My epic cycling trip was a tour de farce

As A keen cyclist aged 16, I decided to go to see my heroes at the 1964 tour de France. A professional photo was required for a passport, foreign currency had to be arranged through a bank, only a travel agent could book the ferry and overseas maps had to be ordered through a bookshop. My dad was a great one for planning and I considered myself a chip off the old block. No detail could be overlooked and I would return to acclaim to tell my story and show off my photos at the cycling club. On the day of le grand depart, I punctured a new tubular tyre after just nine miles. It could not be fixed at the roadside so it was home again for a repair. two hours behind schedule, Dad had to drive flat out to get me to the station on time. On my second night away, I thought it would be cool to buy an American-style TV dinner, only to find an oven was required to heat it up and the hostel didn’t have one. the next morning on the ferry, I was so hungry that I gobbled a Full english, only to lose it mid-Channel. Docking in Dieppe, I realised I had left the French map on my bedside table. With the light fading and 30 miles short of the hostel, I had to spend a freezing night in a wood — this is now called wild camping. Next day, by some miracle, I found my way to Versailles for the tour de France sprint finish. I took lots of photos — mostly the backs of spectators’ heads, it turned out — and got a few autographs from the riders. the next morning, I met a Brummie cyclist who was returning to Calais, so I abandoned my plan to head to Paris for the finish of the tour de France and joined him.