Dunwich Dynamo

Regular readers will know I don't mind a long bike ride... or trying things that might make you question my sanity, so when I heard about an overnight 200km ride from London to Dunwich Beach, of course I was keen. As a guardian writer puts it: "What I love most is its sheer random pointlessness."

The guardian piece does a good job of capturing the experience. For me, the wee hours of the morning were eerily magical (maybe it was the delirium brought on by exhaustion?)... Riding through the countryside in the pre-dawn darkness, following the red lights ahead of you as they seem to flutter up the next hill... you couldn't imagine a better way to spend the weekend. And then the rain started. And the muscles started to hurt. And you run out of food. And you can barely lower yourself onto the saddle anymore...

Finally you make it to the beach, and it looks like some sort of cycling Normandy - bodies and equipment strewn across the beach. Nevertheless, swimming in that cold grey water was better than a dip at Bondi on a scorching January day back home. My companion and I reheated ourselves in the nearby cafe/fish shop. Raising our cups of tea, I toasted "Well, we did it." "Yep. And never again." came the reply. Within a few days we were already talking about doing it next year.

There's a picture gallery of the ride on londonist, which completely fails to convey the feelings of exhaustion and misery that came in the early dawn light, nor the elation of finally finishing. If anyone is considering it, there's a bit more info in this post, and now that I've done it, I'd also suggest: forget the organised food stop at half-way, the queues are ridiculous. Take your own, or stop early and have a pub dinner; arrange your own transport back, whether it's a friend with a car or cycling back to the train station (a lot of people were nearly stranded in Dunwich after the coaches and vans failed to pack the bikes properly).

Finally, maps of the ride:

Coast-to-(almost)coast along Hadrian's wall. Sort of.

The plan was to follow Cycle Route 72 from Maryport on the West coast to Newcastle-upon-Tyne hopefully making it out to the East coast. A motley band of 8 riders signed up. None had any previous cycle touring experience. One knew how to make road repairs. Somehow, I ended up with the maps. Not a good start...

Day 1 am (Maryport - Newton Arlosh)

The sea was angry that day my friends... our band of intrepid cyclists set off from Maryport, having woken to hear severe weather warnings on the morning news. Thankfully the wind was at our backs along the coast, and the waterproof clothing was in fact waterproof. Riding along country back roads with deep puddles of watery mud and cowpats led to bewildered looks from the locals and inspired the theme song of the day: "Smell like poo on route 72."

Day 1 pm (Newton Arlosh - Carlisle):

After a well-deserved hot pub lunch we set off again, and although the rain had eased, we had to turn in to the wind. Not nice. We rode through Bowness, the Western extremity of the wall but nothing remains to be seen. The weather closed in and all were glad to get back to the Cornerways B&B in Carlisle, and then a typical English night out: Indian followed by a few drinks at the Walkabout. Less typically, there was a flame-eating woman in her knickers outside the walkie. Women in Carlisle are proper 'ard.

Day 2 am (Carlisle - Low Row):

Fortunately the rain had stopped and the sun had appeared. Unfortunately the baggage transport company ruined our plans to leave early, by nicking off with one of the bags we needed for the ride. Eventually we got on the road and enjoyed cycling away in the crisp morning sunshine. All was going well until the first bit of hill caused a broken chain... an hour or so later we were back on the road, and all was going well until a slightly ambiguous cycle route sign and my impetuousness led to the group splitting in two and getting lost. Yes, I had chosen the wrong way to go. Eventually we all reunited at Lanercost Priory, but being behind schedule and hungry we had to cut away from the cycle route and head to Low Row for lunch. I don't know why they have Low in the name of the town, after the hill we had to climb to get there.

Day 2 pm: (Low Row - Twice Brewed)
For fear of losing the light after all the morning's disasters we ignored the scenic cycle route and made straight for Twice Brewed, with only a whistle-stop halt in Haltwhistle, the geographic centre of Britain apparently. With dusk closing in we eventually found the Twice Brewed Inn (after quite a few more steep climbs) and were amply rewarded with one of the greatest pubs I've ever had the pleasure of playing trivial pursuit in.

Day 3 am: (Twice Brewed - Chesters)
Again, our hopes of an early start were dashed when a flat tyre was spotted in the morning. Andy kindly acted as super mechanic while the rest of us went up another hill for a spot of sightseeing and finally got to see a good chunk of the wall up close. To make up time we decided to just head east on the Stanegate (built over the old nice and straight Roman road), which allowed us to cycle along and gaze at the wall while lorries whizzed past us. A quick stop at the Mithraeum to have one of the best coffees I've had in the UK made by a chap with a coffee cart in the middle of nowhere, and to point at a dead sheep. Then on to Chesters for some proper classical nerdery, wandering among the ruins of the cavalry fort and the small museum.

Day 3 pm: (Chesters - Newcastle)
No rest for the wicked, we push on after lunch to get back on route 72, and hopefully make it to Newcastle in time for our trains back to London. With the clock racing against us, there was no time to idle at sites of interest, but zipping down the country lanes and along the banks of the Tyne was one of the most pleasant parts of the whole ride. Apart from the bugs in the hedgerows, stinging against your cheeks or sticking in your throat as you ride past. With some weary legs in the group we made it to Newcastle with plenty of time to make the train. Not with plenty of time to ride out to the coast and back, but Simon was determined to do it and no-one was going to stop him. The rest of us finally managed to pick up our bags at the YHA and settled in for a nice hot meal at the pub before getting on the train... well, that was the plan, but Jo and Andy discovered that everything they ordered wasn't available that day, since the chef was new.

What? You mean there's stuff beyond London?

London, the physical and moral black hole that it is, makes it very hard to escape to other parts of the UK. Sure, you can hop on a crap-o-jet flight to the continent for the loose change you found in the washing machine, but getting out to the lesser-known parts of the UK is another story altogether. Train timetables and fares that are designed to reduce your mind to mush and motorways that are more or less long, straight car parks make it feel like trying to escape from a lower pit of hell.

Thankfully, Mark played Virgil to my Dante and led me to the purgatory of Devon for one mad June weekend of Morris dancing mayhem and teenage munters. Yes, there was a morris dancing festival, and it is as ridiculous as it sounds (who 'wields' a handkerchief anyway?). It can get quite serious when the lads really go at each other with the sticks. We watched for a while hoping one of them would forget a step and cop a well timed stick to the face, but without luck.


So, like everyone else in the town, we settled in to a local pub to drink, listen to folk music, and eat strips of pork pulled from the still spinning carcass of some impressive swine. Why does food taste better when you can still see its face? The village was quaint (a word I'm sure that is only used to describe English villages), with a friendly, morris-style atmosphere... until sundown at least, when the teen townies came out and started boozing away in the town square, drinking from tesco bags. Although, when all the local youth can look forward to is a once-a-year morris festival, you can't really blame them.



July saw me ascending to the lofty heights of Edinburgh to compete in another rat-race. Having loved the inaugural race in London, I thought running in the place where it all started would be a good excuse to see the city too. Yes, I ate a fried mars bar (and a snickers bar). I also partook in various touristy things like wandering along the royal mile (although we couldn't go into the castle because the Proclaimers were setting up for a concert there - seriously), getting lost in the history museum, drinking at Ian Rankin's local, and drinking in general. The rate-race itself took us out to parts of Edinburgh normally unseen by the weekend tourist, forcing teams out to see the Firth of Forth and local stadia. Unfortunately a knee injury to the team forced us to slow to a walking pace, and we ended up coming-in just before the cut off but still somehow not finishing last. After a Sunday afternoon listening to a Scottish ska band doing a decent cover/mash up of Ice Ice Baby, the overnight train trip back to a London Monday morning was like a descent to hell.



Nevertheless, I did finally make it to the UK equivalent of paradise, spending the August long weekend in Exmoor National Park. Having spent so much time in cities, I'd forgotten what a simple joy it is to get away from the city and breathe in some fresh air (read: smelling of sea salt or animal dung). Staying in a hostel located in the middle of the moor with absolutely no mobile coverage was an added bonus. The national park lived up to the long, rambling descriptive pieces Thomas Hardy used to flesh out his otherwise terrible writing, and we made the most of it by being stupidly energetic and active: fell running and hiking on the moor, mountain biking along the coast near Minehead, and surfing at Croyde Bay. Thanks to the 8th day adventure sports people for making it a great weekend, and Alex in particular for introducing me to Devonshire cream tea.

The 6th 'D' of dodgeball...

is apparently 'Drinking'.

As is my wont, I heard about a stupid quasi-sport taking place, and immediately signed up. Unlike the swamp soccer (ASS is going to have to give the comp a miss this year) finding players keen to join in was no trouble at all. So it was that the 'Rambo Academy of Dodgeball' was born (you had to play in fancy dress, and a set of camouflage t-shirts was the easiest costume we could come up with).

For those who don't know how Dodgeball works, watch the movie. It's basically the same, apart from the fact that you can't get eliminated by a head-shot. The madness was held in an indoor sports centre in Canary Wharf, and featured teams of cheerleaders, smurfs, crab people, movie heroes, and even a team dressed as members of the scooby gang. From game number one, everyone's sides were splitting with laughter. Dodgeball truly is the greatest sport on earth...

After a few hours and several pints, Team Rambo found themselves in the final, but had the popularity of the GloboGym Purple Cobras. In a best of 5 show-down, we beat the movie heroes (although John Travolta put up a decent fight) to universal booing. I don't care if they hate us, as long as they fear us.

This was honestly one of the funniest days I'd spent in a long long time. The simple joy of throwing things at people, and watching people get hit by things, is one that cannot be denied (I'm sure Freud would have had a field day with Dodgeball if he'd been around). If you ever get the chance to play, do it. And if you're a natural, who knows? Perhaps you could turn pro?

Not the sort of powder you get in Sydney...

The one area in which Europe far surpasses good ol' Oz, we must admit, is ski fields. Once New Zealand becomes the next 2 states of Australia this will be debatable, but for the moment it is sadly true.

Although not a snow bunny by nature, having a week off between jobs in January I decided to book a package trip to go snow-boarding in Chamonix. I made the booking with a company by the name of 'SpeedBreaks'. Harmless enough I thought, but it turns out to be a subsidiary of another company called SpeedDater, and apparently I'd booked myself onto a singles skiing holiday... Many will now be thinking wistfully of snow trips with university ski clubs and the associated shenanigans. Think again. Remember, I'm travelling with brits here, and most were single for good reason. Fortunately, a few others had made the same mistake, so we were spared any painful 'getting to know you' games.

Embarrassment aside, the week on the snow was absolutely astounding ('gnarly' in the parlance of serious snowboarders I believe). Having not been on a board since a few day trips from Canberra, I was grateful for the fact we were staying at a UCPA centre - as usual, the French know how to do things, with their network of non-profit centres making elitist sports accessible to the masses - with free tuition. By the end of the week I was cutting turns off-piste and playing in natural half pipes and loving it... I'd tell you about the apres-ski goings-on, but alcohol-amnesia prevents it.

Having been so impressed by the UCPA in January, a group of us decided to get in another cheeky long-weekend of snow (organised by ourselves rather than joining another singles trip) over Easter staying at the UCPA centre in Flaine. While it may be an abomination of a building, it is right at the foot of the slope, and covered in a foot of powder (as everything was while we were there) I'm prepared to forgive them. Again, the Alps delivered. Fresh snowfall every night and another flurry most days made for perfect boarding conditions. The highlight of the evening activities was without a doubt the snowboard instructor singing Nirvana's 'Rape Me' on karaoke night. A very modern serenade...

Sadly the weekend, and the season, ended. There were more than a few moments on the slopes spent considering ditching everything and becoming a snow-field worker so I could do this all year round... but the risk of turning something so magical into just a mundane job wouldn't be worth it.

Enjoying the rat race

ratrace_stpauls
Originally uploaded by patfoz.

Yet again, I found myself doing something that seemed like a good idea at the time... the London Rat Race. Based on a few posters and a slick looking website, I signed up for this 'urban adventure race' without even having a team. The concept is that the race brings 'adventure racing' (those eco-challenge things you see on tv where teams of people run, climb, swim, kayak etc around some pacific islands) to the city, so that average schmoes like me can be tempted into trying something they shouldn't...

I obviously wasn't the only one suckered in, managing to find some other Aussie novices to form a team (many thanks to Andrew and Gabbrielle). The running/orienteering session on Saturday evening started off well: we got the map, planned our route (not too ambitious) and set off... we got to the first challenge and I immediately wished we'd run in the opposite direction. The challenge was for the team to eat jellied eel. 3 team members, ergo 3 chunks of eel to be eaten. As soon as we got there, my newfound teammates told me they were vegetarian. So I was left to wolf down a bowl of jellied eel. And then run for another 2 hours. Go on, try it. I dare you. I had to stop every 10 minutes to retch and try to vomit.

The Sunday session started early, and with Andrew on the maps we raced through London on the bikes. After the pain of Saturday's running we'd decided to skip all the orienteering/running sessions. A small taste of the activities of the day included: riding in Richmond Park, barrel rolling at Fuller's Brewery, abseiling off Twickenham stadium, kayaking around Putney, and finally playing hide and seek on the HMS Belfast. A full day in the saddle covering nearly 80kms left me sore and tired and unable to ride my bike for weeks.

Needless to say, we didn't win, but had a great time facing up to the challenge. If you get a chance to do something similar, I recommend it (just do some training first!) - I'm already booked in to the 2008 races in Edinburgh and London...

swamp soccer reports

will be posted at the ASS blog.
Match day 1 is already up.

Blessed are the cheese-makers

rogue cheese vs. cameraman
Originally uploaded by patfoz.

In case you missed it in that joke story that they run in the last minute of the news - you know the bit, when the presenters smile and laugh inanely at each other and pretend they can stand each other's presence - the world's premier cheese related sporting contest took place the other weekend...

Ever since I first heard about this, it has been number one on my list of dairy product races to attend. Surprisingly, I wasn't the only one. I thought there would be a small crowd of drunken travellers trying to compete on the day, and that I'd have no problem joining in. I had no idea how popular idio-tourism has become! (In case you haven't heard of the new phenomenon that is idio-tourism - and I'd be surprised if you had, since I just made it up - it's the term to cover all those weird events that people decide to go to after a few too many drinks, like the running of the bulls... or university exams.)

To begin with a bus driver lied to us and told us the event was cancelled. After spending an hour in Gloucester, and faced with the prospect of another 7 hours to spend there, we decided to get on the bus and go to Coopers Hill anyway. This was followed by a 40 minute trek up hill and down dale, across muddy fields, over barbed wire fences, and around herds of cows. By the time we got to the bit of the hill where the race was held, the place was packed and there was no chance of fighting my way to the top for the privilege of tumbling all the way back down. To be honest, seeing the hill 'in person', I was kind of glad. I think the Aussies we saw on the train had the right idea - get drunk beforehand (hmm... perhaps that's another rule of idio-tourism, not only should it be conceived in drunkenness, but should be performed drunk as well).

Long story short - ok, not short, just not as long as it could have been - I didn't get to run, but I did get to witness an event that reminds you that there must be a god, and that he's a mean bastard with a cruel sense of humour. In the picture above, you may notice that the cheese has gone a little off course, and is heading straight at the one person not watching the cheese - the cameraman. There's also an 'after' shot, with the cameraman doubled over in pain. Truly a great moment, and made all the greater for sharing it with several hundred strangers in the middle of nowhere on a muddy hillside... there's something magical about the sound of all those people wincing in unison.

Speaking of wincing, I can't finish this post without rolling out a few cheesy puns (that's just to warm up)... The event was fantastic, and Coopers Hill is impressive... but I was really disappointed that I didn't get to rennet! (*Boom-Tish*)

Roll on!

Call up to the national squad

The socceroos were so rubbish against Denmark earlier this year that drastic changes have been put in place. Jono and I have been called up to join the national squad in a gruelling training competition to be held in Dunoon later this year.

If you bothered to click the link, you'll notice that it's not the socceroos (although the people in the video are a touch faster than most of our backs), and the only reason I'll be in the Australian squad is because I'm creating it... I always knew that I'd make it in to a national sporting team provided I found a pond small enough to make me look like a big fish... It's just a shame that the pond turned out to be a bog.

So far recruiting people for the team has been much easier than I thought it would be (the key to selling swamp soccer is: get people drunk!), so the biggest challenge I've got is coming up with a pun-tastic team name, or fancy dress theme. Suggestions of note have been:

• Bogan's Heroes (cheers Dyalan)
• Swamp Donkeys (from who else but Nath)
• The Marais Men (Alessia's)
• Bog-di Surf Life Saving Club (need the caps)
• Steve Irwin uniforms (some people think it's still too soon - pish!)

I'm still undecided and would love to hear everyone's suggestions. If you've got an opinion on those above or a new idea post it here or drop me an email.

At the moment I'm leaning towards keeping it simple... just good old "Australian Swamp Soccer Team"... a bit plain you might think, but I like the idea of having shirts made up with
ASS
TEAM
across the back. Or is that too cheeky? (BOOM TISH)