Scrumpy, Savage Ducks and Men in Leather

So, here I am. Day Four and my first opportunity so far to post. Where are all the WiFi bars in Britain? Anyway, I'm sat in a biker's pub, piss wet through. That's biker's as in motorbikers, by the way. Big men, wearing leather, full of tattoos. Not gayboys like me in my Lycra with my nuts dangerously on display. So, with that in mind, apologies for any incoherence in this post. I'm writing this while drinking a pint of 7.3% scrumpy at half past five in the afternoon. I'm trying to look hard. I'm not sure it's working.

Here's a brief run down of the weather over the last four days:

Day One: Rain. Wind in my face.
Day Two: Rain. Wind in my face.
Day Three: Rain. Wind in my face.
Day Four: Lots of rain. Wind in my face.

You see a pattern emerging? I'm not going to bang on about the weather, but the times I got lost I just felt from which direction the wind was coming and headed that way. It always turned out to be right.

So where have I been? The ride to Douglas supported by brother Dave was great, with the ITV film crew at the beginning and end adding a tinge of excitement. The massive potato pie and a chance to see the family was perfect at auntie Rita's in Blackburn. But cycling through Blackburn itself was nostalgically depressing. As was Accrington and Burnley. The campsite just outside Holmfirth was lovely, even when the ducks tried to invade my tent in the early hours. Yeah, I showed 'em who was boss. But Holmfirth itself was fairly ordinary. Why was it chosen as the set of Last of the Summer Wine? No idea, but I paid careful attention when cycling up its hills in case geriatrics in tin baths came careening down. Matlock was odd as usual. All the smells of Blackpool - minus the shit-filled sea - but I'm miles from the coast. And Halifax, Huddersfield, Sheffield and Derby were all much prettier than I'd expected. We're not talking Paris but still.

Anyway, I'm on course. Tomorrow I plod on with a full day, with aching legs and a sore arse to Northampton, and then it's only a short hop on Tuesday 5th to the home of the Open University, Milton Keynes. And there I meet my fellow cyclists who will help me to reach London. Two capitals, one week. C'mon! It's all going well. Bring on Albania!

The Last Supper

Forget all the other nonsense you've read on here over the past four months; the real blog starts right here, right now.

At 6am in the morning, I'll leave the house loaded like an Indian minibus and cycle to Douglas, the Isle of Man's gently throbbing metropolis en route to the ferry, ticking off the first of my fifty capitals in the process. ITV are going to film it apparently. (I know I typed that sentence but it just feels surreal.) But there were important things to do before then.

Last night was a time to eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow I ride. As you'll absolutely definitely know if you've been paying attention, I've been set a challenge to eat something I've never had before in each country I visit. This was proving difficult on the Isle of Man. There's very little that's uniquely Manx, except perhaps their little scallops known as queenies. They're lovely, but I've had 'em. The only other thing here that I've not seen outside Manxland is the very unlovely cheese, chips and gravy. But I've had that too. There was nothing left to try. And then I stumbled across this local delicacy:

Now, I've never eaten a knob but I was willing to give it a go. Disappointingly, it's just a clever marketing ploy. They're nothing more than boring, old boiled sweets sold with a slightly rude name. It's not even an amusing play on words, like a bar of cockolate or a Toblerbone. Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they are knobs. If they are, it would explain why the women around here aren't dancing in the streets. And to think they'd been sold the myth of Manx men's third legs. I've had boiled sweets before and so their eating would be cheating.

So to fulfil the terms of the challenge I had to think bigger. This meant me and brother Dave popping to the local meat shop and having a butcher's at its grand choice of jungle food and its various cuts of endangered species. But what to eat? Should we partake of a tasty hippo burger or maybe an elephant's rib, or something lighter like hyena on toast? I was slightly disappointed that they'd sold out of panda and all their dodo meat was out of date but in the end we plumped for bison and wild boar.

The wild boar was delicious, like a liver-flavoured pork steak, but I should have taken the bison on my travels in case I ever needed a new tyre. Rather than eat bison again I'd rather stuff my mouth with Manx knobs.

So, early to bed and, with a weather forecast predicting rain and strong winds, probably not much sleep.

The World's Most Pointless Blog Post

This may turn out to be the most pointless blog post ever written, and that's up against some pretty tough competition. I wasn't going to write this post at all, but then the netbook arrived that I'll be using for the bike trip and I got excited and had to tell someone about it. It's utterly fan-flappin'-tastic! It can sing and it can dance. This morning it made me a cup of tea. It's tiny and so amazingly powerful, like Jimmy Krankie in a MiG-29. I just had to get it off my chest.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Just what is this brilliant bit of kit he's got his sweaty, little paws on and where can I get one for myself? Well, unfortunately I can't tell you that.

Y'see, a few months ago I approached the company that made this little gem and asked them if they'd be my computer partner for the ride, with all the good publicity that this might generate for their outfit. And did they jump at this opportunity? No, they did not. They didn't jump, run or walk nor even casually nod in my general direction. In fact, they totally ignored me. They didn't even reply. Bastards.

And so I bought their box anyway because I knew it was exactly what I needed, but I now feel contractually obliged not to give them any publicity whatsoever nor even to give a single clue as to what the computer actually is. So you'll never know the exquisite, digital lovely that will keep me in touch with the world, allow me to plan my route whilst on the road and guide me towards my degree courses. Well, not as long as it keeps working, that is. If it packs up, then screw 'em. You'll be the first to know what this great pile of shite is. I'll write out its name in three foot high, flashing letters.

So if you just happen to be the head of a laptop manufacturer's corporate sponsorship department and you're worried that my letter may have been heading in your direction and simply got lost in the post, don't worry. It's not too late. I can still tell the world how great your product is. But I know two or three charities that really could do with a sizeable donation first. And my demands don't stop there. I'd like a pasty. No, two. At least two. Just keep 'em coming really. I'll be waiting, pointlessly...

Trench Foot, FIFA 2011 and Goodbyes

This will be the last, very short post before I set off on the 31st March. For a long time this ride has felt like a pipe dream but now it's very real. I can already smell the trench foot and feel the boils developing on my arse.

The blogging will have to dry up temporarily because I have a lot to do. During the next three weeks I have a three-day course in London, two OU assignments to complete, lots of publicity for the charities to generate, I need to make sure everything is working properly on the bike and, er, what was that other thing? Oh yes, I need to write another 16,000 words for the dissertation that I'm supposed to be doing for my philosophy MA. And this just happens to include a week during which my sister-in-law is on holiday leaving my brother inside an empty house with a fridgeful of beer and FIFA 2011 calling sweetly from the Xbox 360. Something's gotta give. My money's on the dissertation...and the assignments...and the publicity. I wouldn't mind the FIFA addiction but he always beats me. Every time. And I play with Brazil while he uses Accrington Stanley. I'm shit and I know I am.

So this is it. The next time you hear from me I'll be on the road, and the trench foot and boils will no longer be in my imagination. Bye for now!

UEFA, Eurovision and Unemployed Paedos

What is Europe? For some, it's a rich and exciting mish-mash of cultures, proving how people from very different backgrounds can cooperate and thrive. For others, it's a place to go bright pink every summer with the opportunity to chuck up over a balcony. But which countries really count as Europe? For the most part there's no difficulty, but Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan are tricky. They appear in a few lists of European countries, but not most. To include their capitals would add 3,000 kilometres to the second year of my ride, which is already the longest by far. I'd also have to change the name to UniCycle53, which just looks a bit shit.

Do Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan really belong to Europe? Fortunately, someone recently posed this exact question at About.com. Unfortunately, it quickly descended into a racially motivated bloodbath, with those of European descent abusing those of Asian descent and vice versa and lots of people being called "fucking idiots".

Still, the discussion may have included some useful information and so we kick off with Basilio: "There is no question Armenia is European. To the jokers who claim Armenia is Asian it is just a stunt. Armenia's religion is Christian, its people are white, its culture is definitively European, it is a democratic country." But if all it takes to qualify for Europe is a white Christian democracy, then Australia, Canada, New Zealand and the United States are all in Europe. That can't be right. Bloody hell, discovering the truth this way could add light years to my ride.

And despite his beautiful name Vartan Mamigonian was no help whatsoever. In fact, he seemed to be in the wrong discussion entirely: "Turkey does not belong in Europe until it acknowledges the Armenian Genocide." Eh? How does 800,000 square kilometres of dusty lithosphere recognize a massacre? Can Kilimanjaro accept a compromise? Can the Thames Estuary appreciate a toasted sandwich? I'm not sure they can.

It soon became clear that what we needed was a definition for Europe. Ben Williams creates one of his own: "If Azerbaijan, Armenia and Georgia join in Eurovision then surely they belong to Europe? Does anyone else agree?" Well, to be honest, probably not, because singing "Boom Bang-a-Bang" in a squeaky voice surely can't define one's geographic location. Besides, the Vatican City never enters a song and it's unquestionably a part of Europe. That said, if they wanted to be represented in future contests by a like-minded artist, Gary Glitter's not doing much at the moment.

The conversation continued and P James chipped in with a warning against lazy, black and white thinking: "Everything in this world can't always be neatly pigeon-holed." But then he spoils it all by offering his own lazy, black and white, pigeon-holing definition: "However, the three countries are all members of UEFA and football is perhaps one of the most significant pillars of culture and the highest expression of nationality in the modern world." Wayne Rooney as Pavarotti. Interesting. But anyway, Israel and Kazakhstan are also in UEFA and their capitals would add a further eight thousand kilometres to my ride. Oh, this is hopeless.

David introduced yet another complication through the medium of excessive exclamation mark usage: "Georgia doesn’t have any similarity with Azerbaijan or Armenia! For me Georgia looks like Ukraine, Moldova and other European countries!!! As ethnography proves real Georgian man is white with bright hair and green eyes which is completely European!" So perhaps one of 'em is European but not the other two. Ah, bugger! But now I didn't care whether or not Georgia was European. I just wanted to go there and see those blokes with bright hair.

But in the end the wisest and calmest response came from Emil R. Pernsteiner: "There obviously is no correct answer other than by definition. And then it becomes 'whose definition'?" So it's up to me. I can decide who belongs to Europe. Sorry, Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan, but you're not in my gang. And if the next time you're at the Eurovision, a dodgy bloke in a silver suit asks if you want to be in his gang, I'd recommend you decline.

The Superhero of Silly Names

I'm a big baby. I find silly names extremely amusing. This is possibly because I myself have a bloody stupid name. Steven Primrose-Smith is incredibly wet, isn't it? It's hardly the name of ruthless business leader or a dashing eighteenth century explorer. Not unless the place he was dashing to explore was the Blue Peter garden. Apparently, there's a web site that will generate a porn name for you. I suppose it's useful if you're fed up of working in the bank. For a bloke it'll come up with something strong and masculine, like Hank Stallion or Alex Porkbone. Steven Primrose-Smith is as far removed from a porn name as it's possible to be. I'm not sure what sort of job goes with Primrose-Smith. A Church of England vicar maybe, or someone who embroiders poodles.

Facebook friends from my youth will wonder why I now have this name rather than the easily forgettable Steven Smith they knew from school. Did my parents get remarried or maybe I changed it? No, basically I lied to you. I've always had this silly name. Throughout my entire childhood I prevented the leaking of a truth that I suspected would have resulted in anything from mild, good natured teasing to something requiring reconstructive surgery. And as if my name wasn't silly enough, some people have managed to get it even more amusingly wrong. The seven year-old daughter of a friend of mine thought I was called Steven Steamrose-Piss.

But some people have it a lot worse than I do. Long ago I did a cycling tour of Orkney, where I picked up the regional rag. Local papers the world over have a hard time selling themselves what with there usually being no actual news to report. The headline in that evening's copy of The Orcadian screamed, "Chaos as uncollected rubbish gathers in street" accompanied by a photo of three lonely bin bags in a scene that looked entirely unchaotic. More amusing than this was a photo on page 5 of a local lady's recent birthday gathering. Just as Tony Blackburn's surname originates from a northern mill town, other places become surnames too. Unfortunately, in Orkney there's a village called Twatt. You can see where I'm going with this. Being saddled with such a surname is unlucky enough, but you wouldn't thank your parents if they then christened you Violet. Happy birthday, you poor lass.

Jump forward a few years and I took my silly name research international. In 1996 I got a job in Austria. On my first evening in Graz, in a company apartment with no telly or radio, while waiting for my gear to arrive from the UK, I got bored. This was the sort of crippling ennui that causes you to get creative with alternative sources of amusement. All I had to read in my spartan flat was a local telephone directory. Now, I have to admit to something I'm not particularly proud of, and I apologise right now to any Austrian or German reading this, but I did what you'd expect any Englishman to do in such a situation and decided to see how many Hitlers lived in my area. I'm not exactly sure what I was going to do with this information. It's not like I was planning a putsch or anything. As it turned out there weren't any. I was later told that, for reasons of personal safety, all the Hitlers had been allowed to change their names after the war. I think this was probably a wise move. I suspect the mild, good natured teasing might have become unbearable.

Anyway, during my scan of the Austrian phone book I noticed an outstanding number of silly names. And when I turned up to work for the first time the next day, it was obvious that silly names weren't confined to telephone listings. The company email system was full of 'em. There was good old Harold Fuchs, and the painfully honest Roland Wanker. And my department contained two great ones. Despite the tragic name, Peter Piswanger really was a lovely fella. And when you appreciate that a 'd' at the end of a German word sounds very much like a 't', you'll realise the childish sniggering of Englanders every time Marina Kuntzfeld introduced herself. Even the Brits in Austria had dodgy names. I knew a bloke called Richard Cheese. He rarely contracted his first name.

But I never met the man behind the phone book's most beautiful name of all. To me, he was the superhero of all daft monikers and he was called...wait for it...Andreas Wankhammer! Isn't that just gorgeous? I saw him as a Thor-like creature battling evil with his giant penis. He probably wasn't. He was probably an accountant or something, calculating profit and loss accounts with his giant penis. But if I'd been called Andreas Wankhammer I wouldn't have hidden away my name at school. I'd have shouted it loudly from the rooftops. Admittedly, I'd probably then have been expelled. But at least I would have found my porn name.

My life as Fred West

When I've mentioned this trip to others, some have asked me why I want to do it. No matter how often I get that question I'm always slightly thrown by it. Why wouldn't I want to do it? It feels like a no-brainer. I'll be getting myself fit and healthy, seeing amazing places and meeting tons of interesting people. I'll down some of the best beer in the world in Belgium, scoff a pizza in its Neapolitan birthplace and possibly get shot dead by a genuine Russian gangster in Moscow. Even forgetting the money raised for charity and focussing purely on selfish reasons, it feels fairly negative to even consider that this trip might not be a good idea. It's like asking Mr. Kipling why he wanted to make his cakes exceedingly good rather than just a bit shit.

But I'm used to negativity. I love my mum but she's possibly the most negative person on the planet. Just as the Inuits reputedly have dozens of words for snow, my mum has three thousand different ways of saying, "That won't work!" We've already run through a couple of hundred reasons why my bike ride will fail and they've become progressively more ridiculous. For a while the favourite was that my bike would be stolen somewhere like Poland. Then we moved on to my impending mauling by a gang of desperate Albanians. It won't be long before the smart money is on my being eaten by a shark in the Alps.

Negativity prevents a lot of good stuff from happening. I'm interested in the idea of motivation. Why do some people live the life they dream of while others seem only to live for the weekends or for a couple of weeks each summer? Continuing this theme, the cycling is not the only element of this trip that doesn't meet with my mum's approval. As the second capital I'll tick off during my ride, I'm very much looking forward to pootling through Boris's new, cycle-friendlier London. The timing of my visit is crucial because I'll be spending a couple of days there enjoying the second half of a life-coaching course. I quite fancy the idea of life-coaching and helping people to help themselves to achieve what they really want. My mum finds this hysterical. "You can't be a life coach," she says. "You haven't lived!" Cheers, mum.

So the trial began. The case for the defence pointed out that, amongst other things, I've lived in four different countries and have travelled to four different continents. I've cycled the two and a half thousand kilometres from the Isle of Man to the Costa del Sol and have crewed even farther on a yacht from Marseilles to Cork. I was the director of my own software company, I finally managed to get a degree, I've run a marathon and I survived a near death experience. That was a busy weekend, I can tell you. I've stood on a stage and sung a song I wrote myself dressed as a sex-starved dinosaur, I've played the role of Fred West in a series of comedy sketches and I've even appeared under those same lights dressed in nothing but skimpy female underwear. As it really wasn't helping my case, I asked if this last bit could be struck from the record. C'mon, mum, I've lived! But then the judge revealed why I hadn't. It's because I don't have kids. To my mum, life equals children and without reproducing I may as well have spent the last forty years queueing in Greggs. The verdict was, and still is, guilty. This misses the point about life-coaching anyway. It's not about telling people how to live. It's about helping them to find what they really want to do and then to assist in putting together a plan of action. It's about a technique rather than recalling a store of personal experiences. You can become a life coach without having children. And without dressing up as Fred West.

But generally the family agrees that I should go and get a job rather than tossing around on my bike and reading books and stuff. At get togethers the house drips with a Protestant work ethic even if there's no actual religion present. But I don't want to do that. I want to have an adventure. I want to see all that Europe has to offer, and I want to finish those degrees. That's what I call living. That's my plan of action. So sod 'em! I'm doing this trip and I'll just have to take my chances in Switzerland with all those man-hungry Great Whites.