David Coats Blog

Thursday 5th April - the big day. I awoke, lazily, at 8am, an hour later than I had intended. I slowly showered, dressed and dragged Gemma, as she will here on be known, out of the front door, into the dazzling morning sunlight. Gemma and I stopped first for refreshments and breakfast at Tesco on Denmark Villas before heading to the seafront to start the 119 mile trek.

The air was cold and crisp; the wind stinging my legs - perfect cycling weather and before I knew it we’d passed Shoreham, the old Cement Works, Steyning and Storrington and entered Pulborough - 25 miles in, at a fantastic pace of 14.4mph. I decided to stop and admire the beautiful Sussex countryside, framed by the bright blue spring sky. Pulborough is magnificent. Gemma and I sat opposite a school on the main road and a cricket pitch, nestling under the chalky green of the South Downs. What a place to grow up. Hard to imagine such a peaceful place can harbour paedophilic murderers - and such a shame that is probably the only reason I, and I expect you, have ever heard of Pulborough. Not for its beauty - for its beast.

Anyway. Gemma and I carried on through the delightful countryside, on past Midhurst and along the best bit of all - a long stretch of perfectly flat straight road across the Hampshire border through Petersfield and toward Winchester. I stopped at Cheriton - a small hamlet outside of Winchester - 60 miles in. It was 1pm. I was still averaging around 13mph but was really starting to feel the heat. For the first time in about 5 hours I spoke to someone; the owner of a house whose driveway I was using as a parking bay. He seemed oblivious when I told him I had come from Brighton and was halfway through a 120 mile trip, but instead seemed to be more interested in the manner by which Gemma was leaning against his wall! Fascist. I wasn’t bothered as it had dawned on me - I was halfway - mint!

The happy halfway feeling had all but evaporated upon reaching Winchester. Not only was the 5 mile route from Cheriton one big hill after another over a horribly hectic main road, but I got completely lost! This time, a far more congenial Polish passerby with whom I next conversed was suitably impressed with my feat and even stepped back in shock when I enquired ‘which way to Warminster?’ ‘You’re not gonna cycle there are you mate?’, he enquired in reply. ‘You’re crazy’. Maybe Mr. Just Maybe!

After a short break for refreshments, Gemma and I left Winchester on the A338 Stockbridge Road with Warminster and Bath in our sights. We soon regretted ever starting the stupid ride. The road consisted of one steep hill after another, 6 minute assents followed by 20 second descents. I reached the foot of a valley between two of the thousand hills and entered a National Heritage car park in which to have a short rest.

This was where Gemma became real. The sun was so hot, the hills so tiring and the lack of company so dull that, without even realising, I had been having an out-loud conversation with some Rubber and Aluminium for 10 minutes. We decided, during this conversation, that actually, we weren’t in a race, we could give up whenever we wanted. Just jump on a train. What did it matter? We read the map, then tore the map (accidentally) then spilt water on the map (again, accidentally) before deciding Salisbury, not Warminster let alone Bath was far enough. We would give up there.

The first hill after Stockbridge, 80 miles in and, if i’d thought things couldn’t get any worse, typically they did. The last remaining strap on my bag broke (did I mention the first snapped as I passed Hove Lagoon 2 miles in?!) I’d just reached the A30 - the nastiest road of them all. Perhaps it was just the time of day, or simply that the roaring of passing traffic had yet to get to me, but I suddenly became very aware of just how scary vehicles travelling at 70mph a foot away was. Lorry after van after ignorant-car-driving-bastard-not-eff’ing-moving-over was doing my head in!

I pulled over once more to sort out the bag and found there was no alternative but to tie the bag around my neck. I continued, half asphyxiated, seriously overheating, sunburnt, out of water, my face covered in salt from 8 hours of profuse sweating, legs like lead weights, frustrated at not being able to complete the challenge and, with every passing car, scared shitless that I would be splatted into fleshy pulp like the 20 dead badgers I had passed at the side of the road during the day.

I neared the end of the A30 and the section I had been dreading the most all day - the dual carriageway before Salisbury. 90miles. 5.30pm. Rush hour before a bank holiday. The traffic really was as bad as you might imagine. Not only was the dual carriageway busy and very fast, but it began at the foot of a steep descent and continued up a long steady incline. This of course meant the cars gathered speed going down the hill and roared up the dual carriageway past us - while we struggled to travel at 5mph on the assent. The fear at this point was overwhelming so I gave up, climbed the grassy verge and pushed up the hill for about half a mile until I reached the end of the dual carriageway.

Finally, with a mixture of frustration and relief I reached Salisbury train station - 94miles and 9 hours after leaving sunny Hove. My average speed had been 10.4mph. Satisfactory but not great. I do wonder now if I will ever make it? If I had company other than Gemma(!), a decent bag and a slightly longer, cooler day I think i could. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to try again - mainly thanks to wanker car drivers who don’t move over - but there’s an overwhelming sense of ambition which tells me i will definitely be trying again!

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