3

FINDING MY LEGS

‘Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .’

My heart was practically bouncing out of my chest with nervous excitement as the crowds started the slow countdown. The day had finally arrived. I had packed my entire life into thirty square feet of storage, said farewell to my friends and was just about to embark on what would turn out to be the most challenging experience of my life. The start to the world’s first ever World Cycle Race was seconds away and I was one of twelve people lucky enough to be a part of it.

Greenwich Park was teeming with friends and family of the riders, general fans of adventure cycling and the media. It was all a bit overwhelming for someone who had only really started cycling properly six months earlier. My attempt to be the fastest person to cycle around the world wasn’t my only challenge either. I had received a very nice email from a school in East London near the Olympic Park who wanted me to take their replica mini Olympic Torch around the world and back to London again in time for the Olympics. I had to say yes, even though it was 100g extra to carry: it was a cool idea and would give me added incentive to stick to my plan of getting back to London in time for the games. The media also thought this was a great story and I spent most of the morning in Greenwich getting interviewed and having photos taken of me with my little six-inch Olympic Torch.

Such were my nerves, I hadn’t got more than three hours sleep the previous night and in my haste getting ready had decided not to put my thermal leggings on. As a result, I was freezing. I could barely move my lower jaw when Sky Sports News interviewed me: I must have sounded like a zombie. It wasn’t just my legs that were cold either: someone had paid £100 at my charity fundraiser to shave off my huge afro. The idea was that I’d start today completely clean shaven and then see how long the beard and hair would grow by the time I returned. This seemed to be what all adventurers did. I had never grown a beard before. I very much doubted I’d enjoy having a huge ginger beard, but you have to try things at least once, don’t you?

Most parks in winter are pretty sad places to look at. Disused playgrounds, lifeless trees and an empty eeriness make them rather depressing. Today, however, was different. The usual dull greyness of winter was consumed by the bright outdoor jackets, joyful smiles and nervous excitement overflowing around the Observatory. I found myself looking across the river to see the city of London below me. I loved London but the city itself had drained me of all creativity over the years. It wasn’t London’s fault; it was completely my own doing for chasing the wrong dream. Now, for the first time, I didn’t feel suffocated by it. I was looking at London with a new perspective, with the knowledge that a brand new chapter in my life was just about to begin. The next time I’d see the city I’d have cycled the earth. That was a crazy notion that still hadn’t quite sunk in. Hopefully, by the time I returned I’d have a new outlook on life, London and where my life was heading. For now though, I was heading to Australia. Shit! What a thought!

‘Seven . . . six . . . five . . .’

My teeth started to chatter. I looked to my right to see Mike Hall, one of my fellow competitors, looking cool, calm and collected. Bastard! How did he do it? Mike was one of the main riders competing in this race and was probably my biggest rival. He had an impressive history of endurance cycling including a few 24-hour time-trial wins under his belt and best rookie rider in the 2011 Tour Divide, the world’s toughest mountain bike race. He didn’t give too much away about his preparation but every now and then he’d share what he was up to on Twitter or Facebook. It was pretty impressive. I also couldn’t help thinking how sexy his bike looked. He was taking a bit of a risk going full carbon but then again his route was a lot flatter than mine and probably with less potholes.

I had decided to go for a full steel bike made by Thorn in Somerset. She was called Maid Marian and we had formed a special bond over the past few months. She may have been a little heavier but I knew, without fail, that she would work all the time, no matter what was thrown at her. I think Mike was surprised at how light my set-up looked. When he asked me if he could pick Maid Marian up, I said, ‘Not a chance’, with a huge grin on my face. I knew that my set-up was probably one or two kilos heavier than his but didn’t want him to know that. Dirty race tactics or just playing the mind games everyone plays? This was a serious race after all.

Along with Mike at the start line in Greenwich were seven other riders: Jason Woodhouse, Kyle Hewitt, Martin Walker, Richard Dunnett, Simon Hutchinson, Stephen Phillips and Stuart Lansdale. There were also three other riders starting at different locations, as per the rules of the race: Kristina Stoney, Juliana Buhring, and Paul Ashley-Unett had decided on this strategy. Of these cyclists, only a few were actually racing: Jason Woodhouse, Martin Walker, Richard Dunnett and Juliana Buhring, who was going for the female world record. Mike still seemed my main rival but the others didn’t give much away in the lead-up, which was always a concern. I had no idea how strong they were.

My set-up came in at around sixteen kilos excluding food and water. I was probably a little too concerned with keeping the weight down, to the point of sawing my toothbrush in half and cutting the pieces of material off the end of my zips. It was completely unnecessary but if it played on my mind, then it needed to go. In total, my list of equipment looked like this:

Thorn Mercury steel bike with Rohloff hub gearing and Brooks saddle

Yeti Passion One sleeping bag

Klymit X-Lite camping frame

Terra Nova Extreme ‘bivi’ (bivouac sack)

One set of cycle clothing (including: shorts, shirt, jersey, rainproof overcoat, socks, shoes, compression tights, helmet, cap, gloves and watch)

GoPro, iPhone, iPod and point-and-shoot camera with all charging cables (I had a built-in dynamo on the front wheel to give me power to charge everything while I was cycling)

Mike had a similar set-up but with heavier camping gear according to what I had read on Twitter. It was definitely going to be interesting to see the different problems we’d encounter along the way. He had the Ferrari and I had the Rolls-Royce: speed versus reliability! I was no betting man but it was a tough call as to which would win an 18,000-mile race.

‘Four . . . three . . . two . . .’

I felt nauseous as it hit me what I was about to undertake. I was going to be spending just over three months sitting on a piece of leather the size of my hand while trying to push over 168 miles per day.

‘Good luck, mate,’ Mike said, looking across.

‘You too, mate,’ I said back, but I am not sure he heard me with the noise of the crowd counting down. My lips were so cold they hardly moved.

‘One . . . go, go, go!’

Whistles and cheers erupted. Mike and a few of the others shot off as if it were a 100 m sprint. By contrast, I struggled to clip into my pedal and found myself lagging behind. The route leading south through Greenwich Park was lined with people waving and clapping. I was pleasantly surprised at how many of my friends had turned up, looking a bit hungover, on this cold Sunday morning. Such had been my training schedule, I hadn’t seen many of them for months. There was even an ex-girlfriend there who I hadn’t spoken to in about three years. Along with my mates, loads of my family were also there to see me off: my mum and sister, uncle, aunt, and first and second cousins from Zimbabwe. This was the first time we’d all been together in a long, long time and it was a shame I didn’t have too much time to chat to them all. I felt emotional and guilty that all these people had come all this way, just to see me disappear for months. As I pedalled further and further away from the start line, the crowd gradually got quieter and quieter. Eventually, all I could hear was the sound of my heart. Thump, thump, thump. This was it: there was no turning back now. I was by far the most nervous I had ever been in my entire life.

My route from Greenwich was to head to Gatwick Airport where I would stop the clock and then get a flight to Spain where my adventure would officially start. I had managed to persuade seven other keen cyclists to join me for this opening 35-mile leg. It was great to have some company, and also have someone who knew the route through the busy network of roads heading out of London. The plan was to wait for them at the bottom of the park. Once the crowd had disappeared from sight I turned a corner and in a split second all my nerves went away. Standing together in a huddle were three of my fellow competitors, all with their maps sprawled out, trying to work out where they were going. From here it looked like Stuart, Kyle and Simon. I burst out laughing. They were lost within a mile of starting. At least I wasn’t the only one who felt unprepared for this adventure. That made me feel so much better. Moments later, I met up with my entourage and we slowly worked our way through the barrage of traffic lights and busy south London roads towards Gatwick.

Although I had done nearly 10,000 miles in training I still somehow didn’t feel as if I had worked out a system for where everything went. I had put my jacket at the bottom of my bag and had to stop and dig everything out to get at it. Lesson one: keep jackets near the top in case you need them. Although our pace was fast it took nearly three hours to do the 35-mile ride to Gatwick. Mike, by contrast, must have been halfway to Dover already, where he would take the ferry to France. He was going east around the world; I was going west. I wondered if we would meet half way?

I could only get a flight out of Gatwick first thing the next day, so booked a hotel at the airport for the night. My family and some friends decided to come and have dinner with me as a final goodbye and an attempt to fatten me up a little. Mum and my sister Kerry were there and suitably excited about my challenge: they took every opportunity to tell anyone and everyone what I was doing, shouting out at random people, ‘He’s cycling around the world.’ Mum and Kerry have always been my biggest supporters. They saw how unhappy I had been and how happy I was now. It was great to have them there with me. I only wished Dad was there as well. But being in South Africa, he hadn’t really been able to be as involved as I’d have liked.

‘Come on Sean, eat this.’ Russell, my cousin, shoved a second plate of pudding in front of me. ‘You’re looking a bit thin.’

Russell was right. I hadn’t put on nearly as much weight as I was supposed to. I weighed 67 kg, which might have been the heaviest I had ever been, but I was still in the ‘very lean’ section on my body mass index. I was hoping to get up to 70 kg so that I had some fat to burn before my muscle tissue started to disintegrate. I’d just have to keep on top of my nutrition from day one.

Just before bed I went on Twitter to see how the other riders were doing. Mike and Martin were in France, which was expected. Jason had already broken his bike and was looking for new parts. Stuart had forgotten his passport in north London and had had to go back and fetch it. Kyle, meanwhile, had pulled out of the race stating he didn’t want to leave his wife and their newborn. And that was just day one.

For the second night running, I didn’t sleep well. I tried to get some sleep on the flight to Spain but had a crying baby next to me. That was probably karma getting back at me because apparently I used to cry as a baby on planes. I landed in Malaga at around 10.30 a.m and was pleased to discover that unlike the start in Greenwich, it was warm and bright: an ideal 18 degrees. These were perfect cycling conditions and one of the reasons I was heading west and towards South America – to chase the summer and the heat that went with it. I operate much better when it is warm and the idea of pushing east through northern Europe in mid-winter actually scared me. Chasing the summer meant I could carry less clothing, and lighter camping gear.

Having landed in Spain, the next task was to reassemble Maid Marian. Gatwick sold bike boxes which had allowed me to package Maid Marian up carefully. I spent the next hour putting my bike back together, which involved putting the handlebars, saddle, wheels and pedals back on. This should really have only taken twenty minutes but was the first time I had ever done it. It was something I should have practised beforehand as the race clock started the moment I cleared customs. The rules stated that time in transit – flights, ferries and so forth – didn’t count towards your race time. The thinking was that if there was a flight delay it wasn’t your fault. Once you had your bike in your possession again, however, then the clock started and counted towards your race time. You had to prove it by getting signatures from people, taking photos of your watch, the location and flight arrival board times. This was all part of the application you had to submit to Guinness on returning to prove you did in fact have the world record. The reality was that the difference between first and second place could be as little as half a day, so every half hour mattered.

Eventually Maid Marian was back in one piece and I was ready to go. There was just one problem: I didn’t know what to do with the box. There were no bins around, so I wandered over to two airport security guards to ask.

‘Pardon señor, um, is it possible to throw my box away?’ I realised I was doing the patronising slow talking you do when on holiday. The irony was that I had dated a Colombian for nearly two years and she didn’t teach me a word of Spanish. Missed an opportunity there.

‘Ah, no problem.’ The security guard smiled and pointed to some stairs leading to the terminal building. I said thank you and walked over, but there was no sign of any bin anywhere. After searching around, I dragged the box back to the now confused-looking guards. They pointed towards the stairs again. Again I looked at them as if to say, I didn’t know what they were talking about.

‘Señor, come.’ The older and grumpier of the two took the box out of my hands, dragged it towards the stairs and secretly hid it out of sight. Are you kidding? I thought. You could fit a bomb big enough to detach Spain in that box and you are hiding it under the stairs to the terminal building, the stairs that passengers use to get into the airport. To think that I had been made to take my shoes off before getting on the flight that morning.

I decided the best thing was to make a run for it. I didn’t want to be around when the policía found it and searched through their CCTV for the culprit. So with that I jumped on Maid Marian and made a swift exit. Unfortunately, in my haste I forget to cycle on the ‘wrong’ side of the road and had a close shave with an angry looking taxi driver. I really needed to get into the swing of things. It’d be really embarrassing if I got run over before I even reached 100 miles.

I had no map for Spain but figured that if I kept the coast to my left I’d eventually reach Gibraltar. I had downloaded some Google maps onto my phone so could use them if I needed. Finding the coast was easy: it was next to that big blue thing. Trying to work out Spanish road systems, however, was a whole new experience. I’d be cycling along a perfectly good ‘A’ road, which would then turn itself into a motorway for about two miles and then back to an ‘A’ road again. Cycling on motorways is prohibited in Spain, so I spent most of the morning doubling back on myself and cycling along the beachfront path. This wasn’t allowed either and I got shouted at a few times by the policía. When I eventually made it onto a long stretch of ‘A’ road, my speed was good. I had a small tailwind and was keeping a good average of 17 mph. But there were just so many diversions and stops that I wasn’t doing much more than ten miles every hour – I had no chance of breaking the world record if I kept this up.

The sun was just about to set when I cycled over the last climb before descending into Gibraltar. It was beautiful and I stopped for a moment to take it all in. I couldn’t see it but knew that on the other side of that golden expanse of water was Africa, and the next leg of my adventure. By the time I reached the port where I was to get a ferry to Tangiers in Morocco, it was getting dark. Having worked my way through the town and all the way to the end of the eastern peninsular of the port, I was surprised to learn that ferries stopped going from Gibraltar to Morocco a few years back. Great research there, Sean! I then had to make my way all the way round the port to Algeciras where I’d be able to get a ferry in the morning.

Algeciras was quite a rundown looking town – industrial and not very pretty. Everything looked closed, too. I was quite tired from a week of restless sleep so figured I’d find a hotel, get some dinner and go to bed. The only hotel around seemed decent enough and they even let me take Maid Marian into the room. This was very important – it was as if she was my partner and I didn’t want us to be separated. We were a team, after all.

I checked in and made my way up to Room 13. Good thing I’m not superstitious. I must have been the only person in the hotel as all the lights were off and I had to rely on my bike light to find my way down the corridor. Over a dinner of Moroccan tagine at the restaurant over the road, I felt I was finally getting into the swing of things. Africa and my real adventure started the following day. I couldn’t wait.