Some time in the winter of 2014 my mate Wilma and I spent 96 hours doing little more than cycle, eat, feel numb, cry, attempt to sleep, cry again, and cycle some more. We made it from the northern tip of Scotland to the little toe of Cornwall, enduring the onslaught of the coldest March since records began. Whenever the hell that was. It was an experience we won’t ever forget. We’ve tried.
But unfortunately we can’t. Because it got made into a film.
Which toured the world as part of the Bicycle Film Festival.
It came back to Brighton one weekend, so a few of us cycled down to watch the film on a big screen in front of a packed audience. It was cool watching our melons on a massive screen keep company with some pretty major bike films. Like the twelve year old hanging out with his older brother’s crew, necking Hooch. Enough time had passed for us to see the film for the first time from an onlooker’s perspective, without being so emotionally wrapped up in it. Which was a trip, and made us look anew upon the scale of our achievement. It was a pretty messed up four days.
Here it is.