Fish in a tree. No really, fish in a tree.

On a moonlit cycle past the great monuments of DC we came across the best commemorative mark of them all: fish in a tree.

The roof makes you safe, but the bike makes you free.

Getting a bike was the second most important thing I needed to do when I arrived: find a roof, get a bike. The roof makes you safe, but the bike makes you free.

Finding the roof:

I spent a week of trekking from house to house: visiting, and smiling, and nodding - at bathrooms, fixtures, and fridges bigger than 3 embracing sumo wrestlers. I found myself a suitable bed or two: an air bed which stayed inflated through to morning, and an airbed which deflated by sunrise. Memory foam in the Dupont hotel, a soft and squishy number in Minnapolis, a vast mattress in Norristown, and a cosy bunk in Chinatown.  My most permanent mattress is second hand and queen-sized: it sits atop a small double bed fame with its sides hanging off the ends like the muffin top falling out of a fat girl’s skinny jeans.

Finding the wheels:

In the 8 weeks that I have been in the States I may have slept in an abundance of beds, but I have only sat on one saddle; a black road bike called Gravity.  

On Friday 6 May at around 4.30pm my black Gravity arrived in a large cardboard box, “them bikes are popular” the UPS man in brown said.  I opened the box and laid the pieces out on the floor. I removed the remaining plastic wrapping and called a bike boy I’d recently met. By the time I’d gone to the corner shop to buy us six Corona’s he’d fixed my internet bike all together. 

The roof makes you safe, but the bike makes you free:

This bike that’s been the most constant thing in my last few weeks and it has allowed me to see the city in a whole new way. I can reach areas I probably wouldn’t quite make it to otherwise, and I can speed through dark streets at night. My bike can take me to work in ten minutes, but it can take me away from the city for a few hours.

Like all the most important things in life, whilst my bike has made me free -  it has also left me floored a few times: my headset collapsed next to the Washington Monument, and I’ve had a Friday evening tussle with a tram line and the concrete. Gravity and I haven’t gotten off to the best of starts. 

Paris wasn't enough. I needed more: I needed Dunwich Dynamo.

Soon cycling to Paris during the daylight hours wasn’t enough. The memories of blood, hammocks and thunderstorms just weren’t hitting the spot any longer. I wanted more: I was becoming an amateur biking enthusiast, big time.

There is no better way to quench the thirst for wheels than by completing the biggest event on any weekend rider’s calendar - the Dunwich Dynamo.  

High-sugar flapjacks backed, a meal of pesto pasta guzzled, and lycra slipped on, we set off from SE5 to join the 1,000 other recumbent, fixie, and racer riders swarming outside an innocuous pub by London Fields.

So the legend goes, 7 years ago 12 bike couriers met at the Pub on the Park for an after-work drink. Full moon beaming they decided to set off and see where the night would take them. Several years later, this moonlit ride has become the most organised –yet unorganised- cycle going. Now every time the full moon rises in July around 1,000 sets of wheels meet to re-trace the steps of our fixie forefathers.  

Cycling up at the pub I didn’t have a clue what was going on, and nor did the veterans of the ride. But, like the sound of cleats at traffic lights, soon enough it all just clicked into place. I handed over my pound and in return got an A4 sheet of directions. I exchanged my name for a pink raffle ticket that was my promise of a coach ride home.  Soon enough the first wave of riders set off under the blue bridge.  Then the second lot went, and feeling the need to catch up we started riding.

I don’t know how it happened, but then it was dark. Into the distance stretched hundreds of blinking red lights, snaking out towards Epping Forest.

Riding through Essex was a treat: “fuck off you perverts” a crowd of lads in shirts and shoes bellowed. They were right:  after all were all wearing Lycra with our rude bits smothered in a thick layer of Vaseline.

Leaving the loud noises, and the even louder shirts, of Essex behind we hit the county roads and the night closed in.  I cycled hard and was soon alone with the darkness – it was just a weird feeling. My lights weren’t strong enough to see far ahead of me and I just had to trust the darkness. There were moments in the dark when I hadn’t a clue if my friends were behind me, in front of me or fixing a puncture 10k away. But somehow, like those cleats, it just clicked: as soon as I began to lose my trust in the darkness hundreds of blinking red lights would appear and I’d slip straight back into place. Magic.

Daylight broke, and my legs kept on spinning. As the sun peeped pink from behind the clouds it felt like I’d been to sleep and was just on my commute to work. I’d love to say it was the magic of the Dynamo, but I think it might have had more to do with those sugary flap-jacks and the families on the deck-chairs who cheered us through the night.

On and on we rolled. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast. Sometimes up, but mainly down. And as we neared the end of the Dynamo I came across those lycra ensembles from the beginning of the ride – from the 1,000s of people doing the ride how I kept on seeing the same faces over and over is inexplicable. But it’s part of the magic.

As soon as we arrived at the beach the red lights stopped flashing and the familiar faces disappeared. A jump in the sea and it was all over, apart from the fry-up. And of course exchanging that pink raffle ticket for my coach ride back to London. MAGIC. 

day 4,leg 2: we arrived!

We knew we'd arrived in Paris proper when the roads became mental and Stuart got a crazed look in his eye and said "let's go round the arc de triomphe."

It was at that point that I turned into my mother: my lips pressed together, and my mouth shifted to the right. I pulled that face.

Peter, Matyas and I didn't make it all the way round the arc, but as we jumped off onto the champs elysees we saw Stuart, Dan and Oli in the centre of the mad roundabout, surrounded by a military parade and being shouted at by the police. 10 minutes later they turned up, and Stuart looked even more crazed. I thought something terrible had happened but actually they were just excited.

After a quick cycle around Paris to take the celebratory photos and we headed off the Gare du Nord to drop off our bikes. It was strange saying goodbye to our bikes, I've always loved my bike. Perhaps a bit too much for just something I commute around London on but after spending 3 days with it we'd grown even closer. I know it wasn't just me that felt like this. Oli enquired after travel insurance, and of course now he'd say he asked because it's an expensive bike, but I'm pretty sure his was real concern was loosing something that had become so intimately acquainted with his padded shorts.

day 4, leg1: il pleut, et il pleut

Our palace in Gisors gave us a good sleep, and a good breakfast. At last I had that strong black coffee I'd been hankering after the day before.  Still full on the cheese from the night before we were all pretty happy and, seeing as it was raining, we were in no rush to leave. We would just wait 30 minutes for the rain to pass.

By about 10.30 the rain hadn't passed, and the lady who owned the hotel laughed at us when we asked if she thought it might clear up in a bit. So we decided to just head off.

Bags packed, padded shorts on saddles. Then - ah: Peter had puncture. Shit: so did I. That was my number 3 of the holiday. Tyres changed, padded shorts back on saddles and off we went into the grey. Puncture number 4 followed shortly, and of course Matyas was one to fix it for me. I was still a burden, and still not carrying any of my own bags.

A few hours of cycling and Peter started to get a bit grumpy, he was hungry for baked goods. Baked goods are a reoccurring love for Peter. It doesn't matter if the baked goods are savoury pies or sweet tarts, Peter needs his fix and he'd not indulged in days. Passing through a small town we came across a baked-goods store full of savoury and sweet treats of every kind. Happy and full, we set off again.



It didn't seem so long before we were on the home straight, following some directions from lovely old ladies we reached the Seine and then started to follow Stuart's military and precise directions into the centre of Paris. We zipped through the suburbs (and past a Decathlon, Peter's second love). Getting closer to Paris I got a final puncture -  again fixed by Matyas - and later I became distracted by some local drunks.

day 3, leg 2: from broken faces to broken bikes, and through a thunderstorm to Gisors.

I'd promised the Doc that I wouldn't cycle any more that day. Whilst I wasn't planning on following his advice to the letter, we did have a stop by a lake for frozen peas.

Peas melted, head cold, we started off. We we only going a short distance: 40-50k, and we would take it slow. But first Stuart wanted to buy a warm jumper (you know, just in case we were sleeping rough again that night) and Dan wanted an Orangina. And someone else wanted to pick up something or other else that we didn't need. So they cycled off to their various places, but feeling a bit wobbly I found a corner by an empty town house and hid in the shade. Dan promised me they wouldn't be long, and that I should wait just there.

20 minutes later, I was still feeling wobbly. 45 minutes later, wobblier still. Then Stuart came round the corner - I was meant to go and find them after all. They were all in a local bike shop having a debate with the owner.  Peter's bike the (very expensive) back de-railer had broken: my French skills were required.

In I strode to the bike shop, blood still in my hair and in the corners of my face: "I understand there is a problem with the bike," I announced. There was - it was going to cost 150 Euro and take 3 hours to fix.

We decided that the best thing was for the slower ones - me, Dan and Oliver to head off to the next town. Matyas wouldn't have normally sat in the slower group, but by this point he'd stripped me of my 'Packhorse Peters' title and was carrying both of my panniers on his single speed bike (the third time that day I'd come to be so very grateful for others' kindness).

Off we set, leaving Peter and Stuart to drink beer while the bike was sorted. Up and down some hefty hills, I felt more wobbly. Then the wind came, and then the lightning. We kept pushing on, all the while I was scanning every barn we passed to see if we could have a small stop and shelter from the storm. An over-reaction, perhaps. But you have to remember I was still very wobbly.

Sweaty and covered in flies, the storm passed as we closed in on our stop for the day, Gisors. Then came puncture number 2 of the holiday.  At that point Matyas (my bag-carrier) then became my puncture-fixer too. I started to worry that I'd became a burden.

We wheeled into Gisors, and after a barter with a grumpy hotelier found a palace to stay in for the night. We were also safe in the knowledge that Stuart and Peter had set off with de-railers in place.

Peter and Stuart arrived, and dinner came: frogs legs and the company of two hyper-active children from French-Canada.


The boys ate the whole cheese board. It was wonderful. Then we slept.

day 3, leg 1: from the cow field to l'hôpital.

It was a hard, cold night - and I had the luxury of a hammock and sleeping bag. Apart from Matyas none of the boys had brought anything warm to sleep in, and bin liners don't do much for insulating against the night air. The only sleep most of us got was after about 5am when the sun started beating down.

9am came, and our host the farmer came to wake us with his young son. A round of bizzare introductions was made between sleep-deprived lads and this 8 year old boy. The boy tried his best English, we tried our best French. But the exchange only made him look at us with more suspicion: smelly cyclists sleeping in bin-bags.

                                                                                                                                  

The kind French Farmer showed us his sheds, reminded us again to beware of the Dogs, to close the gate when we left, and directed us towards a watering can to "laver." We really were smelly cyclists who slept in bin bags.

We did as we were told: we steered clear of the dogs, washed in the watering can and closed the gate when we left - leaving no trace of our being there apart from a note of thanks. And I am really grateful to the French farmer as there really was no need for his kindness, and we all left legs a-spinning with a feeling it was going to be a good day.

And it was a good day, in fact the first 10k of that day was beautiful: shady trees lined the cycle path and we zipped on towards the next town comparing what we were going to have for breakfast. I love those food conversations - they always follow the same routine, the same back and forth of small boasts and mundane desires. We all eat everyday but we still get so excited when we know there is a great meal coming up. I was going to have a strong black coffee, maybe even two. And an almond croissant.

The zipping continued, and we started to pick up some speed.

"Come on Peters, let's race!"

And so I did.

And then my pannier flicked, and caught. And my bike jammed. And I went head first into a sturdy metal fence.

I was trapped under the bike, it wouldn't budge. When one of the boys pulled it off me the first thing I did was jump up. I was fine, legs move: nothing broken.

But then the blood came. I lay down on the cycle path with Peter backing away from blood, Stuart handing me baby wipes and telling me to  "put pressure" on my forehead, and Oliver making jokes about my underarm stubble (after a few days on a bike sleeping in farmers gardens it's not that surprising is it?). I didn't really know what was going on, just that there was some blood on the pavement, on my top, in my eyes.

For the second time that day I was about to become very grateful for the kindness of strangers.

Daniel had found a local lady who'd at first offered a plaster, but on seeing the blood had quickly changed her mind and decided that a lift to the Doctor might be more appropriate. One look at my Frankenstein face and the Doctor (and a waiting room full of excited old French ladies) decided that l'hôpital was probably more suited to my needs.

The hospital was 20k away, and so my surrogate mother took Daniel and I away in her Punto and drove us the distance to the hospital, waited whilst the Doctor made jokes about Tour de France and chose a bright blue thread to sew me back together again with.

Face back in place, surrogate mother dropped us back in town by the church where we found the others. They had tracked down that breakfast we'd all been dreaming about that morning and we tucked into a pain au chocolat or two.