Monday

Exploding kneecaps and motorway violence: Zezaurian Cyclists do London to Brighton (badly)

You know it's all going to go wrong when, at 1am the night before, you look at the instructions Mr Morose has written to get us there and see he's written, "go left a bit, down a bit and then find the seaside," (accompanied with a picture of a beer wearing a hat.)

I asked him if he was drunk and he told me that he was required to drink if he was to get any sleep. "But what about these damn instructions?" I said.

"It's fine. You just head down until you find the big blue thing."

"But -"

"Look," he yells pointing at the computer, "have you seen the numbers I have to compute here? The B 20298272002200? The B 2646478292927? Who names these roads? It's a goddamn nightmare. I can remember things like the 'M25' or the 'M3'. They're easy. But this scenic route of yours is just mumbo-jumbo."

So, we managed to get to some village above Reigate with just a few smudgy directions scrawled on Mr Morose's arm. It was here we met a lady who seemed keen to sleep with at least one of us in a secluded car park, but it was a tough call to make; I was tired and already had sore testicles from riding, but on the other hand I'd not touched a woman in many months. But I made the right call; we said thanks, but no thanks and she went on her merry way and we were still on track to get there in the six hours we were aiming for.


After that it was all quite predictable; hills that hurt your legs, views that make you wonder why you live in London, lunatic drivers and miles upon miles of decent tarmac to purr along.

Things got hairy though when we somehow ended up on a goddamn motorway. Don't ask how this happened, it just did. Cars were honking at us as they screamed past at a zillion miles an hour. But balls to them, we thought. We'll just cycle in the fast lane, and show them who's boss.

As it turns out, they were boss. So were the police.

Much to our relief we found the turning for the B 20209293930029 about three miles in and escaped in the nick of time. We then settled for lunch watching some lazy game of cricket before pushing on for the last twenty-odd miles. Then POP! Mr Morose's knee exploded. Poor guy, I thought. All those hills to climb and he's screaming in agony with every rotation of his pedal. It got so painful I was forced to race ahead to escape the annoying sounds he kept making. Aiek, aiek, aiek he kept blurting through the tears. Jesus God, it was so irritating. Eventually, I got him so dosed up on painkillers he said he wanted to sleep forever and complained of a severe itching inside his liver, but he pushed on through. What a champ.

Total saddle time: 6 hours 27 minutes.

Total time: 7 hours 45 minutes (including arguments, moaning, pooing in hedgerows, watching a game of cricket, being seduced and trying to find a shop with a map).

Lessons learned:
1. Zezaurians don't do things in straight lines.
2. Brighton is a fucking shit hole and literally everyone has a really bad tattoo on their arm.
3. When your knee explodes don't ride a bike for 23 miles uphill.

UPDATE: Mr Morose sadly ended the weekend when his body went through the windscreen of a Mercedes at around midnight on Sunday. The driver was on the wrong side of a dual carriageway in a bus lane. What a donk. Mr Morose is OK, but Wilson, his bike, is lost to us forever.

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