Tubes and Ibu: The Great 500 Challenge

We set off for the continent full of nervous energy, not knowing what to expect. Through months of fundraising, at the back of our minds, we thought, “what the hell are we doing?” We’d picked the most difficult of five routes. It was obviously an unappealing one, because only 40-odd people had signed up to a ride that had spaces for 100. The easier rides had been filled up very quickly. Who would we be riding with? Hardcore Tour de France roadies with top of the range electrolyte drinks in their bottles and smoothly shaven arms and legs? Would they be mad at us for holding them up at every stage? Had we trained enough? We were a little worried to say the least.

So, at some silly hour of a Friday morning, Jodie, Katie and Princess took off from the relaxed cowboy security of Newcastle, bound for the joys of frisking at Stanstead, from which a nice orange and white plane would punctually fling them to the Czech Republic and Prague. At the hotel, Princess Sarah had managed to break everything, from all the lights in the room, to the toilet flush. Hence her nickname for the week. Jodie had to flush toilets for her, carry luggage, she even did her hair for her one morning. So the name Princess stuck. Moo and Joolz then arrived in style, Armani shades and Louis Vuitton luggage. Actually no, Moo arrived with a big purple bike bag, already dressed in her biker gear, hair scragged all over the place, ready to put her Trek together for the monster epic that was the Prague to Warsaw Marie Curie ride.

Joolz, Katie and Jodie were quietly terrified - after all, bike-mad Jayne and Sarah had dragged them into this mess last December (over the second pint: “Haway, it’ll be eeeeeasy! Trust us…”) They quietly accepted the shiny new hybrid bicycles presented to them by Pavel and the other Polish bike mechanics, who were to be our crew for the week. Princess Sarah was mortified when she felt the weight of her new bike – probably double that of her little Rockhopper. However, once she’d spun it once round the car park and attempted a really lame and clanky bunny hop (with the help of her spds brought from home) she accepted that perhaps it would do. Jayne, who cleverly decided to bring her own bike, Mr Trek, zip-tied him together and was soon testing her Bombers and lame MBUK chainstay protector on small kerbs (she’s admitted that she’s started buying MBUK – she maintains that it’s not a problem but with our support she’ll hopefully get through it).

Day 1

The next day bright and early, everyone had breakfast together and gathered in the car park to do some final fettling and saddle adjusting before we set out on our 500km journey. We were all nervous and the queue for the toilets was lengthy. By now we had met some of the loud and colourful characters on Team Prague, such as Pat and Jeemac from Scotland and mouthy Michael from Newcastle. There were many others in this colourful tapestry of cycle-travellers: if I was to include them all we’d be here all night. I suppose it was a bit like the Canterbury Tales, we’d ended up in this rag-tag motley crew of people from all walks of life, men and women, all ages – soap opera scriptwriters, events organisers, engravers, a vet, a medic (‘The DoctOr’ a la Dead Ringers), a physio (she requested that we kept that quiet for the week), an actor (who is playing Alan Davies’ ‘bitch’ in his forthcoming series, apparently… we’ll be looking out for that one!), an amiable Scouser, a few cockneys, Welsh wizards… there was wondrous variety – and everyone had the same adrenaline-tinted, easy-going adventurousness, sandwiched together by a gorgeous sense of camaraderie, laced with communal empathy with each others’ saddle soreness….. okay that’s enough of the poetry for now.

So we set off, fresh of shorts and styled of hair (these lasted approximately 5 minutes). Everyone wore lycra, except for Jayne and Joolz who had to be different and wear their Muddy Fox freeride shorts (as if they were expecting to find some north shore on the outskirts of Prague). The bikes sparkled in the sunshine as we headed north out of the city. It was a bit strange at first, cycling on the wrong side of the road in a cavalcade of 40-odd cyclists (including one tandem). At one point the group stopped at lights; men and women on shiny bikes engulfed an old Skoda. “We have you surrounded!” barked Michael in his Geordie accent. A guy called David used the squeaky toy elephant thing fitted to his handlebars – the first of many comical road rage counterattacks.

We cycled into the countryside: then we began to see the real Czech Republic – farmhouses and ancient Citroens, Fiats and Skodas – the young uns amongst us began to learn what all those school jokes had been about while the old uns bringing up the rear desperately tried to avoid being flattened. Everyone kept an easy warm-up pace, and once we reached the first of many arrows pointing the way (complete with illustration of a cyclist slumped over the handlebars) we were free to find our own speed. Katie and Jayne bombed off ahead. Princess Sarah found herself chatting away in the middle (does she ever shut up?). Jodie and Joolz found themselves further back but happy and comfy, and hoping that the flat roads would continue for the whole challenge.

So we progressed, Indiana-Jones-red-line-on-a-map Stylee, northwards through the Czech Republic, stopping for lunch at Malesov, and completing the 86km stage at Kutna Hora, where we were greeted by St Barbara’s Cathedral, a World Heritage Site – it was bathed in evening sun when we arrived, a treasure of a sight to end the first day with.

Day 2

The second of our daily wake-up calls dragged us from our beds at 6.30 the next morning. It was not nice. Princess Sarah tried to sleep in but Jodie encouraged her to drag her carcass out of bed before all the salami and cheese at breakfast had been eaten. Today we were to cycle a whopping (well, whopping for us) 112km from Kutna Hora to the border town of Nachod. It was a long, drawn-out affair, but the sun and blue skies, the craic and the teamwork got us through beautifully. Lunch: a nice little restaurant in Smirice. We each were presented with an unassuming little soup dish; everyone tried guessing from the aroma: chicken and mushroom? Seafood and mushroom? It was browny-orange, with what looked like…. tubes…. sunk to the bottom… Moo and Sarah, being a pair of greedy mares, had a try of the tubes, expecting them to be chicken-like. They took a fair bit of chewing and swallowing but they managed. Then the word ‘squid’ was mentioned. Then ‘offal’ floated around the room, finally ‘chicken guts. Sarah and Moo decided to leave their starter, along with the rest of the company. The subject of tubes – inner or otherwise – was a point of hilarity for the rest of the journey. The pasta for main course was great though. Upon reaching Nachod, the DoctOR went a bit loopy and began singing ‘Mrs Jones’ loudly, which was playing on his Ipod. Perhaps it was something he’d eaten earlier.

Later that evening, at her request, the DoctOR manipulated Sarah’s leg after dinner in the hotel lounge as it was a bit sore. He concluded that the knee joint was okay, that it was most probably the muscles, and to rest it and take Ibuprofen in the morning. 112 km had taken its toll on Sarah’s delicate limbs. The next day was to be the most gruelling, with ‘six major climbs before lunch’ according to our Polish guide, the cycling god that was Theo. After lunch it would be easier, he said. But his saying that was reminiscent of that person (you know who you are) on every mountain bike ride, who at every hill climb cheerily says ‘right, last climb’, when it bloody well isn’t. The same universal law was about to be applied to our charity bike ride.

Day 3

Once again, 6.30 wake-up calls shocked us from our duvets, and we gathered in the chilly square in front of the hotel. Local school children walking to school watched the colourful cycling shirts collect together with their bikes and fluorescent orange pannier bags. A few flats were sorted, sun cream tardily applied to lobster-hued skin, and then we set off again, to the by now familiar rallying cries of Michael – “HEIGH HO!!!!” And Aberdeen Pat: “UP YER AIRSE!!!!” Never had four human lungs generated so much noise in these quiet towns and villages. It was amusing to watch them prompt nervous laughter from curious Czech and Polish children with these foghorn vocals. Nachod was the last Czech town, and a couple of kilometres brought us to the border controls, where we had to flash our passports to enter Poland. We changed our Kronas or whatever they were, into Zlotys, pondered the new exchange rate, wondered how many beers we’d get for a Grolszy, and then got our arses moving again.

The first few kilometres were nice and easy; a flat road following a stream through a village which was clearly different from those we passed through before. This was Poland now, and it showed in the crumbling plaster work, the lack of rendering over breezeblock walls, and the chickens and goats in front gardens. It just seemed more organic, the layout of the dwellings. These weren’t built to a plan like in the UK, they were more randomly spaced, built according to who was shacking up where and when. Theo had said we would find the place more ‘authentic’, and he was right. A bouncy little dog came yapping at the passing cyclists. “Look! A resistance dog!” said Mick. “YOU ARE BEING INVADED!!… AGAIN!”

The hills were long, anything up to 7km, but always shaded by tall trees which was nice, as the day was again sunny and warm. Princess was glad that she wore black that day, as the tree cover wasn’t that great and camouflage was required. Climbing hills was not fun when the doctor was constantly ordering you to drink drink and drink some more. All along the ride you’d come across bikes standing at the roadside, riderless and lonely, and you’d know not to look too hard at the bushes as you’d see a lily-white bum (or three). One of our rest stops was in a small village with a run-down hotel. Joolz managed to break in and use their loos before being flushed out (excuse the pun) by a stony-faced Polish guy. The other girlies had come along too late as he was blocking the doorway, jangling his keys and (we think) asking us to leave in Polish. Sarah, for whom this was her first trip abroad, and a bit of a culture shock, had a vague notion that she could bribe the locals with spare change. “How many Zloty’s does he want?”

The climbs were enjoyable – not too easy, not too hard. We ascended through forests and came out at hill-top pastures. We were surrounded by northern Bohemia, the stuff of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale. It was beautiful and worth the climbs, though we were happy to reach our lunch stop. Afterwards, all flatness promised by Theo failed to materialise. We climbed several more long hills (“zis is ze last climb, I promeesse!” – yeah yeah), and Jodie, who’d done so well despite her lack of confidence, was helped along with a puff of an inhaler. But she did it, we all pulled through, and we were blessed with the most amazing, long, fast descents along sun-dappled forest roads, zooming past mushroom pickers, dodging potholes, crouching into the wind for that added bit of aerodynamicism. Spot-on.

Day 4

Day 4 was a little un – 60-odd km, mostly flat, some hills, to Hotel Maria, where we would lunch before the bus transfer to our overnight stay near Lodz – pronounced, of course, as ‘Wooooooooj’. It was because of this being such a short day that most of the alcoholism of the week occurred the night before – a reward for the climbs, and an easy day the next day that a hangover wouldn’t hinder too much. Except for ‘The Student’. Rick – a sports science student at Edge Hill (“where?”), did what he called “minimal” training for the challenge. He carried it off with rolling, lackadaisical Manc humour. Tall, dark and athletic, he was a runner, a swimmer, a bit-part actor, model, half-Polish – anything but a cyclist, and he reckoned he’d be all right without training. He was also the worst drinker, carrying a hangover on every morning stage of the ride. If you were to overtake the poor lad you’d see him slumped over the handlebars, clad in tracksuit top and bottoms, pedalling faithfully, mobile glued to one ear and him moaning in his Manchester drawl to his missus at ‘ome.

By now, past and present injuries were beginning to take their toll on Moo and Sarah. Luckily, the DoctOR was pill-happy and dispensed all the drugs they needed. They were quite happy to climb the analgesic ladder due to the pain they were in, and he was happy to feed their addictions, he said, with a pervy glint of the eye. Ibuprofen and Cocodemol cocktails were the order of the day. Moo had a pink bandage. Sarah had a white one. When the painkillers were working the pair of them went flying off to the front of the ride, with huge delirious grins and tripping on the sudden speed after crawling along before their doses. 10 minutes later – probably due to the sudden increase of output – the painkillers would wear off, the pain was excruciating at times, and there were tears. Moo and Sarah would like to say that there was indeed a lot of pain for your sponsorship! The irony – the two long-term ‘serious’ cyclists were hampered by injuries, while the others – completely new to cycle sport – were only affected by light saddle soreness and cramp.

The bus transfer was a welcome relief, and brought us to a hotel which used to be a castle. On the way there we scared the living daylights out of each other with ghost stories. After 5 hours of bus travel, however, our heads were falling into our plates of shredded beetroot at dinner, and any ghosts that wanted to scare us would’ve been disappointed.

Day 5

So – Day 5. We were 160-odd km from Warsaw. Again – evil 6.30am wake up call. Again, a chilly start. The DoctOR dosed up those who requested or begged for it. There was still a genuine fear that fatigue would overcome us and that we’d have to go in the dreaded back-up van. “It might as well be playing the Jaws theme tune,” said Jodie, referring to the Euro-pop happy hardcore that the Polish crew were playing incessantly. “I’m NOT getting in that van!” We all felt the same. Katie had no need to fear – she was like some sort of bionic woman – the professional roadie guys were complaining that she was impossible to catch up with. Moo, having a job to do for her newspaper, was forced to cycle up near the front despite her old knee injury in order to get the necessary photos. Joolz was fighting through her previous trials with muscle cramps, as was Jodie. Now it was proud Sarah who was falling behind in the later stages of the day, limping home barely a nose in front of the dreaded Van. Hills had been easier to bed into – routine pedalling actually eased the pain. But now the flatness meant stopping and starting – and it was the starting that was a bit of an arse. Cue more Cocodemol… At least she had kind of worked out what the problem was. No, not lack of training, not too much cake prior to departure, not saddle-height (despite her Princess tantrum at the start), but the actual act of getting on the bike – a higher bottom bracket and pedal height than she was used to; then using the same leg to swing on with when setting off, same leg when dismounting: it amounted to some sort of RSI caused by mounting technique. That’s what she would like to blame anyway as she sits typing this, at home with a sick note, skiving work…

Day 6

Day Six: the mood was one of anticipation, touched with a bit of sadness. We had had our last evening meal together as a group. No more Rider of the Day T-shirts being handed out. We had all developed a strong sense of unity, camaraderie and friendship, which was blossoming beautifully at this final stage on the open road. After this we would be launched into the fray of the other rides – mixed up with strangers from 100-strong teams, who’d picked the flat, easy routes. We declared our intention to be the first to hit Warsaw city centre. “Doesn’t work like that,” said Theo. In reality, we were to reach the edge of the city, collect together in our groups, and a police escort would take us through to the Palace of Science and Culture for the grand finale of our journey.

Again the roads were flat, passing the usual farms, vast fields of cabbages and invoking many incidents of flatulent turbo-boost (“trumping”, as Moo delicately put it) – we’d consumed a lot of cabbage along our way. There were no more families out pulling potatoes in brown fields, or mushroom pickers, and fewer and fewer of the ribboned shrines to the Virgin Mary by the roadside. The passing cars were becoming newer, faster, there was even the odd Polish boy racer. We rallied at the roadside one last time about 10km from Warsaw. We collected as a group, and donned our maroon Marie Curie T-shirts for the invasion. Suddenly our camaraderie became visual, a spectacle, a coloured unity. The excitement was building.

The Skiernevice to Warsaw stage was the rapid metamorphosis of rural into urban. Theo warned us there would be no suburbs once we reached the city; that the city of Warszawa would be an immediate assault of tower blocks and dual carriageways and traffic, and this we found to be true. We rallied once more in a MacDonald’s car park. There was a queue for the toilets. We gently heckled the Berlin to Warsaw riders – some of whom earlier had had the cheek to overtake our slower riders – as they were selected first for the police escort into Warsaw city centre. They were going to beat us there. They had rubbish green t-shirts. Our maroons were a better colour (and highly sought-after by members of other ride groups, we later found). Finally our big moment arrived. After Joolz had finished posing for photos with the Polish motorcycle policeman in his sexy black leather trousers, the signal was given for us to launch ourselves on Warsaw. Unfortunately even the police had to stop for red lights, but otherwise it was well cool when drivers tried to cut us up (er, hello! 40 cyclists behind a police patrol!) and PC CHiPs ordered him from our lane with a jab of the thumb and a jerk of the chin. Then we got stuck in Warsaw rush hour. It would’ve been quicker to walk. In fact, Pat and Margaret, the Irish tandem twins, did start to walk. A Polish dude on a bike whizzed past us on the pavement laughing at us, “hey where are you going?!”. “It’s actually not a bad idea,” muttered Theo. In this traffic queue, quietly being poisoned by carbon monoxide, we were able to observe the skyscrapers, the giant Sanyo and Indesit signs on top of them, and the tasteful tiger-print fur interiors of the cars around us. The traffic got moving, and suddenly the roads were clear. We turned a corner and were faced with the gargantuan Palace of Science and Culture, basking in the evening sun, and needling the heavens with its spire.

We could see the Marie Curie blue finish line, and a crowd of, er, six people cheering us on. Wow, we thought. We pedalled hard, racing for the grand finish, which was at the top of one last incline. Then we saw the large crowds cheering, hands held out for us to high-five if we weren’t too weary to let go of the handlebars. We fell from our bikes at the foot of the Palace and left them to be stripped of our saddles and pedals by the crew while we went to be photographed and drink some bubbly. Hugs and handshakes all round, well-dones and dazed grins as we tried to absorb the scene.

The next 24 hours were a blur of dinners, speeches, vodkas and beers, and sightseeing – Warsaw Old Town is beautiful, the old Ghetto and Jewish cemetery haunting. Warsaw as a whole is an amazing city that demands a place in any European tour. So ended our journey, which altogether so far has raised more than £1 million for Marie Curie Cancer Care. It’s the biggest fundraising venture they’ve attempted yet, and it came off a resounding success. Joolz, Jodie, Jayne, Katie and Sarah are intensely proud to have been a part of it. It has been hard work and a source of anxiety over the past few months, but it all was worth it for the exhilarating sights and sounds, but especially for the company – an amazing, unique group of people, each with their own story to tell, and their own personality of good humour and desire to help others – that is what will be most unforgettable. Maybe as a group we will do it again. We’ve gone from not knowing what to expect, to hoping for a sequel.

If you have been impressed by our adventure, even if we did wimp out of eating chicken guts, until 17 November you can still chuck money into the bucket at:-

http://www.justgiving.com/sarahjaynejulesandjodie

To date we have raised over £9000 and we would like to thank everyone who has supported us in this. You’re fabulous!