The London to Paris one…

It started in the White Hart, a pub close to Waterloo station.

To be specific, it started with a pint of ale and an eye bogglingly large plate of fish and chips. Had this been any other day, it would probably have been customary to order a second drink, or take a stroll in a near by park.

But not today.

"We'd best get going, don't you think" - I said, looking at my two compadres Chappers and Mike.

They both stood up, signalling it was indeed time we left.

It was time to cycle to Paris.

We were waved off by a small leaving party on the doorstep of the pub, as we lazily headed to Big Ben; the starting point of this endeavour. Depending on which story you believe, and which route you opt for, you can start the London to Paris ride from any one of London's big landmarks. We chose Big Ben for it's centrality, and proximity to our chosen lunch stop. It was 4pm.

Inspired by the many who have successfully ridden this route inside of 24 hours, our goal was to stop at the foot of the Eiffel Tower before 4pm the following day. First riding to Newhaven, a handful of miles east of Brighton, we'd take the overnight ferry to Dieppe where we'd join the Avenue Verte and cycle the 173km to Paris.

We'd chosen very different steeds to ride for this adventure. Mike (riding his British built Orro) and Chappers (on his jet black Scott with luminescent decals) were both on carbon road bikes, armoured with almost nothing but energy gels and a passport.  I on the other hand had chosen my trusty Kona Rove, a touring bike, opting for comfort over all-out speed. This was to prove an interesting choice, as you will see.

The ride was essentially broken down into three, courtesy of the ferry crossing. The first leg's aim was simple; cycle the 100k or so to catch the ferry leaving at 11pm that evening.

This proved a simple enough task and we arrived into Newhaven with enough time to enjoy a pub supper whilst we looked out over the harbour at the vessel we would soon be sleeping on.

When the time came, we headed over to the ferry terminal. It was practically deserted and almost entirely devoid of life. Save for one officious looking individual who directed us into a small doorless hanger to the left hand side of the terminal kiosk.

I don't know if it was him and his glow-in-the-dark jacket, the seeming absence of any other forms of life, or for some other entirely different reason, but I suddenly felt guilty of something. It was then I spotted the 'Customs Checks' sign swinging above our heads and a spot light was switched on.

Christ, what had we done?!

We waited. And then we waited some more.

I was starting to genuinely worry. We were 3 guys riding bikes with almost nothing but our passports and full bellies to show for ourselves. By the time the guy appeared, I was half expecting him to pull a rubber glove from his pocket.

"I just need to ask a couple fo routine questions", he said.

I breathed a little easier, expecting to be asked where we were heading and other such trivialities.

"Got any guns?" - he said, in an unfriendly voice.

I looked at Chappers and Mike in a 'is this really happening' sort of a way. "Guns?" I echoed, incredulous.

"What about gasoline or camping fuel?" - he continued, waving his torch in our general direction.

I considered our appearance. Wearing nothing but cycling gear, you could have seen a mars bar out of place. Where did this guy think we'd secreted guns and camping gas?!

On second thoughts, that wasn't a line of questioning I wanted to see through to its conclusion.

We stoutly denied carrying any such offending articles and more waited ensued.

He looked us up and down a final time and seemed to give up on his mission to find the criminal masterminds he was clearly hoping to find, escaping the UK en velo.

"Go on then, over there" - he said, gesturing in the vague direction of the ferry as he trudged off, no doubt in search of more guilty victims.

We arrived in Dieppe with little fuss, and little sleep, at 6am. The clock was ticking...

The 'Avenue Verte' - the name given to the disused railway that is now the cycleway for much of the Dieppe to Paris route - is a beautiful, undulating route through some of the quiet countryside and petite villes of France. But you have to find it first.

Low on sleep and caffeine, we missed the start of the cycleway not once but twice in the early, gloomy hours of Sunday morning. Highly visible by day (so I'm told), it's easy to miss in the dark, especially when you've got adrenaline pumping and the clock is ticking. Eventually we found it.

As dawn broke revealing a shallow valley of almost endless empty countryside, we racked up the miles, setting a good pace and feeling confident of what lay ahead. The first village of any note was several hours ride ahead and thoughts turned to breakfast and just how many double espressos we'd drink and croissants we could eat.

Quite a few it turned out.

Fuelled by buttery baked goods and strong french coffee, we continued, soon passing the half way mark on french soil.

It was here we started to run into problems.

Croissants and pain au chocolat probably aren't the best nutritional choice for such events and it wasn't long before fatigue kicked in and the caffeine wore off. The miles ticked by more slowly now and our cognitive function was called into question with a series of navigational errors which ensued. These were almost certainly a failure of the group but at the time I was in no doubt that Mike was responsible. This was entirely down to the fact Chappers and I had agreed to these ‘short cuts’ due to Mike being a cartographer by trade. He studied maps for a bloody living!

This gave the ache in my legs something to focus on.

So, for the second or third time, we abanonded our route in search of a short cut. It seemed sensible to try and cut a corner if it meant arriving in Paris earlier than expected and making up for extra kilometres clocked from earlier navigational mishaps.

Fast forward 15 minutes and we were pushing up the steepest, boulder-strewn track that's likely found this side of the Seine. We should have known when we passed a local farmer who waved frantically at us. We realised later, he'd been trying to warn us of what lay ahead. At the time though, we took him to be a cycling enthusiast cheering us on.

4x4's would struggle with this terrain, with the 'track' seemingly chiselled from rock perhaps formed by a giant's footsteps.

20 minutes later we were still pushing uphill, our previously clean cycling shoes now filthy. My cleats would never return to their vibrant yellow colour.

Sweat soaked, we were finally clear of the trees, with a distant view of Paris to our left and the river Seine winding its way slowly in that direction just below us.

It was 2pm, time was ticking by and this latest scenic detour had cost us precious time.

We hit the cobbles of the Bois de Boulogne Palace like the finale of Paris Roubaix, one of the classic 'Monument' races in professional cycling. Bouncing uncontrollably, they say the faster you hit the cobbles, the less you feel them. I can confirm this is total myth. I felt every single one of the 200m+ stretch that I took at breakneck speed.

There was little time to reflect on the punishment of those cobbles as we had to navigate Paris's inner ring road - the Peripherique.  Time had sped up, with minutes ticking by like seconds. It was 3.30pm and we couldn't see the Eiffel Tower.

Suddenly, it came into view. Mike and Chappers went into time trial mode as we navigated by line of sight, spinning the pedals as fast as we could all strung out in a line. There was no time to talk and no time for wrong turns. 3.40pm and only 20 minutes left...

We were unbearably close now, the tower was dominating the skyline and yet buildings still stood between us and it. Surely, this would be the last corner.

And it was.

The busy streets of the 17th arrondissement opened up, we crossed the river and cruised to a stop.

We'd made it.

The clock stopped at 23 hours and 44 minutes...

It was time for one enormous celebratory meal in an over-priced Parisian restaurant.

Cover photo credit: John Towner