But true to form, I have spent most of the day lost and managed to turn a 25km ride that was meant to be done by lunchtime, into a 50km ride that covered every terrain imaginable and was barely finished by tea.
That’s not to say I have not had fun in parts. It’s just that today I’ve been through some experiences I would rather not repeat. Allow me to explain…
Buying supplies
The day had to start with rectifying yesterday’s mistakes, which meant finding a bike shop and buying a helmet to put my parents’ minds at rest. I had plenty of time to do this as I was in Le Harve by
A couple of croissants, a coffee and two cycling shops later I was the proud owner of quite an uncool skater boy helmet and a speedometer. It’s pretty vital to know how much ground you are covering if you’re to be taken seriously in this business I find.
I then procured a map, which I would later find out only covered the first two kilometers of the ride, before setting off.
Putting the pedals in to action
The plan was to cycle to Honfleur - what is meant to be a pretty little town, a mere 25km away. The book suggested the route wasn’t very pretty and I might want to consider taking a bus and starting properly from Honfleur on what would be a much more picturesque ride. But you can’t very come to
After asking a couple of locals I was told it was about 15km down the river and then over a huge landmark called the
Finding my way
I thought things were getting a little strange when after about 10km I seemed to find myself on very busy roads. Some you may even have called a dual carriageway. No body mentioned this.
Keeping well within the hard shoulder and sometimes on the grass verge, I persevered until I hit the biggest flyover/bridge I have ever encountered in my life. At the entrance there was a ‘no cycling’ sign along with a ‘motorway’ sign, meaning it wasn’t something I should be crossing. The
This is what it looked like
The only alternative, or so I thought, was the grass field that ran underneath the flyover. But soon, there was no one in sight and I hit the dead end of a canal and a railway track.
Frustrated and flustered, I phoned home to get a friend to do some internet research and failing that, organise a rescue helicopter out of there.
What she phoned back and said was, “The Normandie Bridge is exceptionally busy, but cyclists can cross it and there is a cycle lane. However if you’ve missed the turning, it’s 8km back where you have come from.
Crossing the bridge
I mean it didn’t look like what I call safe, but I decided that the French were probably crazy and that this was the
As I rode back through my field and towards the main road I found an access road that led to the side of the road leading up the bridge. After a good five minutes of psyching myself up, I climbed over the metallic fence and started to cycle.
It became apparent within the first 30 seconds, in which pure fear engulfed my body, that this was not the
Sweat was pouring off my brow and my legs were shaking as I tried to cycle in a straight line as fast as I could and get over the flyover as soon as possible.
Once on the top of the hill, the reality became clear. I could see the real Normandie Bridge in the distance. I was on the motorway approaching it and, in a completely accidental but quite moronic way, was risking my life to get to it.
I say this with no hint of sarcasm – I was shaking when I eventually left the motorway for the estuary road I had missed 8km earlier. It was the longest 7 minutes of my life. I would sooner do another skydive than do that again.
After a sit down, and some calm reflection about the state of play, I crossed the
An hour later, I arrived in Honfleur. I never thought the moment would come.
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