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.

day 2, leg 2: dieppe to sleeping with the cows in a french man's garden

At about 4.20pm we rolled off the ferry and into Dieppe.

First stop: Tourist Information to find a route to Paris. 

We had meant to plan the route on the ferry, but we were all a little tired after I'd demanded that we leave at 4am in the morning and so we all indulged in a bit of a snooze instead.

Maps sorted, off we went to find Avenue Vert, a 40k  cycle route that points you in the right direction for Paris. It's a nice easy cycle, which smells of cows and  the countryside.

After 30k in the sticky evening heat, with flies sticking to every inch of available skin we stopped off for a beer and pizza - with Dan reporting to have had the best Calzone of his life. So if you ever  make a bike trip to Paris, do stop off at the pizzeria in Neuf Chatel en Bray. But don't order a coffee before your meal, it just confuses them.

2 beers in, and I was drunk. But into fading light of the evening we cycled to find our bed for the night: like Mary and the 5 Josephs we kept our eyes peeled for barns, sheds and ditches that might house us for the night.

Peter spotted a house with a barn and somehow convinced me (I guess I was still a bit drunk) to knock on the farm house door and request  (in my very best French) the use of their jardin for the night...

Anna: *knock knock*

Farmer man: *loud angry French noises*

Anna: vous parlez Anglais?

Farmer man: Non! *more loud angry French noises and the door is thrown open.*

Anna:  Desole! Desole! Mais, we have a problem: we cycle London to Paris and we would like sleep in your Garden this evening. It looks very tranquil.

Farmer man: *something in French, what I can only assume to mean* oh, no worries love.

Peter: *Grinning like an idiot.*

Anna: Ta very much, so it OK for me and him....? *I jab a pointed finger at grinning Peter*

Farmer man: Oui...

Anna: ...but also 4 other garcons??

Farmer man: yeah, no worries love. park yourself up over there, there is even a hammock for you.


And so we had found our accommodation for the night: I parked up in the hammock, Peter fetched the others, and we slept. 

day 2, leg 1: reigate to newhaven

3.10am: alarm
3.11am: alarm snooze
3.20am: alarm. shit. I'm cycling to Paris today.
3.21am: shower
3.30am: porridge. can't eat it. too full from BBQ last night.
3.35am: give porridge to one to the boys to finish.
4.00am: the time we are due to set off from Reigate.
4.35am: the actual time we set off from Reigate. Call Dan, let him know to meet us somewhere else than where we agreed.
4.45am: waiting for Dan.
4.55am: still waiting. Have a panic about making it in time for the Ferry.
4.56am: See Dan in the distance, start peddling. hard.

The ride from Reigate to Newhaven was a hilly one, but I'm so pleased we did it as day broke - we missed the mental traffic and avoided the beating sun. Looking back on the ride I can't really remember the details, it was just smooth and early. And I was mainly just having a panic about missing the ferry.

The first puncture was mine, just outside of Lewes the town with it's own currency. Punctures were to be something I'd get very used to fixing (watching other people fix) in the next few days.

Puncture fixed we ate a fig roll, and rolled on down the hill to Newhaven arriving at 8.30. No need to have a panic about making the ferry: we had hours to kill.  So we had a fry-up, and went to Somerfield. Which, of course, meant we were late for the ferry. So I had another panic about missing our boat.

Getting on the ferry we were all in good shape, apart from Dan. Naturally he'd gone missing after Glastonbury and had a insect bite that seemed to have blown up the whole of his right forearm.

day 1: camberwell to reigate

On Wednesday morning I sat outside my little flat in Camberwell with Peter and Matyas. I was a little bit nervous, a little bit unsure I'd be able to make it, and a little confused about how we'd ended up leaving Camberwell with no real route planned. 

I'm not sure how Matyas was feeling, but Peter was hungry so I fed him some rice and vegetables and we drunk some tea while we waited for Stuart to arrive. 

While we waited I was convinced to pack a sleeping bag with me, a decision I'd come to appreciate. 

Stuart arrived, and we set off. Just outside Tooting Peter had his first puncture. I laughed, a decision I'd come to regret later. 

Tyre changed we headed towards the green(er) roads of Surrey, having grown up there I didn't think we needed to consult a map and we headed off in entirely the wrong direction and cycled around the footballers houses of  Kingswood a few times.  At this point we gave up cycling, picked up our bikes and scrambled through an overgrown footpath to get back on the road. So I guess you could argue we didn't really cycle all the way from London to Paris.

Finally we arrived in Reigate to find that my mother had displaced all of her anxiety about the upcoming misguided cycle into preparing a feast of a BBQ for us. I could tell she really was quite worried - there was quite a bit of food, even for the Vegetarian. 

The other hint that mother was slightly stressed was that she was pulling the face - where her lips press together, and her whole mouth gets slightly pulled to the right of her face. This is a face I have always thought made her look slightly mad, but just as I came to regret laughing at Peter's bursting tyres, I have also come to regret laughing at the face my mum pulls when she's stressed...