The Day I Met The Beatles

Hey, I've just met one half of The Beatles, and the cool half at that. But more about this in a paragraph or five. Until then, please permit me to beam out a gushing beacon of optimism and good will to all mankind. Why? Because I'm feeling joyously happy about what happened last night and because I've recently heard that there's a certain primary school in Blackburn following my blog and I want to try to set a good example.

A while ago I was reading another cyclist's blog, a guy who was biking through the former Yugoslavian states, which I won't reach until the end of next year. When he was in Bosnia he was warned that the Croatians were a bunch of bad 'uns. When he was in Croatia, it was the Macedonians he was told to be wary of. Each country believed another was full of the wrong types. And yet, as he cycled through each of these lands, he met only friendly, helpful people. None of 'em were bad 'uns.

The thing is, everyone wants the same thing. Whether you are an Iranian, or a Massai, or an Inuit you want to live somewhere comfortable, you want enough to eat, you want your children to thrive and you want as little friction as possible from those around them. This is the reason why racism is silly. Because regardless of our physical and cultural differences we are all, at the most fundamental level, exactly the same. We are human. But, that said, some of us fear the unknown, and this fear often manifests itself as mistrust of strangers. Hold that thought.

Now, a brief but relevant diversion to Southsea. If you don't know, Southsea is right next door to Portsmouth, the starting point of my ferry trip to Jersey. Southsea is a special place for me because had it not existed I wouldn't be here at all. In the late 60s, my Mum was holidaying in sunny Southsea all the way from blizzardy Blackburn when she met my Dad, a sailor on shore leave. Had she chosen Bognor, or a different time of the year for a break, baby Steven would never have come gurgling into this world a few years later. So, thank you Southsea.

Back to the gushing. Now, there are friendly, helpful people in this world and there are people who go beyond. Last night I had the absolute privilege to meet two of the loveliest people on this planet. Georgie, an Open University student, had read my whinings on here about a leaky tent and sent me an email saying that there was a bed - a dry one - in Southsea if I needed it. She was there with her fella - philosopher John - and super-bright teenage son, Howard. To invite a stranger into your house shows a high degree of trust. But to accept such an offer also requires trust too. After all, they might have been in the process of setting up a Sweeney Todd-style pie company. But had I not trusted them, I would have missed out, not only on the friendship of two great people, but also on the weapons grade ginger beer served in their local and on a magnificent mushroom risotto that Georgie cooked. So now I have another reason to thank Southsea, or at least a few of the people who live there.

This bike ride might seem to be about places - about cruising into Rome or cycling over mountain passes in Switzerland - or it might seem to be about silly challenges that involve my eating deep-fried eyeballs or newts on toast, but it isn't. It's about the people I will meet. So far I have close to forty invitations, mostly for a coffee or a beer and a chat rather than a roof over my head, but that's enough for me. For a roof I have my tent. If the people I meet from this point onwards are 1/100th as fantastic as Georgie and John, my life on the road will be a golden dream of shiny unicorns, dancing fairies and rivers of honey. You get the picture.

As you know, George and John were the two cool ones from The Beatles and so when I said I'd met The Beatles that was a bit of a fib because I needed a title for this blog post. Ah, lying...now I'm not setting such a good example. Sorry, children, but there are times when a fib can be fine. Only Kant thought otherwise. Go on, ask your teachers all about him. (Sorry, teachers.)

Anyway, Georgie and John haven't been together that long but I really, really hope that things work out for them. They deserve all the happiness in the world. All You Need Is Love.

The Battle To Trafalgar

Wow, isn't Milton Keynes weird? But it's the home of the Open University and I found myself on my way there on Tuesday, the day before the big team ride to London, to meet the gang behind the OU's Platform. That's where you can find my other blog if your nonsense quota isn't already exceeded by this one.

Despite the OU's campus being the size of Ipswich, no one in Milton Keynes knows where it is so obviously I got lost on my way there. It's not surprising really when every road is an identical dual carriageway terminating in an identical roundabout offering you a choice of three more identical dual carriageways. Asking directions at a petrol station I was told I should turn right and it was just around the corner, I should definitely turn left, and I should turn left and cycle for "about six or seven miles". In the end I asked a bloke who had no idea where it was but typed it into his SatNav. I followed its advice and, ten minutes later, ended up back at the petrol station. In the end I abandoned my search for the OU and went to the hotel I'd booked instead. They drew me a map.

The next morning I was back at the OU to start our team ride. I would be joined by Fenella and Annie, recent OU psychology graduates, and Mark from the Blood Pressure Association, the man who has masterminded the UniCycle50 press campaign (at least six newspaper articles, four radio interviews and an appearance on ITV - I'm impressed!). Although I'd known each of them for months or years this was the first time we'd ever met. They were going to help me glide into my second capital, London.

We aimed to leave at nine but almost inevitably Fenella and Annie got lost on their way to the OU and then, with the various photos and people to meet, our departure wasn't far short of ten o'clock. We'd decided to take the most traffic-free route possible, which, given that this is only sixty miles from London, is relative.

Our route took us via a sandwich pitstop in Leighton Buzzard, Hemel Hempstead with the world's most stupid roundabout, a lovely little lie down in a park and a self-imploding pannier rack on Mark's bike, over an Alp in Bushey and then we hit London proper and came to a traffic light-flavoured halt every twenty metres down the Edgeware Road.

We weren't far away now. At about quarter past six we arrived at Hyde Park, which, given the tropical April weather, was crawling with people enjoying the last of the English summer. We each scoffed an ice cream and polished off the chocolate sqidgey thing lovingly baked by Ashley, the Blood Pressure Association's Head of Cakes. My, that was good.

From there it was only a death-defying ten minute scoot around the streets of central London to reach Trafalgar Square, where I was reunited with the lovely Nina and cool, refreshing alcohol.

Each member of the team had done him or herself proud, especially Annie, who had never cycled anything like this sort of distance before. I want to thank a great group of people for making it a very special UniCycle50 day for me. You're all stars.

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.