a flash of dazzling refraction to rival anything in nature.
Another rise, slightly further from the bank than before, and I put a couple of practice casts out, all the while lengthening my line. Finally I allow my fly to alight on the water a metre or so in front of the last rise and it floats down to where I hope my fish is holding water - nothing. A couple more casts and he rises again; further to the right this time. My fly has barely touched the water and bang! He’s on. I tighten into him and he sets off upstream heading for the cover of overhanging trees. My rod arcs and I turn him back into mid-stream, all the while hoping not to lose him. The line goes slack. Damn! Has he gone? I take in quickly and realise he’s still there; now he’s off downstream like a rocket towards the fast, shallow water and I tighten into him again, slowing his progress. It takes a good 5 or 6 minutes to get him over my landing net but eventually he’s in – a beautiful wild Brownie and at home I cook him in butter, lemon juice and lemon thyme…….and make a complete pigs ear of it.

Cakes & Ale

2008-06-26T13:30:00.011+01:00

‘So........!’ Many people have been asking. ‘What was it like?’
What was it like? Well, to be truthful, I don’t really know what it was like. There doesn’t seem to be an ‘it’……more of a they, or them, and they were all different. Should I at this point cite the curate’s egg?
“Oh it was great”. I say. Then immediately picture myself pedalling for mile after mile with rain and snot running down my face; wishing I were anywhere else but here. Or:
“It was agony!” And then I see myself sitting in a sunlit square in Regensburg or Passau; Whoofing down chunks of cake the size of Herman Goering’s suitcase, whilst whipped cream sticks to my nose and tee-shirt.
What I do know is that I’m glad to be home. I’ve been back for a week now, though it only seems like a couple of days and you know............. I don’t really like cake; I'm more of a Wiesbier kind of bloke.
I’m catching up with everything that has gone on here since I left – they’ve knocked the petrol station down in order to build a petrol station and the local florist, who sells plastic flowers, is closing down – well they last so long don't they! The council have blocked off most of the roads in the city to facilitate the building of a supermarket that no-one wants and there was a letter waiting for me on my desk from a local councillor, offering me the opportunity to contribute a ‘minimum of £50’ towards printing some leaflets to say the city is still open for business…….I should coco!
So the pace of life here is marginally quicker than that of rural Austria, which raced towards the 21st century, pulled over for a fag in 1958 and then forgot which direction it was heading in. And talking of fags: boy can they smoke over there! Neither Germany nor Austria have introduced the smoking restrictions we have here, which came as a surprise; usually the rest of Europe strides confidently ahead and we follow on, kicking stones, dragging our feet in the dust and sulking, but for once we’re ahead of the game. It really does feel odd, sitting in a restaurant with people sucking away at the Marlborough full strength all around you; and I thought the days of coming home from the pub reeking of smoke were long gone but no; these delights are alive and coughing on the banks of the Rhine and Danube.

Hunter home from the hill.

2008-06-24T14:40:00.006+01:00

Home at last and though I went to some lovely places - particularly Vienna - it feels great. The house seems strange to me and I have to walk into all the rooms to look and familiarise myself with them again. Everything is refreshed and new. I can even see my paintings with a fresh eye. Whilst I was away I don't think I gave the house or the gallery a moments thought so it's only tentatively that familiar things present themselves to me.

Friends on the other hand have been far from tentative and it has been a great joy to see everyone again; particularly those who flew out to Vienna to see me......So here they all are: Nick, Jenny, Chris, Lucy, Jane and Neil. We're all hoping to have a proper get together soon with Jenny and Phil, but I think they're lost somewhere in France, following instructions from the Sat-nav so we may, or may not, see them before next Whitsuntide.

And most missed of all of course.........t'missusNot forgetting Frantz, who kindly gave me a lift home from the station in Leeds. Thanks mate.

Planning & Preparation

2007-12-04T10:55:00.014Z

The Education Village opened its doors in April 2006 and combines two mainstream schools and a special school – Beaumont Hill. The Village is dedicated to a policy of inclusion and the autism unit is at the hub both physically and ideologically. I've been lucky enough to spend some time amongst the children and staff at the unit and they are wonderful. The children are part of a family away from home and are surrounded with love and learning, their lives changed immeasurably by people who care.
Unfortunately there is little provision for outdoor play and learning so the money we raise will go to build a sensory garden for the unit. Of course there will be lots of plants to look at, touch and smell and hopefully this will encourage wildlife into the area; but also specialised playground equipment to deal with specific individual sensory needs of children throughout the school. It will be an exciting, but safe and accessible environment.

How do these things begin? Well, for me I can see that it was a combination of chance circumstance (a visit to the opening of a sensory garden at Middlesbrough hospital) and then Asperger's takes over and another obsession begins: Aware that a similar garden was wanted at the Education village, within hours I'd decided not only to raise the money but also on the method, the destination and even plotted a vague idea of the route with the help of Google Earth.
Next, a visit to Martin at Kudu Bikes in Hawes. Martin has an impressive record of long distance rides and I needed someone with relevant experience to tell me it is achievable - even for someone as unfit as me. Not only did I get encouragement but Martin offered sponsorship in the form of bike maintainance and any kit necessary for the trip; I was bowled over, this kind of sponsorship had never occured to me and that it should be so freely offered made it all the more welcome.

2 December 2007. David and Alex in the pub after our first Sunday morning ride (Alex had intended to take part in this ride but sadly, due to training problems, has had to drop out). We managed thirty miles on a cold, wet, generally foul morning so after a long hot bath we are feeling pretty pleased with ourselves if a little sore. Planning turns out to be more tricky than we thought if we are to get the most out of the journey - the shortest route not necessarily being the most interesting. We decided to cycle over the Humber bridge on the grounds that it might be more interesting than going through Goole for instance (no offence to the good folk of Goole!) and so far the route has got as far as Boston(Lincs' not Massachusetts).

22 Jan 2008

We are now beginning to get some publicity organised and I must thank David Moss-Blundell of Green Lane PR and Nigel Hirst of North Street Prints for their help in this direction. I will be doing a couple of radio interviews this week and will be meeting some of the press at the Education village on Friday afternoon (avoid the place at all costs as I will probably be prancing around the foyer in lycra looking like a split pin).
As you can see, after two months, we've finally got the 'Just Giving' web site up and running so promoting the ride has become a great deal easier, not to mention the collection of donations. Did I mention the COLLECTION OF DONATIONS?
Phil (support crew) is beavering away in his Devon home helping to plan the route through Germany; particularly in the area southeast of Dusseldorf where it seems I have a choice between very hilly or mountainous, or was it the Devil and the............I can't wait!

7/4/2008

Driving to Devon in Becky’s Fiat Punto was always going to be a bit of a slog: it’s too small for me and it doesn’t have cruise control, so given that, and the fact that we set off at five in the morning, I was only surprised that we weren’t feeling even more jaded when we arrived. After a quick shower and change at Jenny and Phil’s home in the pretty village of Ashprington, we headed back into town for lunch. Often, the simplest pleasures are the best so we sit in Rumour wine bar – our old haunt, eating pizza, sipping a chilled Sauvignon and yattering about the ‘good old days’; the weariness slips away and we find ourselves wrapped in the comfortable ‘Waltons’ world that is Totnes.
We’ve come to discuss the fast approaching ride, finalise the route and check that we are aware of each other’s needs and peculiarities; not that I have any of the latter you understand! Also, I get my first look at ‘Myfanwy’, Phil and Jenny’s new motorhome, which will be our home for three weeks. She’s a fine looking piece; well upholstered, broad about the hips and mischievous, though possibly a little on the ‘snug’ side for the three of us.
Phil pats her and strokes her and attempts to turn her on……….Nothing!
She clicks her tongue at him contemptuously.
He turns the key again with the same dispiriting result: Click!
A few more attempts and he’s behind the wheel, head in hands, pleading with her to start.

And then she does.
Phil had forgotten to warm her up first – she’s diesel.
She rocks gently from side to side in mirth clearly enjoying her own joke and all’s well with the world again.
We sit around the table, with maps strewn around, planning our route. Phil – a whiz online – has bought a map off t’interweb of the ‘Rhein Radweg’: the Rhein cycle route; which follows the path of the river valley from Rotterdam to Mainz. Actually, the map that Phil has bought describes the route from Mainz to Rotterdam; the opposite direction from that we wish to travel, but since it’s in German and neither of us can read it, it matters not. The great thing about it is that being in the river valley, it follows a relatively flat course for its entire length – some 530 km; now call me an old softy pants if you will but flat I like – flat and windless I like even more.

On bad days, when motivation is hard to come by, emails like this very soon get me back on the bike........Thanks David.

Dear David

I have read what you are doing on Bikeradar and wanted to thank you for all your efforts.I am a single father (possible undiagnosed Aspie) raising my two daughters, one with Aspergers and my youngest who is diagnosed as Autistic.Funds are very tight for us this winter but I will try to pledge some money to your efforts in the near future.

All The Best

David Whitmon

Oak Bluffs,

Massachusetts,

U.S.A.

FANTASTIC!

Training Log

2007-12-04T10:54:00.048Z

Well, I don't know how we're going to get on with this training stuff....Seems to me it involves hauling ourselves out of bed when it's dark (I'm an artist for God's sake!) and breaking into a sweat; I can think of little worse. So when next Sunday morning comes and you're tucking in to you're first hot croissant or slice of toast, give us a thought, and put the kettle on just in case.....

Here are some of the children we hope to help; aren't they great! They came to Ripon for the day calling at my gallery then going on to the toy shop, the cathedral and finaly the Old Deanery Hotel (many, many thanks to all at the Deanery) where they had Christmas lunch and met Father Christmas (thanks too to Father Christmas, Frantz and Bernard for the presents). We all had a lovely day.

It is important to set goals in training so we will be increasing the distance we ride particularly at weekends (dark nights have a limiting factor). Our first goal is to ride to Hawes and back - a distance of 70 mls. Hard riding, but no time limit.

Week 1 Tues 27th Nov 2007. David and Alex. Timing route. V. Slow 12.6mph ave' 16.4 mls

Fri 30th Nov, 2007 David 60 mins easy ride on turbo trainer

Sunday 2nd Dec 2007. David And Alex. 30 mls 9.30am start, pouring rain and cold. Through North Stainley, West Tanfield and Well, to Bedale. Back through Exelby, Burniston, Carthorpe and Wath Slow average of about 13.5 mph.

Week 2

Mon 3rd Dec. David 35 mins medium ride on turbo trainer

Tues 4th Dec. David & Alex. 16.75 mls Bypass route 13.8 ave

Fri 7th Dec David 1hr turbo

Sunday 9th December 41.79 mls - 3hrs 11mins. Fine day and we passed the forty miles mark on a route that took us to Easingwold. There a fight between two locals ensues after I asked for directions and they can't agree.

leaving them scrabbling in the dust we head back via Carlton Husthwaite. Approaching Hutton Sessay we crest a hill and are confronted by a scene from an Alfred Munnings painting. On a wide verge stands a hooped and brightly painted gypsy caravan, a couple of piebald ponies and, very still, Old Father Time himself wondering what the hell is going on.

Added to this charming picture is a huge Alsation dog who is muscling his way through a thick hedge with the clear intention of wrestling a cow to the ground for his lunch. He found himself rudely interrupted first by me zipping past and then by a slightly more sedate Alex.

The malevolent gaze with which he had fixed me immediately changed and, regarding Al in much the same way as Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall might regard a freshly snouted truffle, he set off with the obvious intention of adding Al to the old Alsation Family cow pie recipe.

There was a plaintive squeak of fear from Alex and then it was touch and go who would reach terminal velocity first, Al or the dog - the dog won. With a loud and terrifying WOOF he pulled back the drooling lips, unzipped the gleaming canines an inch from Al's quivering backside, only to discover to his great surprise and my monumental relief (Al had already relieved himself monumentally) that he was chained to a steel post.

Suddenly we left old Munnings to his paint box and Port and found ourselves instead in a Tom and Jerry cartoon only of course, Tom was a snarling, slavering hound from hell and Jerry the panting and wet panted Alex.

The chain stretched a good metre or so, the steel post groaned and creaked under the enormous strain and our hideous, hairy companion hurtled Flews over Croup and landed with a yelp and an earth shaking WHUMP on his back.

"I think I could have outpaced him" panted Al

"I'm damn well sure I would have" I said.

Week 3 Tues 11th Dec. David - 16.44 mls. Ave 17.4. Tm 56.45

Tuesday 11th December Alex 7.2 miles 30mins 58 secs.

Wednesday 12th December Alex 7.8 Miles 30mins 2secs, bitterly cold, v. slippy

Above is the video of Fri 14th Turbo training. 1 hr. It's about all I can stand - 10 minutes seems like a week!

Sunday 16th Dec. 42.71 mls. Ave 14.7
Another bitterly cold morning and we're heading off to Bedale via West Tanfield and Well. After Bedale we head up to Northallerton where it is, if anything, even colder than before and my fingers become useless blocks of ice.

A few days before, when collecting my clipless pedals from Martin, he told me a story about a friend of his who, shortly after fitting clipless pedals to his bike had been pulling up at some traffic lights somewhere in Italy when he found himself next to a beautiful, bronzed young girl in a very short skirt on the back of a motor scooter. Forgetting the pedals he went to put his foot down, found them still clipped in and a second later found himself sprawling across a particularly disagreable lump of Italian tarmac. At this the lights turned to green and the beautiful girl sped off never to be seen again but leaving the tinkling sound of her laughter floating in the air. So naturally, I had been very carefull to ensure that nothing of the same nature happened to me!

We come back through South Otterington then turn left for Thirsk. Stopping on a bridge to watch the 10.28 to Aberdeen hurrying north I fail to disengage my clipless pedal and crash to the ground like a sack of 'taties - not even the memory of a bronzed thigh to soften the blow.

I now have the first knee scab I've had since the age of about 13 which I greatly look forward to picking! We stopped for a Mars bar in Thirsk but didn't linger 'cause of the cold. I was so very glad to get in a hot bath after a hard ride, a hard lesson and the memory of some very hard gravel.

David has a sore knee!

Week 4
Wed 19th Dec. David And Alex 14 mls bypass route

Friday 21st Dec. David - 1 hr hard turbo trainer

Sunday 23rd Dec. David - 1 hr medium turbo trainer

Week 5

Mon - Christmas Eve - David - 16.41 mls. Ave 17.3 Timing route Mild with stiff S.W. breeze

Tues - Christmas Day - David - 17.2 mls. Ave 16.4. Mickley - Tanfield - Wath.

Thurs - 29th Dec - 1 hour turbo

Week 6 - Scotland

Tues 1st January 2008

Despite the inevitable hangovers David, Becky, Phil, Jenny, Lydia and the twins head up to Scotland for a few days. We have been loaned a cottage by Becky's uncle who uses it as a base for fishing and shooting. Attached to the back of the car with all the apparent security of a cranefly in a gale is my new bike rack and attached to that is - would you believe it, my bike so I spend the first 150 miles constantly checking the mirror to reassure myself they are both still there.

We are accompanied all the way by the metronome swish of the wiper blades but as we board the ferry from Port Glasgow to Dunoon the skies begin to clear, I still own a bicycle and all's well with the world.

Next morning I wake to find that someone has inexplicably crept into my room and stuffed a large damp pillow up each nostril and a bear is attempting to fight its way out of my head. It's the beggining of one of the worst colds I've had for years and is to last for over a week. On top of my poor showing on the bike I also manage to record the videos of the trip the wrong way round and now I can't seem to find a way of rotating them........Bugger!

Wed 2nd Jan 2008 14.7 mls with a stinking cold into the wind.......AGONY!

Thurs 3rd Jan 2008.........Ditto

Recovery period!

Saturday 12th Jan 42 mls to Middleham via Masham - back through Bedale, Burniston etc.

Sunday 13th Jan - 1hr Turbo

Mon 14th Jan - 1hr Turbo

Tues 15th Jan - After torrential rain I finaly managed to grab a weather window and get outside on the bike this afternoon. Time was short so I did the timing route through Bishop Monkton to Boroughbridge and Skelton and was pleased to find that despite several very slow areas due to the road being flooded I managed a reasonable ave' of 17.4mph and that after recovering from Man Flu. Get on!

Wed 16th - Turbo

Thurs 17th - Turbo

Fri 18th - Well, have a guess....Yes the weather is foul so going out on the bike is not an option...Turbo again!

Sat & Sun REST!

Mon 21st Floods everywhere so yes.....Turbo.

All this exercise may make me a better person, though more likely not. It might make the ride to Vienna that little bit easier, though possibly not; but how is my decreasingly upholstered bum going to cope with my - hardly upholstered at all - saddle for the 1,400 miles from Darlington to Vienna? I say saddle when what I really mean is stick.

Saddles are those wide, cushioned, triangular affairs with two large springs at the back and enough stuffing to fill a fairly sizeable barn-full of Oven Ready's. Mine, on the other hand, appears to have been designed either as an instrument of torture or as a means of gaining entry in order to affect an internal examination. Spend too long on a cobbled street and I could find myself struggling to reach the handlebars.
Such considerations are less apparent when out cycling in the countryside but since the weather has been so very poor over the last week or two I’ve been compelled to spend my evenings on the Turbo trainer. On the plus side this means I can concentrate on what I laughingly call technique but on the down side every creak from the bike becomes a major irritation, every grinding gear change infuriating or worrying and every slight knee twinge or bum discomfort becomes a project terminating disaster. STOP BLOODY RAINING!

Tues, Wed, Thurs Turbo

Sat 26th Jan Turbo

Mon 28th Jan 40 mls ave 17.4

There's something oddly pleasing about toll bridges and Aldwark bridge particularly so. Its loose boards rumble as you cross and the white painted toll booth harks back to a time long past. In fact the whole area has a feeling of time having frozen about the same time nearby RAF Linton-on-Ouse was sending bomber crews over Bremen and Cologne. It's easy to imagine young aircrew thundering across the bridge late at night in overloaded sports cars on their way back from a night out in the hotspots of Boroughbridge, Ripon or Harrogate. Did I say hotspots? Perhaps tepid would be a more accurate discription.I stopped needlessly at the bridge (bikes go free) but I'm glad I did. The jovial, bearded toll keeper ambled over.

"Ah Marin. Fine bike". He said. "I've one of my own".

He introduced himself as Colin and after I'd filled him in on why I was out training he told me about the many trips he'd undertaken on his bike and the coming 2000 miler to Seattle in May. By this time I was feeling a little miffed that not only was he going to be riding further than me, on a bike that was inferior to my own as it was clearly bordering on a mountain bike (It had front fork suspension for god's sake) but he was also considerably older than me......You can go off people!

Our conversation ambled pleasantly along punctuated by the arrival and departure of vehicles to pay the toll thus further slowing the pace of the encounter. Colin offered tea and cake which sadly, due to time constraints, I had to decline. So waving a comradely goodbye I set off again in the direction of Easingwold.

Tues 29th Turbo

Wed 30th Turbo

Fri 1st Feb Turbo

Sat 2nd Turbo

Tues 5th Turbo

Wed 6th Turbo

Thurs 7th Feb. Walk Blencathra

Sat 9th Feb. 28 miles 17.4 mph

Wed 13th Feb - 40.51 mls Ave 18.0 mph

Tues 19th Feb:

The temperature plummeted to minus nine degrees last night which you and I might consider nippy, but having just read Sir Ranulph Fiennes autobiography ‘Mad Bad and Dangerous to Know’ I find that he considers minus thirty degrees positively balmy, but then he is positively barmy. Sir Ranulph seems to feel that the loss of a digit or two is an acceptable sacrifice for the joy of uphill skiing through treacherous crevasse fields while being pursued by peckish polar bears. My fear is that Geordie might be of the same opinion since this is the morning we are pencilled in to ride together and he hasn’t phoned to cancel. The other thing is that Geordie has just returned from an army skiing trip up Mount Shisha Pangma in Tibet, which at 8,012 metres is one of the world’s highest mountains; and there’s me thinking skis are for slithering downhill.
Last night’s forecast prophesied that ‘the freezing fog will be reluctant to leave us’ and reluctant it is: so much so that it is at this moment attempting to limbo under the front door and hold us in its own special embrace.
It’s not that I dislike the cold per se; as a means of improving the early evening G&T or a bowl of Gazpacho I’m all for it, but as a galvanism for a morning’s cycling it falls a country mile short of the ideal.
We set off on a route that, (and I don’t know how he did this) though circular, was uphill all the way. Now of course, I’m not for one moment trying to suggest that he did it deliberately but it was clear from the outset that Geordie’s ‘out of the saddle’ technique was far superior to my own. This becomes even more obvious as we climb out of the village of Mickley only to be confronted by the North Face of the Eiger, which I had previously been pretty sure was in the Swiss Alps.
The road reared up in front of us in a dark, forbidding and near vertical wall. I shout to Geordie asking him if he wants me to stay at the base and belay him but it’s too late – he’s already started to climb, so I have to follow. Soon my thighs begin to burn, my knees turn to blancmange and my lungs become two massively over-inflated Zeppelins straining to break free of my ribcage. All I can hear is the life giving oxygen rushing in and out of my gaping mouth and the involuntary squeaks I am emitting at every turn of the cranks. I am now moving so slowly that I’ve unwittingly past the point of no return:- if I attempt to stop – before I can disengage from the pedals – the bike and I would start to career backwards at ever increasing velocity towards a certain and inevitably messy destruction. I think of my family, my sponsors, the corked bottle of Chilean Sauvignon I have yet to return, and I press on. Faintly, I fancy, I hear the Lord calling me home, but it turns out to be Geordie:
“Evens out just above me”. He says; and I think I catch just the hint of a smile on his face.
After another week and a half of cranking, grindingly slow uphill progress, the incline does indeed become a degree or so less severe. I get a momentary glimpse of ice blue sky before it is cruelly whipped away by the crow black wall ahead.
“Got a bit of a sting in the tail that one mate”. Says Geordie as we finally reach the summit.
“You……wheeze”.
“You can……puff, wheeze”.
"you can say th’……puff, wheeze, puff”.
“Yeah”.

4 March 2008

I'm feeling a bit guilty because I haven't filled in the training blog for a couple of weeks now, even though I have been out training........OH YES I HAVE! Anyway; despite the fact that I've been to the Deanery for lunch today AND had an early doors pint I'm off to do a gentle hour on the turbo.

I’ve just come back from my second ‘Follow Geordie’s Arse Around the Yorkshire Countryside Humiliation Ride’ and you know what? Overall, it went quite well really: We head out on one of my favourite short routes and once again I’m struck by how good it is to ride with someone so strong and focussed; and of course, he’s full of encouragement................Until he says:
‘What you ganna dey when things go wrong; have you thought?’
‘Wrong?’ I say.
‘Aye. You know: about day six, when yer legs won’t work, yer arse has turned to minced liver and yer head’s come up with five hundred and sixty two reasons why you should stop and only three in favour of continuing and two of those are crap.’
Day six? Minced liver? What’s he talking about?
I’m in a cold sweat now but I lower my voice a semitone and add a note of self-deluding conviction.
‘Dig deep’ I say and lapse into what I hope appears to be a manly silence.
We continue for half an hour or so at a good old lick; Geordie giving me some useful tips on cadence, energy conservation, nutrition etc..........But it’s been gnawing away at me:
‘What do mean, “An arse like minced liver”?’
‘worst case scenario mate’ says Geordie. ‘You’ll be fine’.

‘Oh! And don’t forget to take plenty of Vaseline with you’.

Tues 11th March

The weather has been terrible for the last few days so I've been training on the turbo trainer. From somewhere down by the cranks a loud clicking noise has been driving me mad so today I took the bike for Martin to have a look at. "What sort of a clicking noise is it" says Martin. "Is it a kind of pinging click?" "No it's more of a clicking click" I say, showing the recent immense strides in my technical understanding and proving that man and machine are one. martin removes the crankset and sets to work cleaning and re-facing the bottom bracket which is still covered in its original paint. The job doesn't take long and soon the bike is back together and the 'clicking click' is but a memory.

25th March

59 days 'till I climb on my bike and point the front wheel towards Vienna and the awareness of what I've commited to comes home to me with increasing frequency. I'm hoping to have a few friends riding the first leg from Darlington to Ripon with me as I have to admit: the thought of leaving everyone behind and just heading out alone into the Darlington traffic gives me the willies. I realise now that the challenge is just as much, or possibly more of a mental one as physical. In the past I have parachuted from aircraft, found myself crawling through flooded caves or clinging to rock faces, I've even rowed the tideway against our national crew; all in the name of fun - to fill what our American friends call 'leisure time' so it's not that I'm unused to mental or physical challenge. But all these things can be shoehorned somehow into my routine. To cycle 80 miles everyday for 21 days is a routine, but it's not my routine so how I'm going to take to it I don't yet know. But one thing's for certain - I'm going to find out!

I always think of road trips as peculiarly American and involving a Dodge Charger or a vast Winnebago but I guess this is a road trip of a kind; albeit a slightly less comfortable one. There is much to look forward to as I'll be visiting countries that are new to me. Even the journey through England takes me to counties I've only visited once or twice so this will be a true odyssey. There are places that call for a visit simply because of their names: Whaplode St. Catherine, Clenchwarton, Anton's Gowt. And others that draw because of association: The Suffolk/Essex border and its connections to Constable and Munnings. I'm interested too in the ancient connections between the flat, wet lands of Lincolnshire and Norfolk and the north of Holland.

26th March ‘08. Dist 50.1 mls. Ave 14.8. Tm 3.22.23 Kcal 3341

I strapped the bike to the back of the car this morning and got a lift to Darlington with Becky. Though we’d set off in fine weather, by the time we got to Leeming, light rain was turning to snow, which intensified as we got to Catterick. Fortunately it had eased when the time came for me to set off to ride back to Ripon. Heading down to Croft-on-Tees I turn right and wend my way through the country lanes via Scorton to Richmond.
Through the market square you find yourself sliding off the hill towards the river Swale and then Holly Hill rears up in front of you like a Cobra. I’m out of the saddle almost immediately and it’s a great climb, I’m really enjoying it until my bike refuses to change down to the smallest chainring; I try again and again but to no avail. I keep going but my world is turning slow motion, my legs barely able to turn the cranks and I’m pulling on the bar ends for all I’m worth. Inevitably, I grind to a halt. Damn!
I change down with a bit of manual help (kicking the chain whilst turning the cranks by hand), remount, and continue up to the Cobra’s head. From here the road climbs steadily, and sometimes not so steadily towards the tank ranges of Hipswell Moor. By the time I get there my legs are weary, the cold is biting its way inside my clothing and a headwind has sprung up. Oh joy!
I drop down through Bellerby to Leyburn and stop for a few minutes to take on board some solid fuel in the form of a Carbohydrate Bar, but it’s far too cold to linger and I’m soon on my way again. It’s just before Middleham that the gobby head gremlins start telling me I want to stop:
“Your legs are sore, you need a rest”.
“There are plenty more hills you know”.
“That head wind – it’s getting stronger”.
“What’s the matter with your left knee?”
“Is it starting to snow again?”
And it is! I drop down onto the tri’ bars and push on through sleet and snow, passing the Coverbridge Inn – best pub in Yorkshire, to Masham and West Tanfield where at last I feel I’m on the home stretch. The wind increases, the sleet becomes wetter but finaly, blessedly, I reach home and a long, hot bath.

Thanks to Chris at Green Lane Group for the above.......Don't know what the bloke behind me thinks he's doing though!

Phil and Jenny have been up for the past few days complete with their mobile home, Myfanwy, so they’ve been meeting me at the end of rides in a sort of ‘dress rehearsal’ for the ride to come. After all these weeks I finally get to cycle to Hawes: Arranging to meet somewhere in the Leyburn area I set off on one of those bright and breezy spring mornings feeling, well, bright and breezy. I get as far as West Tanfield and it clouds over, disappointing, but such is life. I pass Masham and it’s spitting with rain; never mind, it’ll pass over. A couple of miles further and the hail is stinging my face; but I’m committed.
At Wensley I dismount and hide in the bus shelter – it’s nearly dark and hammering down. I think I’ll wait for Jenny, Phil and Becky but I phone them and discover between the crackling and intermittent signal that they haven’t even left Ripon yet. Bugger! I’m freezing cold, so, leaving a bum shaped puddle of melted hail and determination on the seat, I have to move on. I can feel neither feet nor fingers and the first thoughts of frostbite enter my head; the spectre of the surgeon’s knife hovering over me like a Damoclean sword. I push aside these ludicrous thoughts and worry instead about the lorries and buses thundering past my handlebars with inches to spare. I turn on my rear light. What the hell happened to the sunny spring morning?
I’m looking forward to getting off the bike and having a hot shower in the support vehicle and I spend half my time looking over my shoulder in eager anticipation of her arrival; and it’s only a matter of weeks before she hoves into view…..but I’ve just arrived in Hawes.
We park outside Kudu Bikes and I climb aboard. I peel off my sodden clothing, allowing it to drop to the floor like cow pats and Phil gets the shower working; or rather he doesn’t. There’s no water; Myfanwy has pee-d it all over North Yorkshire! I put on warm, dry, clothing and munch Phil’s excellent homemade Flapjack as Becky massages my feet back to life. Martin does some small alterations to the bike (cutting an inch off each end of the handlebars – those trucks came much too close) and after spending far too long ogling, stroking and drooling over the bikes in the shop we load my own boneshaker onto Myfanwy’s ample haunches and set off homeward.
Now, I don’t know whether you’re familiar with the village of Worton in Wensleydale, well, I say village but it’s really just a collection of a few houses, but it has the most splendidly eccentric pub in Christendom. It’s called the Victoria Arms and we decide to call in for a beer on the way home. Entering through the tiny front door, we cross the low ceilinged room, and bump up against the bar in the semi-darkness. Then we wait. I become aware of two, silent, bearded characters sprawled in chairs behind us, and I feel like I’m in Royston Vasey trying make bold with the ‘precious things’. The old nicotined clock ticks a considerable chunk of our lives away and still, no-one comes to serve us.
“Ah dean’t know what t’lad’s doin” Mutters one of the old fellas through his thick beard.
“I think he was swilling down the yard when we came in” I say.
“He’s allus buggerin about wi’ summat,” He confides to his companion.
The invisible hands of the clock continue on their inexorable journey behind the yellow, opaque glass and then:
“I suppose I’ll have to serve you”.
He moves slowly to get up and it’s only then that I realise that he doesn’t have a beard at all……..it’s a kitten.
The kitten drops to the floor and our jovial landlord (for ‘tis he) shambles across to the bar whistling.
“Now then?” He says, interrupting his Percy Edwards impression.
“Err, pint and a half of bitter, a Coke and a ginger beer please”.
He’s ok with the bitter and the Coke – just, but denies all knowledge of a soft beverage called ginger beer. He shuffles off into an even darker and more mysterious cave behind the bar whistling all the while and we chatter nervously amongst ourselves.
“Ginger ale was it?” He shouts from the grotto.
“Ginger beer” We trill in unison.
“We’ve got ginger ale”.
“It’s a mixer”. Says Phil.
“You want a mixer?” He says, emerging from the pit.
“No, ginger beer”.
And then we spot it; tucked away behind a dusty old photo of Seth Armstrong from Emmerdale Farm and a stuffed foxes bum.
We try to guide him towards it but it’s like trying to voice guide one of those seaside grabby things with the toys and sweets inside. Has anyone ever succeeded with one of those things? If anyone could it would be Phil; his perseverance and tenacity against appalling odds are remarkable…….”right a bit…… No, right….. Next shelf up….Behind the….” Cat Beard’s hand hovers momentarily over the ginger beer and moves on. “No, you’ve gone too far…..LEFT…….Behind the….. IN THE BROWN BOTTLE.”
He gets there eventually and we all sit down to recover from the exhausting effort.
There is a coal fire in the grate but if you wanted to acclimatise for a polar expedition this would be the place to spend the weekend; and now, Son of Cat Beard appears behind the bar and fixes us with an icy, and yet unsettlingly vacant stare. After he’s practised his staring hobby for a while he lumbers over to the fire and puts two whole pieces of coal on. At this, Cat Beard launches into a tirade about Son of C.B’s profligacy and the cost per ton of fossil fuels at last purchase. I begin to wonder if we have passed through the wardrobe door into Narnia, or somehow ended up at the Mad Hatter’s tea party; and then Mrs Cat Beard puts in a cameo appearance, dressed in one of those flowery overalls that were old fashioned when King Alfred was busying himself with the Royal fire blanket.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” She bellows….. C.B. continues his rant.
“Do you want a cup or not?”
“Aye, alright”. He says and the kitten resumes its place on his upper slopes.
We finish our drinks and when we finally emerge into the outside world it comes as something of a shock to find it largely unchanged: The sky isn’t orange, the cows in the field opposite are still on all fours and Myfanwy hasn’t morphed into a giant purple legume.
The journey home is characterised by its oddly magnified normality but two fundamental questions hang in the air: if we went back would the pub still be there, and do kittens really make suitable facial decorations?

Two videos from today: Tuesday 6th May 2008. Two weeks and three days before departure!

Wednesday, 14th May. Only 9 days to go and the nerves are setting in. Martin says that I won't be able to sleep the night before I leave........At this rate I won't be able to sleep the week before I leave! All the doubts are coming to the fore: have I trained enough, what if my legs don't hold out, what if my arse turns to chopped liver (thanks Geordie!), what if, what if, what if......Perhaps it would be best if I just flew out to Vienna, had a bit of a party and flew back again. Would anyone mind? Would you mind?......... You would? Oh hell; I suppose I'd better get out and do some more training then.

Here are some photos from the children's 'Ride to Vienna' which took place at the Education Village last Friday; we had a great time and the children raised lots of money.

Darlington to Vienna

2007-12-04T10:53:00.000Z

Conclusions

2007-12-04T10:52:00.001Z

Morning Commute

2007-12-01T14:03:00.000Z

The film below gives a good idea how autism can affect the everyday lives of adults with autism and is from www.think-differently.org.uk take a look at the site.