Allsop(p)s are getting two tyred: Plans change

Nightbuses home from Dalston at 4am ain’t quick. Unable to fully open my eyes, I answered the phone with trepidation - dreading that they were waiting outside. To my joy both Simon and James were even more comatose than I was. Our 88 mile ride around the forthcoming London Olympic route seemed fraught with difficulties – namely fearsome hangovers all round. We re-forecast our route; 50 miles East along the Thames to Southend sounded feasible

The boys turned up two hours late in matching skin tight lycras and red and black chequered cycling jerseys blazoned with Big Issue branding. They looked the part. They looked ready to rip. Looks are deceiving. Our pale, drawn faces quietly ate bacon sandwiches. James demonstrated resilience and temper control as he wrongly installed my bike computer three times. Just as we were about to raise our limp, alcohol-ridden bodies from the sofa, my housemate’s parents arrived at mid day to see the new house; proffering a rather serious looking bottle of Champagne. They generously issued each of us with a glass - full to the brim – all the time looking on expectantly. Tactics? My gin soaked stomach clenched violently at the smell of more alcohol and I politely declined. James quietly put his to the side. Simon downed his in one.

Once actually on the bikes we set off in fine fettle, out of Herne Hill towards the river via a slight wrong-turn through a bottlenecked Camberwell market. Simon and James attracting much attention in their bold, tight, get-up. An unforeseen ‘no right turn’ took us over Tower Bridge and we followed a pleasingly calm cycle route through Limehouse, which surprised us with its lovely sad looking riverside warehouses. On we went, with blind faith the neat blue cycle path was taking us somewhere we wanted to go, and satisfied with the impressive views of Canary Wharf and the O2 Arena.

Whilst cycling through Mudchute the grand frontage of The National Maritime Museum on the other side of the river caught our eyes and, parched-mouthed, we dreamed of a lunch stop in Greenwich. A good amount of time was spent searching for a bridge. There isn’t one. We had set a precedent of not checking the map early on and Simon certainly wasn’t going to give in at this late stage. After some to-ing and fro-ing we eventually found the foot tunnel which passes underneath the Thames. As I carried my, blissfully light, bicycle down more and more steps, deeper and deeper under the Thames and along the damp tunnel at the bottom I thought of that famous old proverb; what goes down… is a hell of a lot harder to carry up again. As it turns out tight spiral stairs aren’t designed for carrying bicycles, especially with crowds of tourists coming the opposite way. But what’s a few gorged shins between strangers in a tunnel?

As we emerged the other side Simon and James’ flashbacks of competitive Jaegerbomb drinking just hours before, were making their presence felt. We’d run out of water and needed lunch. I felt certain I could navigate us to a beer garden I had once stumbled across, tucked away on a residential street. Silence fell as half way along my proposed route came an almighty hill. My body thumped with the shock real exertion. I felt sick. Simon arrived at the top; speechless and shaking with urgent need of food. No sign of the pub. Silence. Down the hill again. Silence. In to the nearest café. Silence. Sausage sandwiches arrived. Silence. Jugs of water disappeared. Offence banter returned. With a small amount of energy restored we leveraged ourselves back on to our bikes and found much maligned beer garden. Two hours of silence from Simon other than to exchange brutal obscenities or to reassert that he was getting the Greenwich ferry home.