Stephen Talbot Advertising | Thirty Years | Progress

Stephen Talbot Advertising
celebratingthirtycreativeyears

Progress

So far we have done 273k: 25/03/09

198k: 17/03/09
71.1k: 12/03/09
51k:10/03/09
15.1k: 02/03/09

So please sponsor STA today!

Day 10
A jaded start.

Oh dear… we still had around 40Km to go to The Jackdaw… and… we were… not… feeling too… well.

Chris to the rescue! He informed us that “Pernod aux extraits de plantes d'absinthe” as it should be correctly referred to is a curative and was prescribed for the relief of cholera and the plague. Feeling much better for this we staggered to our machines, determined to make it to down the N44 to Rheims before closing time or before the effects wore off and we went down with the Black Death.

Chris rowed, Paul jogged, Maria walked (quickly) Phil biked, Sarah swam and Ant metamorphosed the following kms to Rheims. Through puddles, over ice, around dunes and under bridges until with one almighty last push (from Phil pushing his bike that is) we arrived on the outskirts of Rheims. Now to find the Jackdaw and fulfil our quest.

Just as the clock of the Notre-Dame Cathedral of Rheims struck twelve (Incidentally Note-Dame translates as and refers to Our Lady i.e. the Blessed Virgin Mary and not just the Cathedral where the Hunchback lives. As a bit of research on G**gle I noticed that The Hunchback of Notre-Dame has 784,000 digs, The Hunchback of Notre Dame 2 has 629,000 digs and - get this- The Hunchback of Notre Damn has had 809,000 digs although when I G**gled ‘Notre Damn’ I was asked “Did you mean Notre Dame?”. I always find that so demeaning, don’t you? I usually shout “NO I DON’T” to myself of course.)… anyway, just as the clock struck twelve, we entered the town.

If you’ve never been, Rheims is one of those ‘I must visit before I die’ places, the capital of the province of Champagne, it is also the site of the crowning of the Kings of France - not that they have Kings any more or Queens for that matter. Linked to our own dear Canterbury it is not difficult to draw favourable comparisons. Unlike Canterbury, Rheims was also home to the French Grand Prix which was last run here in 1966.

Apart from its kingly provenance, Grands Prix (is that the plural of Grand Prix?) and notable architecture, Rheims is also the epicentre of the Champagne region slurp, slurp. Rheims actually stands on a plane beside the river Vesle, but stretching to the West and South as far as the eye can see are vine covered hillsides, punctuated by castles and studded with chateaux.

‘If you like Champagne, you’ll love Rheims’, may or may not have been a 70’s advertising slogan for the town, but I’ll tell you what; the place is awash with the stuff. Everywhere you went there were free tastings, and if you took a spade and dug down deep enough, you would discover Champers heaven (or hell) depending on your point of view because the soft chalk rock on which Rheims is built has been tunnelled away over the centuries to create storage rooms for all that lovely bubbly.

Guess what? Remember that crazy guy Charles the Bald from Laon? Well Rheims had King Lothair he was buried here in the 10th Century and apparently never cut his hair! There’s also a statue of Saint Joan of Arc who was burned at the stake after helping Charles the something or other win some battles and so be crowned. After becoming king, Joan was made a saint posthumously so that it could not be said that a heretic had helped restore the Catholic monarchy.

Oh yes, at 2:41 am on 7th May 1945, General Eisenhower and the Allies received the unconditional surrender of the Wehrmacht at Rheims. We decided to drink to that and opening a Nebuchadnezzar of Grand Cru 1910 ‘were happy in the haze of a drunker hour’ to quote a bit of Morrisey.

And The Jackdaw?

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop and abbot and prior were there;
Many a monk and many a friar,
Many a knight and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,
In sooth a goodly company.

Just like us

Day 9
Saint-Quentin to Rheims 85km

We left Saint-Quentin (not to be confused with San Quentin, a jail made famous more recently by The Man in Black Johnny Cash) and headed South, South East toward Laon on the old N44. (Incidentally South, South East is around half way toward South from boring old South East.. oh I’ve just been informed that’s it’s exactly half way… sorry) we’d never been there before - although we had been South, South East before - and didn’t know what to expect however, we knew it was roughly half way to Rheims and our next point of call… an audience with ‘The Jackdaw’.

As per usual it was Oliver who made the first (and flawed) effort to get us going. Stumbling into the sunlight of a beautiful Picardy day, Ol mounted his machinery and took a deep breath. Along the path, roses were shining in the hush of the silver dew and Ol leaning across the oars of his rowing machine to sniff their sweet perfume, fell out of the boat and his hand was run over by a moustachioed local on an ancient mobilylette. “Sacre bleu” yelled the old geezer - and, for some reason, Ol screamed “murder”. Well it certainly sounded like murder but why he should shout murder is anyone’s guess but he did and it’s not an easy thing to do when you’re sucking your fingers I can tell you.

First stop of the day was the hill top town of Laon. And boy, after cycling, rowing and running up that hill we were all ready for a great big glass of Pernod and coke yum yum. Most impressive building has to be the cathedral Notre-Dame of Laon. Built in the 12th and 13th centuries it was an outstanding piece of architecture. We strolled around the cool interior taking in the massive stone carvings then popped outside for more Pernod yum yum. Weirdest ancient resident has to be Charles the bald, a 5th century ruler who never took his hat off.

The town had its high and low points - literally. After finding that we could have taken the Poma 2000 cable car system from the lower town to the upper town instead of dragging our sorry asses up the road, we were forced to drink copious flagons of Pernod to help us recuperate.

If you’re interested, the Poma 2000 cable car is a fully automated system (the only one in the world… so there) it links the upper and lower parts of the town and was celebrating its 20th anniversary - so a good excuse to drink more Pernod and more Pernod.

The Jackdaw would have to wait.

Arras to Saint-Quentin 62KM
Crossing the Low Countries was all in all a sullen experience, the weather was bleak, the route flat and featureless and no birds sang.

We were reminded of the poems of the First World War, especially those of Wilfred Owen;

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge

Yeah it was a bit like that only we had to put up with articulated lorries too which is a little disconcerting especially when you’re stoking up the hard shoulder on a rowing machine - and on the wrong side of the road.

Everywhere we saw evidence of the aftermath of war and this is sixty years on. The post war look is definitely not a good look. It’s almost impossible to imagine the utter desolation, fear and excitement created by war. The knowledge that if you did nothing then you’d be overrun but the knowledge that in doing something, someone was going to lose a son, daughter parent, sister. It’s futile and the thought of futility is not a good thought when you’re trying to get somewhere.

Albert Camus, Andre Gide and de saint Exupery grasped at the meaning of life; why are we here? What’s it all about? Is there something else? We were beginning to think the same thoughts and then we arrived in Cambrai.

Cambrai a town like a beautiful child with a mouth full of broken teeth.

Perhaps famous only for the battle of Cambrai which took place in November and December 1917 and where tanks were used ‘successfully’ for the first time, the town was hammered in two world wars. Smashed and devastated it took a long time to recover… it’s still recovering.

Atop the town hall stand two automatons; Martin and Martine, they strike the hours with a hammer as a reminder of a mighty blow which was struck in the name of freedom. Partly allegorical, part fact and part fiction, the hammer blow for freedom is a poignant reminder once again that this area bore the brunt of some of the heaviest bombing of WW2.

It’s not all doom and gloom though. We were also reminded of a top bloke; Louis Bleriot who as any fule kno was the first man to fly the English Channel. In fact he did it exactly 100 years ago in 1909. He was born in Cambrai and like us saw a challenge and went for it. He won £1000 which I’m reliably informed was a lot of money in those days.

Back to the rout and as Ant pulled us along in his slip stream, we variously biked, swam, rowed and jogged into Saint-Quentin.

Saint-Quentin is twinned with Rotherham. 80% of its buildings were flattened in WW2, in the mid 1970’s it’s textile industry which had survived since the Middle Ages struggled to survive the onslaught from foreign competition and more or less disappeared. Its beautiful Basilica was virtually destroyed by aerial bombing and it suffered immense destruction during its period of resistance on the Hindenburg line.

God it was a depressing day. The fatigue was not so much creeping up on us as draining our very essence. We were, cold, wet, miserable and spent. It could only get better. Tomorrow we were heading for Rheims… and the Jackdaw.

Phew, that was a bit of a wet one. Thirty odd kilometres of watery wanderings on a rowing machine have brought us to the French coastal town of Calais. And it’s a bit grubby; there are trucks and lorries, cars and tractors everywhere and no obvious route out of the immediate dockland.

Apres une heur we found an old boy who led us out of the car park we had unwittingly found ourselves in and, armed with long loaves, strings of onions and a bucket of frog’s legs we proceeded to make for Saint Omer some 43 Km away.

First off was Ol… literally! He fell off his bike while attempting to bunny hop a sleeping gendarme. The gendarme was not happy and consequently our Ol found himself Bastille bound however a few choice words from Nicky (Masters Degree in French) and Ol was let off with a caution.

Paul on the other hand was not so lucky, attempting to purchase a couple of packets of fags. He was misheard and when two tall, blonde Gallic men sauntered out of the back of the shop, Paul was required to do a runner which was fortuitous as this got us off to a good start and by the time he had stopped for breath we had covered the full distance (43 Km) to Saint Omer. Incidentally Paul has given up Gauloise blondes and is sticking to bleues as preferred by Paul look alike John Lennon.

Not much to report on Saint Omer, it does have one of only three French copies of the Gutenburg bible and a brewery which brews the kind of beer that sells in Aldi for around £2.00 for 36 little bottles. So if you fancy a bit of light reading with your even lighter beer you know where to go.

Heading South East for Arras we passed Bethune and were fascinated to find that if we climbed the Belfry tower in the city square we could actually see Belgium… after we had woken up again we plodded on. Arras was nearly 100 Km from Calais so we needed to get a move on.

Phil took the incentive and straddling his recumbent exercise bike powered us to within a few KM’s of the city limits before having to nip off to the loo. (So that’s where all the free samples from the Saint Omer brewery went). This left Maria to pull on her Rocket Dog boots or salad vert chien pied gants as they’re known in France. Yes those green salad dog foot gloves really did the business and we strolled into Arras in time to catch the night flight (Should we have wished)….

See what I did there to show off? Having already mentioned Gauloise I then mentioned a second title by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (Night Flight) - the first being the title of the piece ‘Flight to Arras’. Incidentally de Saint-Exupéry, like Albert Camus (a Gauloise smoker) was also a French existentialist - and you though it was just a blog about getting to Crete.

Day 6

Today was to be a combined effort as we had almost reached the end of our initial phase of the journey. We all decided to do 5km each and see where it got us.

Maria led off completing a 5 Km power walk in the time it takes to eat lunch. In fact someone was eating lunch and it was only 9am. “Eh, the clocks went forward, why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Lucy took up the baton with a quick 5km jog followed by shopping and a glass of chilled Pino Grigio. Then Ant, Phil and Paul gave it a bit of designer power putting on a stylish 15 Km rowing through some leafy lanes (although Paul did nip off for a fag break behind a beautiful mediaeval barn during his 5km which didn’t go unnoticed).

Once the fire brigade had done their bit and we’d all apologized to English Heritage, we continued on our way albeit with a faint whiff of singed beard.

25km so far today and not a blister in sight.

Sarah’s 5Km was perhaps the most graceful of the day as she sashayed along the pavements with husband Chris. Not unlike a Nike sponsored Fred and Ginger, the pair cut a swathe across manicured front lawns, through privet hedges and under rustic arches festooned with roses as they tripped the light fantastic followed by an angry mob of bearded Morris dancers and the entire Home Counties South team.

New to the whole moving by means not mechanical thing; Ol managed to cadge a lift with a milk float so inevitably he holds the UK leg record for the slowest 5Km.

Dean managed a measly 3Km before having to have a sit down, complaining that he had a hurty foot. So that left Nicky. Now Nicky is something of a gym bunny and spinning assassin, so not only did she complete her 5km in around 5 mins, she kept on going until she had reached the coast where she earned herself a couple of quid giving an impromptu demonstration of jellied eel eating whilst pedaling at 40mph in a 30 zone. Cockneys, you can’t take them anywhere.

Now the sea was in front of us and we faced our hardest challenge yet. Would we make it to the other side?

Day 5:

…can’t stay in one place too long. So sang Junior Walker (real name Autry De Walt Mixon) and his All Stars back in 1966. And whilst Ant hadn’t been born then it could well have been written specifically for him.

It was Day 5, the fifth day of our epic virtual journey from Crewe to Crete and it was Antony’s turn to get us that little bit closer. (As it turned out he got us a whole lot closer).

Dressed in full on mountain bike attire and looking like a cross between a Samurai and a Hacienda regular, Ant mounted up and with a quick salute rode off into the morning mist. As his outline disappeared, we opened a flask of coffee and checked the weather report for the next 24 hours. It was bad. Rain, sleet and possible plagues of locusts reported moving in from the Far East. Ant was in his element.

When we met him at the first checkpoint he had already jettisoned his back pack in favour of liquid snacks and the occasional bag of chips. He was wet through but that had been more of an accident than the weather; a bottle of Lucozade had quite literally exploded in his hands as he attempted to brake whilst negotiating a tricksy jump over the Trent and Mersey canal just south of Fenny Drayton on the A5 Watling Street.

Later that day Antony was to put on in excess of 65 km and then he got off his bike and started running. When the last of the sunlight had faded behind the cooling towers of Gillingham gas works, Antony had completed 84 km. Our total was now 273km – only 2,727 km to go. We had reached the end of day 5, we were in Sittingbourne and we could smell the sea.

Day 4

At the exact same moment that the street lights go off, a murder of crows takes to the air; their raucous cries echo the darkling skies and away off to the south a rumble of thunder heralds an occurrence of ominous portent.

“Turned out nice again.” Ever the optimist, Lucy appears from her fully restored long wheelbase ’57 Airstream Overlander support vehicle wearing a purple plush velour one piece tracksuit over a Gold’s Gym T with a pair of box fresh pure white Nike High Siders firmly but lovingly caressing her perfectly manicured tootsies. Her tousled tresses restrained by a Penn golf beck.

Skipping over the puddles she addressed the motley crew slouched around the dishevelled campsite.

“Come on team, let’s go to Crete” - She punches the air and simultaneously a spit of lightening splits the boiling sky - the crows scream as if branded with burning irons.

20 km later and the sky was blue, larks sang in the hedgerow and cats were rolling over on the hot pavements.

Lucy walked over to the waiting Airstream, she slipped off her Nikes and dropped them into a bin marked ‘Destroy’ before mounting the steps nimbly and disappearing inside for a hot bath, Indian head massage and celebratory glass of grand cru.

The motley crew looked on aghast. The plate of cheese sandwiches lay untouched.

We had travelled 71.1KM and passed through two counties in three days. We had reached the outskirts of Tamworth without any serious injuries and had just 2,928Km to go. But more importantly we were still up for it and tomorrow it was Ant’s turn to clock up some K’s.

Editor’s note: Tamworth is famous for two things: 1) The Snow dome, 2) The Reliant Robin. Oh and the Tamworth pig – so that’s three things.

Will STA make it to Crete?

Day 3: The day dawned bright but there was a cool breeze blowing off the black top.

Besplenderous in a faded blue Alice Cooper crop top T with cap sleeves (vintage circa 1974) and GAP khaki baggies, Phil strolled up to the bike and with a single deft movement hopped on and whizzz was away.

Pedalling furiously he put the first 2 km into the diary without event. Keeping a low racing stance and gripping the handlebars with fists of steel, the moustashiod marvel bent into the work ahead like a racehorse entering the final furlong… and there was his downfall.

Not looking where he was going, Phil shunted a small commercial vehicle that was slowing down whilst the driver attempted to make an illegal text to his aunt Dorothy who had just left hospital after having a varicose vein in her leg drained.

Fortunately for Phil there was very little damage to himself or the bike and he was able to continue without delay as the driver ‘Didn’t want any fuss’ and gave Phil a couple boxes (he was American) of chocolate wafer biscuits which he had intended to deliver to a grocers in Rugeley. – If you are reading this Mr Rasheed we are very sorry but at the time we didn’t know they were for you.

Despite the weight (and inconvenience) of the boxes of chocolate wafer biscuits, Phil battled on and completed an 18km stretch before keeling over onto a soft verge and that’s where we found him some two hours later surrounded by a sea of Blue Riband wrappers.

As Phil was loaded into the broom wagon, Maria took up the challenge. Pulling on her size four Asics, she marched ahead, determined to make it to the next checkpoint before dark. The miles passed quickly (she’s pre-decimal) and before long she had clocked up a pretty impressive 16km (10 miles in the old money).

The light was fading fast and Maria still had a couple of K (1 ¼ miles) to go. Intrepid as ever she commandeered a small bicycle that a raggedy looking boy was pushing along the lane and throwing his bright orange bag of newspapers over the nearest hedge slipped the ancient RSW 20 into 3rd using the unique handlebar twist grip control and headed for the highway.

Dogs chased her, cats leaped, lept? from her path, mothers shielded young babies in doorways and grown men cowered in the entrances to public bars. Not unlike a flame headed Rita, our Queen of speed sped south. Ten minutes later and the race was run. Maria alighted to great applause and a well earned cup of hot choc.

We had completed 51.1 Km and we were still in one piece – unlike the RSW 20 which had suffered multiple stress fractures and disintegrated two minutes after Maria got off it. We were looking forward to hot baths, warm beds and another 2,948.9km. Next up the awesome power that is… Lucy ‘Go faster’ Gator.

Editor’s note: Crete is the largest of the Greek islands and is 3,000 kilometers from Crewe Hall. The team at STA intend to virtually ‘travel’ there by unadopted roads, rivers, canals and footpaths before the 31st December to raise money for St Luke’s Hospice.

Maria kicked off the campaign with a 5km bike ride yesterday (Sunday 1st) and as Mao Tse Tung said: ‘The longest journey begins with a single step’ or revolution in her case - which is interesting as Mao Tse Tung and revolution are kind of inextricably linked.

Ms. Anderson’s efforts took us out of the gates of stately Crewe Hall, down the Weston Road bypass to around junction 16 of the M6. Then we were off and heading South toward the beautiful isle of Crete a mere 2,995 kilometres away. Today saw Dean do 100m in the pool and 8 klicks on the gym bike before we pulled over for a well earned afternoon coffee at Keele services.

Refreshed and full of caffeine, pork pie and a vanilla slice; MD Chris took to the rowing machine and sculled us all the way to the exit slip road. Pulling out into the fast lane was not on the agenda and so we decided to call it a day.

We were feeling good; two days down 5,000 calories up and a mere 2,984.9km to go.

Next up was Phil, read all about his hair raising route in tomorrow’s diary of the Crewe Creatives’ Charity Charge to Crete - or CCCCC for short.

Editor’s note: A "klick" is military slang for a kilometre (1000 metres) the equivalent of .62 miles – 8 klicks is 5 miles - so now you know.

The M6 was alive with vehicles. It was a bad day to be on the motorway, especially if you were on an exercise bike. Undaunted, we carried the machine over the armco and across a couple of fields until we came to a quiet lane that appeared to head south – towards Crete.

Day 2 of a journey into the unknown

A thousand million millimetres - is that a billion millimetres? It could be a milliard of millimetres? Who cares, it’s a long way to Crete (3,000 kilometres) but the journey has already begun.

The M6 was alive with vehicles. It was a bad day to be on the motorway, especially if you were on an exercise bike. Undaunted, we carried the machine over the armco and across a couple of fields until we came to a quiet lane that appeared to head south – towards Crete.

Day 2 of a journey into the unknown A thousand million millimetres - is that a billion millimetres? It could be a milliard of millimetres? Who cares, it’s a long way to Crete (3,000 kilometres) but the journey has already begun.

Day 2 of a journey into the unknown

A thousand million millimetres - is that a billion millimetres? It could be a milliard of millimetres? Who cares, it’s a long way to Crete (3,000 kilometres) but the journey has already begun.