London to Brighton by bike

After cycling from London to Brighton in early November 2019 and arriving just about in one piece at the end, our bicycles took the names of Terrible Tim and Grant. As someone who has always decided on the sex of my bikes as female, the fact that these velocipedes became men says something about the success rate of the trip. This is not me being a man hater, just a feminist, supportive of the sisterhood and having an innate trust in women. These bikes did everything to lose the trust of myself and cycling chum, Lily. It should be added that I did everything to earn the mistrust of Lily for my sub par planning skills and hare brained schemes.

The distance between London's teeming epicentre and Brighton's sea salty goodness is 60 miles, so deciding to err on caution given that our bicycles would be of the trusty riding school variety rather than racehorses, we split the journey into two days. This would give us plenty of time. Wouldn't it?

Again, erring on caution, we heeded warnings of the baltic cold that threatened camping and set about finding free accommodation on couchsurfing.com and warmshowers.org. There was no room at the inn for two "friendly Irish girls planning a mad cycling adventure from London to Brighton" so instead, in the more traditional fashion, we went for a simple economic transaction and found a room in East Grinstead on Airbnb. This small parish of mid Sussex was chosen for its strategic location as a midpoint on our route. Perfect.

I arrived to London early on Thursday morning having traveled twelve hours by ferry and bus. I was opting for the low carb travel. Please note, low carb in this case means low carbon not to be mistaken for a low carb diet. I ate several pastries throughout the journey.  Early on Friday morning we would set off for the promised land of Brighton via East Grinstead. My noble steed had been booked from a bike rental shop near London Bridge and Lily would ride her new (second hand) mount which had been repaired especially for the inaugural outing.

I had not seen Lily for over a year due to our adventures in foreign lands and her new grown up job in the Irish embassy in London. This meant only one thing, a calm night in filled with catch ups. Translation: partying hard in Camden and crawling home in the wee hours. We awoke like two flat tires, eventually moving ourselves from the Hackney apartment after paracetamol, coffee and porridge in that order. The next step was retrieving my rental bike, the shop had been called earlier with a warning that the pick up time would now be PM not AM.

 At 3.30 in the afternoon, mere hours before winter darkness would fall, we stand at London Bridge with our bikes, stuffed panniers and a 3.5 hour cycle ahead of us. A decision was made from the London savvy half of the duo that we should take the train out of the hell hole that is London city center. I reluctantly agreed.

 4.00 pm: We finally set off by bike from the station of Crystal Palace.

4.30 pm: A pit stop to buy munchies.

We continue merrily on in high spirits, it is the golden hour and despite the warning of oncoming darkness that this heralds, we are entranced by the suns pinky innocence and the delightful candy floss sky. Google maps directs us into a park and we exchange squeals of delight at the perfection of it all. “Just wonderful” we enthuse and our shadows grow longer. Soon we leave the orange leafed park and follow topsy turvy directions up, down, around and through innumerable housing estates, but hey, at least we aren’t on busy roads. Stopping under a (lit) orange street lamp we take stock of the situation: Cycled for over an hour still with three and a half hours to go. Isn’t this the same as when we set off? 

6.00 pm: No matter, we have crisps and bananas. 

6.15 pm: A wooden five bar gate guards a very dark and muddy looking forest. It is clearly the setting of a horror film but Google maps instructs us to enter so we push on, silently. We do not sing or talk for fear of attracting the axe murderers.

As it is completely pitch black and the ground underfoot is a reassuring mixture of mud, stones and tree roots we walk our bikes side by side sharing the meagre beam of our single front light and phone torches. 

7.15 pm: We are still in the nightmare forest however Google Maps believes we exited long ago. Clearly we are doomed to die here, wandering the labyrinth forever. Spirits are very low.

7.30 pm: The forest is finally behind us but this yields no jubilation as we stand on the verge of a dark and unlit road. We watch silently as an articulated lorry zooms past us. There is no cycle lane. 

After making use of the forest’s inky darkness for a quick pee and ponder we agree to cross the road with our bikes and start a long roadside walk on the wide grassy verge which borders its other side. 

The verge is thick and damp with dew but at least offers us a safety net from the cars rush hour fervor. After a few minutes of walking and debating whether or not to call into the large house and request to use their phone to call a taxi we notice that on the other side (always the OTHER side) the same large verge seems to hold a path. Deciding it’s worth a shot, I cross and fall into a hidden ditch which lines the road. Lily laughs but I resurface, triumphant. This ditch is a mere dividing line. I have found a path. Lily joins me, entering and scrambling out of the ditch in the same graceful fashion and we begin a wobbly one-handed cycle along the path. Our phones’ torches are required for any semblance of visibility.

During our verge parley we have made a plan to reroute to the closest town and from there board a train to East Grinstead where we will sleep and recharge. As luck would have it (I am ever the optimist) the closest town lies a fifteen minute cycle away. The road slowly begins to become lined once again with street lamps so we rejoin it and free wheel down the hill. I notice a patch of loose grit on the road ahead and simultaneously register Lily swerving and tumbling from her bike. At the same moment a white van dodges out of her way and my friend, resembling a frightened hedgehog, balls herself up protectively. Lily’s knee is bruised and cut but most damaged is her confidence.  I am under strict instructions to convey any and all ‘cycling tips’ that I might have stashed away.

 I wrack my brains for any useful information that can be imparted about an activity so ingrained in its methodology that it has made its way into a popular idiom. “It’s just like…” I’ll leave you to finish the rest. The best I can manage is to “own the road” and to not be bullied by traffic, she has as much of a right to be there as cars. We both realise that this is too philosophical to be of any tangible use or help in a country which is a far cry from the Netherlands cycling utopia but it hangs in the air like a pride flag anyway. Finally through a combination of walking and cycling we reach the small town and settle ourselves on the hard blue leather pews of an Asian restaurant which seems to be having an identity crisis and offers both Vietnamese and Chinese dishes. The food is disappointing but the Tiger beer acts as a rescue remedy and is much appreciated. 

Eventually we drag ourselves and numb bottoms from the restaurant and pedal towards the train station leaving minutes to spare. A kind hearted man takes pity on me and offers to lift my pack horse up the stairs to the platform on the far side. Once on the train I realise that I have left our new water bottle in the restaurant. Lily rolls her eyes as we roll out of the station and towards our bed for the night.

East Grinstead turns out to be a charming town with ancient medieval buildings sporting dark timbering in neat Tudor lines. We however have finished our limbering and want to draw a firm line under the days activities. Our Air bnb is hard to spot as it lies down a sneaky side street, the bemused host comes to find us and waves us in. A last burst of strength is required to lumber our bicycles up the two flights of narrow carpeted stairs onto the apartment’s first floor. Our hosts attitude is commendable as she gives away only the slightest trace of a grimace at the trail of mud flecks we leave behind us on the walls and floor. Her formerly pristine apartment now looks like the grim scene of a bikicide but thank god for her stoic eastern European attitude. 

That night we make full use of the massive double bed by taking thousands of slow motion videos of us jumping onto and then James bond rolling over the duveted expanse. We are twenty five years old. By the end of the session we have discovered the perfect shooting angle and rolling technique for maximum impact footage. We have big plans to make a trip vlog. This is the content people have been missing

The next morning we are out of the apartment by eight thirty on an eager food hunt only to discover that most of the mouth wateringly cosy cafés

do not open until after nine. The town’s tidy perfection and English charm prompts us to wander out loud “What way did you vote in…” and by easy Freudian slip ..”breakfast?” As we are effective time killers, it is not long before we find ourselves seated in the top floor of a café being served with strong black Americanos and vegetarian brexit muffins. 

10.30 am: We set off! The sun is bright and our spirits brighter!

We make good morning progress with much of the route taking us along leafy bridle paths interspersed with quiet country roads looking onto romantic village hamlets and rolling green countryside. At the top of a particularly long and steady road climb darkened by a pine forest canopy we emerge to find the countryside suddenly opening up around us. Bright sun drenched views stretch to our either side showing off green forested dales inhabited by fat fluffy sheep grazing happily. We unceremoniously dump our bikes on the wide verdant verge and head to a wooden picnic bench for our first snack break. After taking ample advantage of our bulging food bag and the wholesome photographic opportunities offered by the grassy plateau we decide to press on. “It’s all downhill from here” we remind each other happily and, as it turns out, naively. 

For a further couple of hours the cycle passes as endurable but not enjoyable. The roads are busy but not bad and the slopes are tough but not interminable. Engaging our muscles we cover the distance in determined silence. This is broken when Lily warns me that her back brake seems to be loose. We pull into a handily located filling station and flip her bike upside down in order to attempt repairs or, at least, look like we know what we’re doing. Our confused expressions say otherwise and we successfully elicit the help of a man working in the nearby garage who quickly produces the tool needed to tighten and we are on our way. 

Soon the roads turn to quiet country lanes partnered with the unhappy development of darkening skies quickly ensued by a persistent downpour. My bare legs begin to resemble two cooked lobsters and the road surface becomes a cruel looking black shiny gash. Eventually, deciding we have had enough, we find a large oak tree and attempt to shelter underneath its boughs. Shivering and grumpy we search for the chocolate which is stashed somewhere in my panniers. The oak tree is not living up to its sheltering promise. 

Recalling my last cycling trip around the Dingle peninsula months earlier, I suggest we find the closest cosy pub. This same plan had proven very successful when similarly obtrusive weather had nearly blown us off our bikes and into the Atlantic. Red shaky fingers operate Lily’s google maps searching for the keyword of ‘pub’. The Half Moon Inn of East Chiltington seems to answer our prayers: images conjured by the phrases ‘open fireplace’, ‘pub food’ and ‘Guinness’ lure us onward. Misery and desperation have rendered us incapable of embarrassment as we arrive into the smart bar dripping wet having just parked our bikes in the beer garden. We are led to a table in view of the promised open fire but sadly outside the reaches of its warm arms. We order food; fish for Lily, a halloumi burger for me, a pint of guinness each and begin an unctuous debate about the paintings surrounding us on the walls. The artist favours garish colours and country scenes which feature violent orange sunsets. We talk earnestly and incessantly but without real interest on the works’ respective faults and triumphs. At the end of our meal and second Guinness we learn that the artists name is Grant and that the precipitation forecast for the rest of the day is 100%. Reluctantly we emerge to the sodden outside world and continue our pedal toward Brighton. 

3.30 pm: Due to the unfriendly weather the day is also beginning to look familiarly dark. It shouldn’t be long however until we reach Brighton, just another hour and a half. Surely.

3.50 pm: We have reached a massive roundabout with several lanes of traffic approaching from either side. I am preparing to round it when Lily stops me. What do I think I’m doing?

The brakes are on and we are beginning to feel hopeless. Turning round isn’t an option and sadly magic carpets don’t run in this country or any for that matter.

It is at this moment that we notice a cement track running set in the verge beside our road to Brighton. We briefly look at each other communicating telepathically “thank fuck for that” and high tail it across the waiting lanes of traffic to our track in shining armour. 

It is sheltered by trees and extremely dark, but we don’t care as it is separated from the road which we see now is a teeming dual carriageway.

 Progress is very slow as once again we are back to sharing a single front light. I cycle behind attempting to illuminate while Lily wobbles ahead trying to stay within the parameters of the beam. 

5.00 pm (roughly): We have reached the outskirts of Brighton and the track is becoming more difficult to follow as it begins to split into complicated arterial routes. Having to use the rapidly waning battery left on our phones for Google Map directions we continue on, often doubling back in order to take a different route. The rain is still stubbornly pouring.

5.40 pm: We have clearly reached the main thoroughfare and here our once sacrosanct bike lane is being shared with other road users. The rat race to the city has begun and it’s a dirty game dodging the buses and taxis who casually drift in and out of our personal space. Years of cycling in Dublin had, I felt, prepared me for this and I begin to relish it in grim enjoyment. My companion I learn is not sharing the same inane enthusiasm. This is dangerous and, she finally tells me, her brakes once again aren’t working so well. 

6.00 pm: I suggest swapping bikes and I learn, aghast, that Lily’s brakes are completely worn out. How long, I shudder to think, had she been cycling like this? 

6.10 pm: We begin a slow trudge to the city learning that our hostel is a further hour away, through the city and on. Wonderful. 

A homeless man engages a close to tears Lily in conversation. He is cold and hungry and wet. We are cold and hungry and wet. Given our inability to be rational adults capable of transporting ourselves from one city to another we are definitely not choice targets for him. I also realize that the pronoun ‘I’ should have been used in the previous sentence. I am not a good humanitarian post desperate cycle and when hungry. 

7.00 pm: We have arrived at our hostel just behind a large group of lads, potentially from Essex, maybe a football team and definitely planning on getting ‘bolloxed’ that night. The heating is either turned off or doesn’t work and the sodden muddy trainers we stand in are our only shoes. There is also a lingering smell of urine in the air. Between us we rent two plug in heaters and spend the next hour huddled over them attempting to dry our shoes. The jubilation of having successfully arrived in Brighton against all odds is markedly absent.

That evening we dine in an Italian restaurant and have a nightcap in a pub which is significantly warmer than the room we are due to sleep in that night. The beer I order is called ‘Saigon Fog’ and I like the bar instantly, purely for nostalgic reasons. 

8.30 am: I am woken up by Lily, she wants to go. Now. She had not slept due to a combination of PTSD from our trip and a drunk hostel roommate in the en suite bathroom whom she could hear all too loudly telling his woes to the toilet in a variety of ways. 

I begin to pack up our panniers and while doing so a lady with thin legs and a protruding midriff dressed in leggings asks me to pass her bag from behind my bunk. It is a black bin liner filled with her belongings. I suddenly feel very sad while a slow dawning realization washes over me.

Lily had had the same realization long ago. We are in a homeless hostel. 

10.00 am: We stand blinking in the bright sun (where was this yesterday?) with the hostel thankfully behind us. We have left without collecting our deposit. Our task for that day is to somehow make the ludicrous insanity of the trip all worthwhile. I am acutely aware that I may be the victim of a girl on girl homicide and that I would probably deserve it. 

Lily’s squat donkey we have named Terrible Tim after a pathetic male with terrible communication skills and mine, who admittedly served us well but annoyed us in its reliability which we felt  projected an innate smugness, was named Grant. The one syllable over- confidence said it all. 

Let’s go to Brighton said Lily. Let’s cycle to Brighton said Phoebe. 

Perhaps we were equally guilty of it. 

And so we beat on, bikes against the current. A pair on the promenade. Two fruits out of the basket.  Caution to the wind and recklessness to the sun. The Brighton sun.