Whit Monday. Dan and I decide to spend the Spring Bank Holiday cycling from London to Brighton. After a hearty fry-up, Dan plots out the route, and I take little interest in the directions, despite my overdeveloped hypothalamus (ask Phil at work, he's seen the MRI) and presumably superior navigation skills, err, generally speaking.(Landmarks! I need landmarks like the Uniroyal Tire in Detroit...).
We're a good 15 km in and, referencing to the map, Dan points to his curly cranium. (That's it?!). Thankfully, he's jotted some notes, but when I take a closer look at the details it is only then that I realise his idea of a map includes vague details about which towns to hit and a few key junctions. Mine would have included every junction, fork, pothole and turn - and I might have thrown in the Uniroyal Tire for good measure.
His sense of adventure is to Indiana Jones as mine is to Frodo Baggins.
Inevitably, we take a few wrong turns -- but then a few right ones -- to find ourselves at the foot of Ditchling Beacon (which Dan ambitiously included in the itinerary, *harumph*) - with 100 km already weighing our legs. I managed it, trollying my lethargic legs up 1.2 km at an average of 9 km/h. Slow as frozen molasses. But I did it. (So did Dan, but his effortless climb, caboosing my effort, is probably not worth further mention...).
A few km coasting downhill, the sun setting, cows grazing lazily, alpacas in the distance, and splendid endless views of the undulating countryside and we're in Brighton. 5:15 and 115 km. We head to the waterfront, grab some salty, vinegary, greasy grub from the local chippy and park it (that is, gently sit our tender aching bums) on the pebbled beach (ouch!) by the sea.
I resolved to have fish & chips by the sea over 3 years ago, on a touristy whim, and this is my first. But worth the wait. Now I've finally gone and done it, and earned it well, and haven't enjoyed it alone.
