The Route IV: Danish Breakdown

Kicking back on the top deck, legs on the outer rail, Carlsberg in hand, pastry in mouth, we spotted Denmark. Our ferry was powering straight ahead to a thin green line in the distance. From above bright sunshine, to both sides the Baltic stretching out, pierced in hundreds of places by wind turbines reaching up to the sky.

THE ISLE OF LOLLAND

Before we knew it we were in Scandinavia. We saddled up and rolled off the Ferry onto the Danish island of Lolland. Lying to the East of the main Danish peninsular which juts out from mainland Europe and to the South of Sjaelland (or Zealand in English), the island which houses Copenhagen and just under half the population of Denmark, Lolland is in the arse end of nowhere by Danish standards. It reminded me of Norfolk.

A flat, sparsely populated place, covered in (most likely) subsidised farmland. It was the middle of the day and we planned to bomb across it before dark, staying somewhere at the Southern end of Zealand. Initially it all went rather well.

From the second we exited the small port (having taken the obligatory tacky pics by the Danish flag) the cycle lanes started and did not end. Carefully planned, smooth paths by the side of the road. Many European countries incorporate cycle lanes into road plans near to cities or towns, but the Danish include them even where there are hardly any cars or cycles to bother each other. Skipping between these paths and the road we passed corn fields and the occasional hamlet. These were strange places, seemingly empty of life – we did not see one person in the first couple we pedalled through – yet up kept to a pristine standard. The architecture had markedly changed from Germany. Here we found small, sturdy gabled houses and odd little red brick churches crescented with jig-jag brick work.

After an hour or so we made it to the small market town of Maribo and went off in search of some carbohydrate. Along with loads of snacks at a local supermarket, we discovered a pleasant market square and idyllic cobbled streets leading down to large church in a similar style to the smaller ones just described, resoundingly protestant in its simplicity. Just out front was a reed fringed lake a couple of km wide. A great spot.

Having decided to head on out, I jumped back on the saddle and pushed down hard to get some purchase on the gravelly path which surrounded the lake. CRACK. I tried again. MANGLE. I tumbled off the bike. Things had taken a turn for the worse…

A LESSON IN BICYCLE MECHANICS

At first sight I could not work out what had gone wrong, other than a lot. Uwe, who is far more clued up on bikes than Dave or me, quickly assessed the situation and announced my [long German word…] had broken. Funnily enough that did not mean anything to me. He pointed at this small piece of plastic that joins (or is supposed to join) the rear derailleur (the rear thing with all the cogs) to the bike. Only now searching on google have I discovered the English name for this part - the "rear mech hanger".

I asked how big a problem it was and received the not so reassuring response of “very”. Without a new one I could not go anywhere. Copenhagen suddenly seemed a long way away. I remembered the fall outside of Lübeck and put two and two together. The part had most likely partially cracked on collision and then weakened further over the next 100 km or so before finally snapping. The weight of my beer belly probably did not help.

Time was running short and we needed some luck to fix the situation. Our location seemed very fortuitous as my bike had broken in the first proper town we had passed through in half a day. I decided not to dwell on what would have happened if it had broken 20 km earlier – I suppose a lot of waiting around in fields and possibly a spot of camping! 

The next big slice of luck came in the form of a late middle-age Danish man.  Passing by on his own bike, he saw the problem, stopped and asked in impeccable English if there was anything he could do. Before we knew it he and Uwe were off back into town in search of a bike shop. That left Dave and me kicking back on a little jetty staring out across the lake in the sunshine. Not a bad deal.

Thirty minutes later the heroes returned with a van and a bike mechanic. Nice late middle-aged Danish man said his goodbyes accompanied by our sincere gratitude. The bike mechanic shook his head. There was nothing he could do on the scene and it so happened that he doubted they had the part at the shop. This annoying little part was apparently just about the only thing on a bike that is not freely exchangeable with other makes of bikes and they did not stock Specialized (my bike). Bugger. The best he could do was to scan other bikes hoping that another part would fit, but he did not hold out too much hope. As I jumped in the van Uwe explained his Plan B with a smile. Ditch the rear derailleur and single gear it the remaining 160 km to Copenhagen. Not funny.

We soon arrived at the bike shop and, as I followed the mechanic’s slow trail around one hundred odd bikes for an strange shaped piece of plastic/metal about the length of my pinkie finger, the boys got in the beers. The occasional rising of hope as the mechanic took extra time to examine a particular bike faded to the depths as he moved on. Half an hour more and no luck. There was not even an option to ship to another town. No one stocked the part on the whole damn island. I was staring down single gear time.

As the simply lovely bike shop owner gave us a drink and bananas, a bespectacled mechanic had an idea. They could take a similar’ish metal part and use a file to slowly grind it into shape. He was not convinced it would work, but was prepared to try. To cut a long story short, this genius of a bicycle man succeeded. As we sipped beers and watched, he expertly reshaped the part into the required form. Barely EUR 40 worth of Danish Kroner (bargain) and a huge amount of thanks later, we were waved off back on the road.

TO THE FJORDS

Everything was sweet. Maribo was behind us, fields ahead. Up a couple of hills and from the top of the latter we hurtled down to a view of green giving way to Baltic blue. Past tidy farm buildings and over a bridge to more fields on the narrow island of Falster. Then ahead to a part of the journey I had been looking forward to ever since I roughly planned our route from up high on google maps. There was a big piece of sea to cross.

Falster is joined to the much larger island of Zealand by only two bridges. The nice shiny new one to the East is closed to bicycles, so our only option was to pedal across the full 3.2 km of the rickety old Storstrøm Bridge. Simply brilliant. Rising high, high above the calm sea the bridge dominates the view from miles around. We bobbled along the wooden planks of the disconcertingly dishevelled side bridge (if this was not in oh-so-safe Scandinavia I would be convinced it was a death trap…), peering down to the depths far below and out to the land, sea and wind turbines in the distance. Sea birds soared all around and the late afternoon sunshine turned the rippling waves into a blanket of glitter.

With a sigh we disembarked on the far shore and headed round the headland to the small harbour village of Vordingborg to figure out what next. As it worked out, short term perfection. We discovered a small natural marina perched on the north shore of a little fjord surrounded by patches of forest. Shore side of the dozens of small sailing boats were a couple of bar-eateries and a tiny fishermen’s hut inhabited by an ancient fisherman complete with crazed look.

We sat down, ordered the local beer and some fish and admired the setting from a sea side bench. It was decision time as, being early evening, only the long days of this northerly latitude was saving us from the dark. A quick second beer gave us fortitude and we decided to cut across country for another 20 km to the town of Praesto. There was sod all on the map in between and we had no idea what we would find when we got there, but it sounded like fun.

The ensuing final part of the penultimate day of our ride was up there with the most enjoyable route parts to date. Unexpectedly finding some Danish hills, we cycled through an undulating countryside of great beauty. It somewhat reminded me of Dorset. Flushed with the buzz of the end of the day we sped along the winding, dipping, climbing traffic free roads as the setting sun blinkered in and out through the roadside foliage.

By the time we rolled into Praesto it was getting on for 10 pm and all but dark. We found a well-kept, yet seemingly deserted, market town. We pedalled onto the high street hoping to find a place to stay, but there was no one to ask. At last we approached a kebab shop frequented by 3 people. Without much hope we asked for help and, as it turned out, it was our lucky day. One of the guys knew the owner of a small B&B opposite. He rang the owner, who had a room and returned within 10 minutes with the keys.

He took us up to a simply awesome apartment (complete with oodles of proper coffee) and offered it to us at a very reasonable rate. We nearly bit his hand off, even more so when he informed us of just how lucky we had been. Being July the town was completely booked out and he would not have had a room had it not been for a rare cancellation earlier that day. Maybe next year I will think about booking ahead… but where would the fun in that be!

After a very quick scrub up we wandered through the dark to the harbour. If possible, even more idyllic then the one we had just passed through at Vordingborg, here we were fjord-side beneath the stars. Prior to this I hadn’t even realised Denmark had Fjords! We sank into some extortionately expensive beers (I knew this country had to have its downside) at a harbour side pub thinly populated with good looking middle-aged blond people, an ’80’s rock cover band (how predictable) and some disturbing cartoons in the gents…

BEACHSIDE RIDING TO THE CAPITAL

We woke up relatively early on the final day of our annual cycle (that is early for me and Dave, but a touch on the late side for Uwe). Around 90 km and a night out in Copenhagen awaited. After a ridiculously good breakfast and some interesting chats with the owner about his time working in the kitchen of the Dorchester, we were on our coffee fuelled way.

Our morning ride out was fantastic, along the Fjord and then hugging a rugged coastal path. I had loads of energy and sprinted ahead, stopping to admire the Baltic views. Heading straight for the town and port of Køge, our path transformed into a proper road and we put our heads down into full peleton, powering all the way to the outskirts. By the time we had arrived that initial energy had well and truly passed and I couldn’t wait to get my face into a pastry (or as it happened three!). We followed up this face stuffing with a cold beer in the market square. As we took in the surroundings it was noticeable how the people had become better looking as we had made northerly ground.

From Køge to the capital is only 40 km on a fast road which runs a stone’s throw from the beach. As time was on our side we veered inland in search of a final stretch of countryside. Our discovery of a pretty village or two and a windmill was countered by the onset of rain and an Uwe puncture. We were soon back on the cycle path which attached to the main road making fast headway to the capital.

At a pit-stop in between WWI era battlements and the sea, I was outvoted on the idea of a dip into the Baltic. Living in Rostock, Uwe saw no excitement In a Baltic dip and Dave was just being a wimp about the cold. Saying that Dave probably had a point as it was pretty miserable and I guess that was why I didn’t just go it alone, consoling myself that my first hand encounter with the Baltic would be only postponed to the Swedish leg of the route.

We continued North on the road, but in all truth it was rather a dull commuter artery. This prompted one final detour across and onto the sandbanks which run along the coast parallel to Copenhagen’s southern edge. This proved to be a nice bit of riding past sail boats, over narrow dykes and under high dunes. Unfortunately our journey was drawing to an end. Via an underpass, the coast was soon replaced by ugly outer city roads.

Having a population of circa 2 million (if you count the metropolitan area), I should have expected Copenhagen to be quite large, but the size surprised me. It took quite some time to reach the historic centre, passing from the industrial ugly outer part, through steadily increasing density and, frankly, attractiveness. By the time we were peddling down the high alleys of the streets approaching the Rådhuspladsen, the focal square of the city, we were in a positively bouncing mood.

Cycling through a city at the end of a cycle trip is an elevated feeling. You are in your own little bubble. For you it is the goal of a few days on the road. A sense of fulfilment at what is behind and excitement at the celebrations to come. I find I take in every detail, savouring every last turn and sight. A real juxtaposition against those every day inhabitants you pass for whom, at that same moment, the streets hold no wonder.

A final patch past the imposing Rådhus (city hall), we weaved in between the throngs of the Rådhuspladsen while Uwe did a strange Lycra bike jig to the Andean Indian pan pipe man. A few lost turns in the old back streets later, we arrived at the little square which housed our hostel and, well wouldn’t you know, a bar.

COPENHAGEN

Laying our bikes against a tree we grabbed an outside table at the bar, parked our bums and ordered celebratory beers. 365 km pedalled in 3 days. Smiles on our faces and feeling good. Before we knew it were discussing the next trip (France… Sweden… Spain…?), briefly interrupted by a sincerely peculiar over weight man seemingly sniffing our bikes for a good couple of minutes.

As the sun went down, we gave the Lycra a good slap, sunk our beers and embarked on a night of unexpected destinations…

The Route IV: Farewell Germany - Hello Baltic

Now a firm annual adventure, part IV of the St Petersburg to Lisbon cycle trip set off from Hamburg, destination Copenhagen. Three days to set aside what remained of Germany and make inroads into Scandinavia via just under 380 km of road and track.

HAMBURG AND OUT

Dave and I had flown in from London mid-afternoon, arriving just before Uwe who had taken the train from Rostock. We had convened a night early to celebrate Dave’s birthday and were in the mood for a few drinks, though perhaps not quite the level of carnage which adorned our last night here after the Dortmund to Hamburg cycle (I am still scarred). No Reeperbahn this time! Instead we stayed around the corner in gritty, yet enticing Schanzenviertel are of St Pauli. 

To most of the world Germans are famed for being straight laced and efficient. From my own encounters and experiences I can’t deny this strong part of the national character, but think that, at least in the big cities, it is counterbalanced nicely by an edgy grungy counter-culture which the Germans do so well. Graffiti, dreads, beats, off the scale art work and anti-establishmentarianism. Put it all together in an area like St Pauli and it is undeniably cool. Needless to say we had a good night, starting out at the best fish and chips place I have ever been to, before milling about from one bar to another, sipping down the beer and caipirinha and soaking up the atmosphere. Generally getting in the mood for the trip ahead.

A little too in the mood as it happened… I woke at 6am to run to the toilet and said hello to second hand caipirinhas. We did not even drink that much! Age and overly-acidy drinks had clearly caught up with me and I spent the next couple of hours feeling distinctly sorry for myself. The sensation of fresh lycra, talcum-powder and vaseline did not help (the daily pre-cycling routine I will have you know) and as my bum nestled onto the seat of the old trusty bike, I felt terrible.

Fortunately the first part of our cycle took us less than 500m to a bakery where a session of strong coffee, juice, chocolate milkshake, croissant and unidentified baked goods set us back on the right course. Efficient as ever, it was half ten by the time we set off proper. I for one was though feeling markedly better. As we weaved our way through the streets of central Hamburg, the caffeine, adrenaline and excitement at the journey ahead merged to elate and have me positively bouncing along past canals, churches and a series of lakes dotted with small sailing craft. Then to more canals and grand residential streets, guided by my compass and a vague heading of Lübeck (well at least north-east’ish).

It was a surprisingly pretty start to our ride, especially given the industrialised ugliness that had greeted us when first entering the city from the south on our previous cycle trip into Hamburg. The city is though huge, and within 40 minutes the distractions of the centre had given way to seemingly endless bland suburbs. On and on as the hangover trickled back in and the sky greyed over. An hour or so of relative drudgery later we finally broke out into a semblance of countryside and tried to work out where we were.

Our swivelling guess at a north-easterly heading on winding suburban roads had taken us out further south than we had hoped. The disadvantage of additional distance was more than counterbalanced by stumbling across a rather exquisite 16^th century castle at Ahrenburg. An uninspiring landscape was lit up by a whitewashed multi-storey block of fortification rising from a moat. I pedalled off in its vicinity, with Dave and Uwe close behind. Quite fittingly it turned out to be a castle originating from Danish aristocracy. A sign informed me that nearly all of our journey to Copenhagen was once part of greater Denmark (even though a good half of it is in modern day Germany).

Cycling on, we passed through fields and small towns through the early afternoon. Against the odds the heavens had not opened up, leaving us in good spirits which were further lifted by the inevitable pit-stop for sugar fuel and some medicinal Jaeger. We flew along and were soon on the outskirts of our first major destination, Lübeck.

Having passed the city sign, we were pelting down a hill on the outskirts when I screwed up. Lapping up the smooth cycle path with greed, I was positively zooming past other cyclists when I made the mistake of running 20 cm wider than intended and touched my front wheel on to the soft leaf strewn turf which ran beside the path. Most cyclists will know with dread the sensation of losing control. The wheels take on a mind of their own, ignoring the breaks and veering on their divergent paths. Attempts to control the skid inevitably make it worse and before you know it the bike is crashing sideways and you are left with little option but to jump. Jump I most certainly did, transferring into an early Man U era Ronaldo multi-barrel-role and, to my surprise, out onto my feet. Adrenaline pumping, my thoughts quickly shifted from survival via embarrassment at the fall to marginally compensating pride at ending back on my feet. I then snapped out of the self-reflection to tend on the elderly German gentlemen who had to skid stop as a result of my mild calamity. He was not overly impressed, but was OK and seemed to take on board my half-German apologies before peddling off in a bit of a huff.

Checking myself over I was relieved to find nothing more than the odd bruise, minor scrape and a disconcerting cracking of my left wrist every time I turned it. As this was not accompanied by pain, I chose to ignore it. We had the best part of 3 days cycle ahead of us after all. The bike was a little scratched, but not in obviously damaged condition. Gingerly jumping back on, I followed the others down the remainder of the slope and into the historic German city.

LÜBECK

Once capital of the mighty Hanseatic League which effectively ruled the Baltic in 14^th century, Lübeck is a beautiful city blessed with a grand legacy from its past. Entering through the gothic Holsten Gate and over the river Trave, the towers of churches and cathedral punctuate the sky above the old town. Despite the trickle of rain, it really was a delightful place. We meandered our way past medieval streets, up through the more modern commercial centre and ended up in the main square. Time for the first wurst of the trip. Just the ticket!

As usual, setting off late meant we couldn’t linger too long on route, but we had just enough time to visit St Mary’s church with its searing twin towers and cracked bell. A chilling reminder of European self-destruction, an Allied WWII bomb damaged the cathedral and sent one of the giant bells hurtling down from one of the high towers. It crashed into the ground splintering as it gauged out the earth. Today it lies as it fell in 1942.

There was also just about enough time for a beer… An almost overly-friendly buxom middle-aged German bar lady let us wheel our soaking bikes and kit into her narrow old fashioned bar. She clearly found us amusing. I digged the 80’s big hair rock on the radio. The beer was good as always.

The rain having slightly abated we jumped back on the saddles. The day quickly running by we decided to head to the Baltic coast by the most direct route, straight up. It was mid-afternoon and we still had half the day’s distance to pedal.

THE BALTIC

Out of the city and through more greenery, we cycled for an hour or so via Bad Schwartau - I don’t recall anything of the town but the name just stuck - fields and then the sea. The Baltic conjures up images of ice-strewn channels, wind, cold and fjords. If we are to make it to St Petersburg we will circumnavigate half of the sea via Denmark (imminently), Sweden, Finland and Russia (god know when). Our first sight came at Timmendorfer Strand.

Startling. Special. Unexpected. We waddled – disembarking from a long cycle you always waddle – across the boardwalk and onto the powder white sand. This picture-perfect beach stretched into the distance on both sides. Neat German buildings fronting small grass-tufted dunes, the beach and then the blue sea.

Apart from its beauty, the other stand out feature were hundreds of what looked like large hooded wicker chairs. On closer inspection, this description did not do justice to a quintessential German invention. Scattered across German beaches since 1882, Strandkorb (literally beach basket) are a product of the co-mingling of the deck chair and beach hut to produce something of pure practicality and a sort after dollop of privacy. Carefully designed to shelter from sun and wind, (the latter being a bigger problem in the Baltic), Strandkorb include comfortable cushions, easy-boy type adjustable foot-rests, airline type fold away tray tables and ample storage space. Past their heyday but carefully preserved, they are items of local pride and are largely frequented by older members of society.

The sun had burst out and we decided to push on to Neustadt our absolute minimum end point for the day. It was a lovely ride. The smooth road followed the beach-line and, via a bridge over a river, led us to the small old port. Our luck was in. As it just so happened, the river front was adorned with a brauhaus. Time for strong, cold local beer and herring in the late afternoon sun. Perfect.

With our spirits when and truly up, we all agreed we had a few more km in the legs and carried on to the north on the beach side road. Another 45 minutes and we would make it to the upmarket seaside resort of Grӧmitz and, with a bit of luck, to a bed for the night.

By the time we made it to the town we had travelled nearly 120 km, the legs were starting to feel it and the sun was sinking low. We popped into the first hotel we saw and asked for a room. No rooms. Where do you recommend? A response of no rooms in town accompanied by a bewilderment at why on earth people would ask or expect to obtain a room at such short notice in high season. It clearly was not the done thing in these parts. It is Germany after all.

We asked in another hotel. Same answer. We asked in a bar. Same answer, accompanied by confused laughter. Bugger. In a stick or twist scenario, we chose to twist. A couple of km up the coast were some campsites and, if that failed, a final flip of the coin at a smaller town 10 km to the north.

No luck at the campsites where we were greeted with friendly signs of “No reservations after 1800”. There went my dream of adding caravan to the lengthening list of accommodation on the route (boats, hostels, prisons, floors, B&Bs etc.).

We were getting desperate and the sun was setting as it dawned on us that we might be sleeping rough. Still surrounded by lovely scenery, we took a “short-cut” along a coast edge path. A thin, wobbling dirt track which went over dunes, fields and then into a wood. Something appealed to me about dodging roots in the dark in a Baltic forest. Well past 9 pm it was getting quite comic.

Finally we arrived at Kellenhusen. We asked at the first hotel. No luck and the same bewildered looks. We asked at another. No rooms, but a glimmer of hope. A friend down the road had a place that might just have a room. We rushed across town and in the pitch dark arrived at a plush yet homely small hotel. A lovely lady greeted us with the even more lovely news that they had two single rooms. One of us would get the floor, but who gave a damn. We had shelter!

It had been quite a day and I soaked up our post-clean up walk along the sea front. A huge helping of 

pizza, a beer and we were off to bed.

THE END OF GERMANY

After a calorie fuelled German breakfast, with talcum powder, vaseline and lycra in place, we were off again for our final stint in Germany.

Veering inland, we pressed ahead at good speed throughout the morning, passing pretty countryside as we went. Despite our rather freestyle approach to navigation, we made it to Hellingenharfen in good time. Our last meaningful stop in Germany, we stocked up on German baked goods (to be missed on the rest of this journey) and loitered on the twee high-street of this tourist town. Away and over the sea bridge to the isle of Fehmarn. We had left continental Europe and had one small island and a short ferry between us and Scandinavia.

Wind turbines littered the landscape to both sides as we detoured off the main roads. A small village or two later our approach to the port was heralded by the onset of ugly industrial buildings and cheap hotels. Appreciating the wonders of free movement of people within the EU we pedalled through customs and straight on to the waiting ro-ro ferry, at least in my case, singing as I went.

After a combined 7 days on the saddle across Germany via some 700 km, dozens of differing towns, villages and cities, the Rhine, the Weser and the Elber, a prison and castle, wurst and beer, we were on to the next country. We parked the bikes and went on deck to sip a beer and try to sight Denmark!

Hellenic Octopus Hunting

The weather in Greece is usually good, sometimes great. Heading out for a week at the crossover of October and November, I expected early winter weather and hoped for blue skies. To my surprise, we arrived to 26° C basking sunshine and were in for some beach time.

Spending the morning at a public Athenian beach on the Saronic gulf, a middle-aged Greek man in speedos gave me an offer I could not refuse. Want to come Octopus hunting?

While on the Greek islands, I have seen fisherman using long tridents to skewer octopus from small boats, but I have never before seen it done the more hands-on way. Here I was being invited to not only see it, but help do it. While I was traditionally squeamish of such things, I am increasingly interested in seeing how things end up on my plate.

Costa is a specialist. Whenever on the beach, he kits up, leaves his wife to the sun and sets out in search of eight-legged food. The kit I mention is nothing more than a snorkel, mask, fins, knife, hand-spear, buoy on a rope and a small bottle of unidentified liquid tucked into the back of his tight speedos. Before I have had time for second thoughts, Costa has chucked me his spare, rather tired, snorkel and mask and we were off into the shallows.

The water was much warmer than expected. The beach was hemmed in on one side by a marina and on the other by the coast itself, as it turned at a right angle before opening back up into the wider bay. We swam straight out, beyond the sheltered cove and into more open sea. I immediately saw why the buoy was a necessity. Costa’s hunting ground was in a channel frequented by speed boats (and crazy Greek speed boat drivers), and a fluorescent buoy on the surface gave him a chance of not being hit when diving under the waves.

Only having bare feet, I had to front crawl at some pace to keep up with the fin propelled Costa. At regular intervals he would duck dive, glide down to the bottom and investigate the scene for our prey. I dived down after him, looking where he looked, and trying to understand his approach. If I picked up enough, I could hope to catch my own 8-legged delicacies on Antiparos!

He explained the tell-tell signs of octopi. They like to hide under ledges or burrow down into holes, covering themselves with stones for camouflage. The octopi in these parts have a habit of flinging out small white stones from their hiding place, providing a give-away circular pattern.

Over the next hour of swimming, diving and searching, we found a number of these lairs, but each time they were empty, the previous occupant either having moved residence or been eaten. I was beginning to lose hope when Costa gestured to me excitedly. I looked over and he pointed at an outcrop of rocks roughly 4m down. “Octopodi, Octopus”. As hard as I peered I could not make it out, so he dived down and pointed his hand-spear right at it. Undoubtedly an octopus. Great! What next?

I dived down as it retracted its tentacles and all but a sliver of its body under the rock shelf. Costa took some air, finned down next to the shelf and thrust his spear into the body of the octopus. It jerked back and disappeared from view, leaving only the end of the spear poking out from the overhang and jiggling in protest. Another dive down and Costa reached in to retrieve the octopus, but to no avail, as the creature backed up further, out of reach.

Just as matters looked forlorn, Costa took out the small bottle of liquid from the back of his speedos. We dived down together and I watched him squirt a small amount of the liquid under the shelf and into the vicinity of the octopus. There was no immediate effect, but after a few seconds delay, a couple of its legs unfurled in our direction as it repulsed from Costa’s liquid and made the fatal error of moving within Costa’s grasp.

In an instant Costa had grabbed the octopus by the head and wrenched it out of its hole. All flailing, rasping, sucking limbs, the animal did all it could to right itself and sink its sharp beak into its adversary. Costa surfaced, fighting fiercely with both hands. As the octopus clenched all of its limbs around his forearm and writhed one way and then the other, Costa felt for a lip over the back of its head, pulled and inserted his hand.

To my shock and wonder, he stuck his digits right in and ripped and retrieved what looked like a significant portion of the octopus’ brains. The fight of the octopus only fortified. It expelled gushing quantities of black ink which enveloped Costa’s arm. Costa flipped between thwarting the octopus’ attempts to turn on his flesh by ripping the grip of its legs off his arm and delving back into the head cavity, pulling out more brains and internal vitals.

After a last furious effort, the fight fizzled out, Costa ceased his internal excavations and handed me the octopus. Yes, that’s right, handed me the oh-so-recently flailing animal. I took hold of the head only to quickly reject it as the legs of the brainless mollusc reached up and tangled around my arm, gaining purchase with their suckers. I regained my composure and took hold of the head again before the octopus sank down.

With a smile, Costa ushered me on to find more octopus as I struggled behind in an awkward one-armed freestyle. My other arm was doing its best to drag the octopus in just the right way so that its limbs were left trailing behind by our forward propulsion (and hence as far as possible from my arm). Intermittently I lost this little battle, one tentacle after another creeping back up my hand and sucking onto my skin before I slowed and wrenched it back into the slipstream. An enlightening, if slightly grizzly experience. Eventually, the octopus stopped moving.

After a long, drawn out search for the first octopus, our luck was in. Costa soon found another hidden in a crumpled rock formation. After close inspection he informed me it was only a juvenile and better left alone.

We moved on, in a wide arch back towards the beach and, unfortunately, to the inevitable return to normality… until… just as we passed the shallow outcrop of flat, creviced rocks that spread out from the edge of the bay… I spotted it. A large octopus squeezed down in a narrow channel carved through an otherwise flat rock. I raced in front to grab Costa’s attention, ungainly resorting to pulling his fin. To my relief, the octopus was still where I left it when Costa and I came back.

Time for a new technique. Costa explained how an octopus in the hand can make it easier to catch more. They are cannibalistic and are attracted to the smell of their kin. On Costa’s instruction I dived down and flailed the recently deceased octopus over the opening above the very much alive octopus. Its tentacles tentatively reached out, but not enough for me to grab it (to this day, I am not sure if I would have actually grabbed it).

I surfaced ready for another attempt, only to be interrupted by a call from a swimmer. I had completely lost track of time. What had been just a blink of an adventure in my head, had taken over two hours. I was needed back in reality. I gave my apologies, left Costa to take another octopus for the pot (or grill - I prefer it on the grill) and raced back to shore.

That night I dined on octopus.

The London Triathlon 2013

I signed up for the Olympic distance London Triathlon at the end of last year. The prospect of a 1.5 km swim, 40 km cycle and 10 km run around the monuments of London excited me. Every so often I need a new challenge and I find that things of this nature give an additional focus to a year and provide a helpful incentive to get off my arse and be a bit more healthy. I had added incentive this year, hoping to raise funds for a charity dear to a very poorly friend of mine (the fantastic Royal Marsden). There was therefore no turning back.

The challenge of a triathlon is balancing the training and race effort on the three very different disciplines. I have done quite a lot of cycling, run the odd half marathon and the solitary full marathon, so I made the conscious choice to concentrate nearly all my training on the swimming. In this choice lay future pain…

I have always considered myself a reasonably strong swimmer, being the water baby that I am, but the truth is that I have never been all that good at freestyle. I am fine over a very short sprint, but I have never been able to get the breathing quite right. Triathlon obsessed friends had recommended doing a bit of coaching, but I could not quite bring myself to spend the money. So I just practised.

Weekly swims at the local pool shook the rust off and got me going, and I finally became a half competent freestyle swimmer going back and forth and back across a bay in front of my Greek house. A month of 1 km a day swims put me in better shape than I have been for years. Better still, covering so much distance just above the sea floor turned into a surprisingly fruitful Mediterranean wildlife safari. Squid, snails, flatfish, flying gunard (check them out on google - very cool), octopus and a dozen other variety of fish. The most remarkable and surprising encounter was a 5 minute swim next to a trumpet fish. These long, thin, alien looking fish are not even meant to live in the Med. It appears a few have slipped through the Suez Canal!

As for runs and cycles, let's just say I went for the minimalist training approach... and as for combining these disciplines with each other in training the very minimalist approach. 

THE ARENA

My thoughts of an idyllic race around the landmarks and prettier parts of London were dashed on arrival. Setting off from the Excel centre in the east end docklands, the route stuck resolutely to unattractive parts of the capital. The swim was to be in the sloppy green water of the dock, the cycle around a loop of an East London dual carriage way and the run around the Excel centre itself. Not exactly inspiring.

That is where my complaints of the event cease. So much effort goes into arranging the biggest participation triathlon in the world and they do a great job. There is a carnival, if a bit corporate, atmosphere at the Excel. Thousands of people milling around stalls which are selling (and occasionally giving away) everything triathlon related you could imagine and a lot more besides. I felt a real amateur with my knackered old hybrid bike, borrowed wet suit and speedos. Everywhere I looked were hardcore triathletes with top of the range break the bank road bikes and tri-suites.

The scale of the place and occasion struck home when I made it through to the change over area. Rows upon rows upon rows of change over lanes, complete with parked bikes and kit. This is a key part of the logistical nightmare of arranging a triathlon. Shepherding huge amounts of people at varying times in and out of a confined area to prep for the swim, transition from dripping wet wetsuit into cycle gear and then finally get ready for the run. This vast hall had room for a couple of thousand people at a time. I was not sure I was ready for this!

THE RACE

If you want to do “hopeless amateur” at a triathlon, I doubt there are many better ways to line up at the start line then with your wetsuit back-to-front. Having only tried on the wetsuit once before since borrowing it from a mate (thanks Ramsay), that is exactly what I did, triggering an embarrassingly ungainly torso tustle with neoprene in front of the crowds.

Now sweating and a bit perturbed, I joined in with the rest of my start group in the MC prompted high-fives and manly war grunts. Then out the door and into the disconcertingly green Thames water in the Royal Victoria Dock.

Thanks to Virgin Triathlon for this pic

I had heard many a horror story of triathletes beating the shit out of each other on the swim, all punches, pulls and half drownings. Whereas there was the odd inadvertent heavy contact with those around me (usually I imagine at my doing), overall I found the swim a pleasant experience. This is the part I had trained for and to my satisfaction it all went smoothly.  Trying to save something in the tank for legs 2 and 3 of the triathlon, I did not push myself too hard, but still finished the 1500m in the better half of the pack in just under 32 minutes.

Scrambling out the water and back towards the change-over zone, the enthusiastic crowd provided a real buzz of an atmosphere. Eventually finding my rack, I had to strip down and out of my budgie-smugglers and into my cycle gear without any stewards spotting my momentary nakedness (for some hyper-moral reason the powers that be at this triathlon have a real issue with people showing off their bits). That small feat achieved as part of an exceptionally unimpressive change-over time, I clipped into the bike and rolled out onto the road.

To my surprise and annoyance, I was climbing a hill before I knew it. One of the reasons I had chosen the London Triathlon was out of a misguided notion that London is flat and therefore I would not have to pant up and down inclines. I was wrong. The organisers had seemingly specifically chosen a route that goes up and down and up and down a series of tunnels and bridges, replicating some not inconsequential climbs. The impact of this on my performance was made clear as over and over, having past riders on the flat, they would then fly past me on the climbs on their multi-thousand pound feather light road bikes as I struggled with my chunky knackered old hybrid.

This impediment did though bring rewards. Over the three laps of the course which lead from the Excel centre up towards (but not close enough to see) Tower Bridge and back again, I inadvertently played tag on repeat with another rider. We must have passed each other a dozen times. It was a really nice touch that he pulled alongside as the cycle came to a close and said, given that we had raced together for 40 km, we should finish together.

In toe behind my fellow rider, I made it up the ramp in a pretty average 1 hour 16 minutes for the ride. Not an awesome time, but given I had not really trained for the cycle and was riding the bike equivalent of a Volks Wagen (while most people were riding Porsches), I was relatively happy.

So to a quick change of shoes and onto the run. Only 10 km to go, comprising 3 short laps of a meandering course in and around Excel. As it turned out, a big “only”.

From the second I started jogging out over the start line, I knew I was struggling. Vengeful cramps wrenched my lower thighs and I really struggled to keep lifting my legs. I suddenly realised why everyone recommends that you combine different parts of the triathlon in your training schedule. The pumping of the pedals up and down the hills had left my upper legs shot and not prepared to run. As I hobbled along in significant pain I vowed to myself that I would train properly next time...

Being the bloody minded bastard I am, there was no chance of me not finishing, but on that first lap it was all I could do to alternately drag my legs into a faltering jog before falling back to a few seconds of walking. It is at these times that the crowd and other competitors really help. The triathlon has oodles of good will and camaraderie and there is mutual encouragement from all angles that spurs you on.

By the second lap the pain was still there, but I could feel the cramps starting to recede, replaced by sheer tiredness. I pushed on into a slow non-stop jog accompanied by a grimace. It felt like a long time before I crossed the line for the start of the final lap. I had thus far not concentrated on the time, but allowed myself a quick glance at the clock over the finish line. Given the trouble I was having with the run, I had long ago given up any idea of getting a decent time and was just looking to finish the race. To my serious surprise, on calculating my race time from the clock, I realised that if I got a move on I could still make sub 3 hours. All I needed was a 19 minute last lap.

As it turned out, this was just what I needed to get my arse into gear. With further grimaces and a self promoted fire up my arse I left every bit of energy I had on the route of the final lap. Running through the finish straight with the crowds cheering was a feeling of heightened exhilaration. The last surge of adrenaline drained out the pain and tiredness, leaving this fantastic buzz of endorphins and relief.

Crossing the line in 2:57 I was pretty chuffed. I even allowed myself an indulgent arms outstretched moment before the pain took back over and, hands over hips and bent double, I sucked beautiful oxygen back into my system.

In the immediate aftermath my thoughts veered between... if I just train properly, purchase a road bike and triathlon gear I could get my time down to 2:30... and... thank god that's over!

Despite the rather uninspiring East London location and inherent pain, the London Triathlon is a great event. A lot of people getting together with passion and a sense of common purpose to do something a bit different. An addictive buzz, but whereas I definitely plan to do a triathlon again, I don't think I was ever in danger of falling for the all too common pitfall amongst triathletes of obsessing over the sport to the point where other interests dwindle away and you have little else to talk about (I always have something to talk about!). If a friend of yours has ever done an iron man you will most likely know what I mean...

So to next year and a new challenge yet unknown. A final thanks to all those who sponsored me and raised money for the phenomenal Royal Marsden (http://www.justgiving.com/jimbo82-tri).