Bryan's will to 'Man Up'

by Bryan Galvan

London College of Communication (LCC) student, Bryan Galvan, is not a man to shirk a challenge. In April, he cycled from London to Amsterdam in just four days. He reveals all in extracts from his diary.

"Man up" was the mantra we used. When your energy was sapped, when you could barely see the others ahead of you, and when you felt like calling it a day, there was no other option but to man up.

By definition, long distance cycling is completely different from commuting or leisure trips.

Although a long distance may be 30 miles to the average commuter, 100 miles was the least we could expect to do in a single day - a day spent six hours or more racing till the end.

A minimum of six hours spent speeding through entire countries, challenging your muscles racked with fatigue, your mind absorbed in achieving the next pedal and worst of all, a posterior sore with the jolts of every single crack and pothole lancing its way up into your gut.

From London to Amsterdam, 350 miles in 4 days, this is the story of 3 cyclists’ journey.

John William Gull and Steve Bowman are contenders for the title of the first and fastest to cycle the length of Europe, from the northern-most tip of Norway, which resides in the Arctic Circle, down to southernmost tip of Spain, mere miles away from Morocco.

The 5,000 plus mile cycling distance this trip entails are in proportion to the scale of their ambition and their insanity. A trip to Amsterdam is a two day walk in the park compared to their previous trip,a 1,500 mile expedition from London to Sicily. I, the novice, was the third wheel.

Having done a maximum of 60 miles in preparation for the trip, I was ill prepared physically to forgo the challenge at the pace they prescribed.

DAY ONE

This introduced me to what it meant to man up. The 80 miles between London to Dover and Calais via ferry made up the first leg of the trip and started bright and early approximately 7am at Trafalgar Square.

At the best of times, cycling through traffic in London is complicated and treacherous, but with 20 kilos strapped on to your bicycle, its best to keep your hands on the brake triggers.

Most of the journey travelling out of London, we sighted the same old drab and ageing storefronts and houses, though lit up by the first bright and clear day to grace London since fall. Sunburn abounded as our spandex shorts and t-shirts exposed our pasty skin.

Rounding a tight corner after speeding down a hill, I was unable to turn on time and slammed into the curb. Luckily, all the energy was transferred into my crotch, meaning the bike itself did not suffer more than two blown tires. After wasting much time finding new tires, we set off into the English countryside, synonymous with hillside due to all the arduous hills, which was a challenge for an inexperienced cyclist to say the least.

It was around nine o’clock before we had reached Dover, but random putting about ensured that it took us hours before we took a ferry headed towards Calais. It was well after 12 when we reached the city and we were well hydrated with shots of Talisker whisky, enough to help us steal into an unprotected campsite and set up tent.

DAY TWO

I began my bitter-sweet relationship with France, as the flat roads, pretty girls and perpetually sunny skies made me initially fall in love with the country. Compared to England’s punishing hillsides, the route from Calais to Belgium was my ideal cycling environment, coasting through France at around 20 miles an hour, until I crashed for the second time.

Slipstreaming is the art of riding dangerously close together in a line in order to take advantage of energy saving aerodynamics. Many of the spectacular crashes seen in races such as the Tour de France are caused due to failed slipstreaming, as was the case in my mishap.

To use the technique, the cyclist needs to ride within 6 inches of his partner’s rear wheel, meaning that any sudden movements or pothole appearances will give the cyclist very little time to react. Such was the case, launching me from my bicycle onto the shoulder of the road, cutting and bruising my thighs and hands, my helmeted head embracing the ground with gusto.

I was patched up as best as possible with toilet paper and tape before setting off again into Belgium, where we shortly found reprieve for my stiff and bruised body. It was in a campsite dubbed “little Amsterdam” by resident party-goers that our group sought repair and refreshments after dining on a hearty meal of Doritos crisps and beer.

DAY THREE

The day started in extensive pain from injury and drink. Barely able to lift my legs or my head, my left wrist nearly sprained and swollen, bandages bloody and aching. I fought a battle of wills with myself as I considered calling it quits and taking a train to Amsterdam or manning up and cycling ahead.

I had taken two painkillers and prescription strength anti-inflammatory to get me started en route to breakfast. This meal consisted of the famous “cycling sandwich” made of pickles, onions, pepperoni and handfuls of emmental cheese stuffed into a baguette, along with an entire litre of orange juice downed in minutes.

Drugged and stuffed, I decided I would continue my journey 90 miles from Belgium into the Netherlands.

Hugging the coast, the three of us made good time, recovering the distance we could have made the day before if not for my fall.

The shortest route into Holland would have to be taken by going through the small Archipelago, south of Rotterdam, providing us with idyllic beaches and empty solipsistic bridges arching to the islands receding into the dusky yellow and purple skies of twilight.

We made it into the second island around 10pm in time for a well earned beer and pizza each and set up camp for an early start.

DAY FOUR

It started by cycling into the nearest town for breakfast, water and more painkillers to keep me going. This was the final 90-mile stretch in which we’d reach the outskirts of Amsterdam, but not without a strong mental and physical effort barely aided by 8 paracetamol pills.

Along the way, we met a 20-year-old German man named Bolle Bauer, who had graduated from high school and gone cycling for months, attempting to travel around Europe for a year on bicycle.

As he regaled us with his experiences of spending less than 15 Euros a day by setting up camp in people’s backyards and befriending strangers, he joined us on our final leg.

Bolle led a decidedly bohemian lifestyle and cycling pace, which was determined by how he felt and how much he enjoyed the scenery. This means that he could do 30 to 60 miles a day in between naps and other distractions, which even allowed him time to fall in love in Cologne.

Rotterdam and the route ahead was a blur of concentrated pain and effort to keep up with the rest of the group as they leisurely rolled on out front.

Stories were swapped, colorful fields of tulips were past, and iconic Dutch windmills were made subject to pictures as we cycled through the interior of Holland towards the capital.

Within 10 miles of the city centre, we stopped at the last campsite and prepared for our celebratory dinner, which consisted of an entire pizza each and a hamburger, bread, and seven bottles of beer per person.

As we called it a day, and went to sleep in anticipation for an adventure altogether different from cycling in Amsterdam, I was glad I had mustered up the will to man up.