The London to Brighton Bike... er... Park

Twenty-seven thousand bikes; one fifty-four mile route: whichever way I figured it, there was going to be congestion. By the time I reached the finish line on Brighton seafront, however, the only thing exhausted was my patience.

In short: the whole experience was a massive anticlimax. Sorry people, but there y’have it.

Yesterday morning, I got a real buzz as I cycled towards Clapham; seeing the streaming, grinning cyclists coming the other way was an anticipatory thrill. ‘You’re going the wrong way!’ they shouted at me; others waved and saluted. I was excited – really about to be a part of something!

The start was well-structured, letting people out in groups to lessen the overcrowding. Clowns and penny farthing riders entertained the queues; trikes, tandems and recumbents were here and there and a certain Queen track was blazing from the speakers to get people in the festive mood. Spirits were high around us as the gate was lifted and Ruth and I set out.

We knew it was going to be jammed for a while – but it just got denser. Most of the time we were walking, or punting the bikes along on one foot. All the way through Mitcham, Carshalton and Woodmansterne, we just couldn’t move. Those who rode were either massively aggressive, trying to shove through non-existent gaps, or highly unstable, at risk of causing a hair-raising game of bicycle dominoes. Every time the road actually opened out, we’d get a free run for 500 yards – then there’d be another hundreds-strong pack, at another junction, at another set of lights.

Then, in a country lane just before Fat Fanny’s Farm, a huge crowd of us waited for three-quarters of an hour while rescue services dealt with an accident that had blocked the road completely.

It was the second accident of my day; I saw more than a few more. Most had instant help but I saw four people with varying injuries laying in the gutter with ambulances yet to reach them. One girl had gravel rash and a bloody knee – ouch. Two, I think, had just passed out. The last one was in Turners Hill: a man laying with his head in his own blood. People had already stopped and were generally tripping over each other in a panicked, need-to-help fashion – one, at least, had the wit to get out a mobile.

Please don’t misunderstand – marshals watched every junction, the emergency services were deployed all along the route, signs warned us of all the black spots - but twenty-seven thousand cyclists jostling for space and dealing with traffic…

There were TOO MANY PEOPLE.

I’d reach the bottom of a hill, half the riders would stop, get off and walk. That’s fine – but why can’t they tuck into the sides and let people past? Corporate teams in matching t-shirts would spread out right across the road. I don’t want to piss on their day out, but I’d like to get through, please?

Between Turners Hill and Haywards Heath, the crush loosened and I was finally able to open the throttle. I became completely immersed in my cycling rhythm, and in the nostalgia of my old route-to-school; as I passed the South of England showground, there was a lump in my throat that wasn’t car fumes. I’d lost Ruth somewhere in Merstham – I missed her as I’d really wanted to share it with someone; we didn’t actually manage to hook up again and it’s not half as much fun by yourself!

As I approached Wivelsfield, the crush closed in again. The sun was blazing and the real casualties were starting to show. Periodically, gangs of small boys with water-pistols would pop up by the side of the road and soak everyone in sight – which was very welcome (although I took a dimmer view of the hosepipes!).

Soon, everything turned into the ‘Ditchling Beacon Countdown’ – two stops to go, one stop to go. The grass verges on both sides became endless puncture repairs, chain re-attachments, banana-breaks; at the bottom of the Beacon itself, there was a glut of people paused to summon their focus. I confess to having walked most of the way up the hill but felt my arse had really earned the rest; at the top, I didn’t stop I just got back in the saddle and whooshed gleefully down the other side.

Nearly there!

Then: the worst part of the whole route: the foot-wide cycle lane that’s supposed to filter twenty-seven thousand sweaty cyclists into Brighton. The roads were hot, polluted, filthy and packed with Sunday drivers… and we queued… and we queued… and we queued… The endless sets of lights would let maybe a hundred bikes out at a time and the tailback just got longer and longer – and crosser and crosser.

Finally though, there’s the seafront and the finish line. People lined the route, cheering and the stifle of the streets was forgotten as I put on that last bit of wellie and crossed the line in style.

Once through, medal-in-hand, I joined my brother- and sister-in-law on the beach. Ant had been at Hackday all weekend without sleep and Rowan had herself just completed the route – dressed as Penelope Pitstop (even her lid was pink). We popped up to the local for a very, very welcome cold pint and some self-indulgent food before adjourning back to theirs for… erm… well actually it was for an early night.

To complete my adventure, Ant ran me home up the M23 this morning and we found that the route north was even more congested than the route south had been – by the amount of cars we saw with bike-racks, though, it looked like all the same people…

Anyway, next year, I plan to a) not lose my buddy and b) secure an early start time – Gods know, I’m not the most patient person in the world at the best of times. Still, I’ve got my bright’n’shiny medal and I’ve raised my little bit of cash – and, long years after I gazed in astonishment out of my Mum’s car window, I’ve finally eased a niggling childhood pique.

Check out my photoset on Flickr!