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 This section will grow with time. Below you can read about training progress, other Fireflies events and news live from the ride. Consult the archive on the right to view archived messages. |
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| Day One - With new video! The Big Red One - Diary by Luke Scott Countdown minus 2 days (that is to fresh British and Colonial rubber on le top de noir Francais) and total anxiety has dawned. The red shirts have been passed around and by Jupiter they fit. The red caps are charming but the fabric of both I suspect will become infused over the next few days with the funk of the road and like a pack of wild mountain animals we will assume a vile perfume. 3:45 pm Monday 14th June 2004... the message is simple. Meet at the Hammersmith Hospital Catherine Lewis Centre dressed for business. Don't be late. The Catherine Lewis Centre is impressive. Modern. A distinct contrast to the surrounding Victorian Gothica of the old Queen Charlotte and H.M. Prison Wormwood Scrubs. The building exists as a result of the combined efforts of Hannah Lewis, Professor Goldman and the Department of Health. The Fireflies have gathered to receive the blessings of Professor Goldman, Hannah Lewis and also from a certain guitarist Mr Mark Knopfler. Photos were taken and a small group of patients and nurses waved us off bidding us good luck and Bon Courage, although the wishes of courage are returned to all the patients and nurses with the greatest respect, determination and love. For you we ride. The first leg of the ride took us from the Catherine Lewis Centre to Golden Square in London's Soho. Alarmingly the lead vehicle became lost not more than 200 meters from the Hospital and was subsequently ditched so that the riders could enjoy the perilous journey unhindered. We would regroup in Berkeley Square. After a brief pause in Hyde Park, an exchange of money for Mango and Vanilla ice cream at Speakers Corner and the best Hot Dog this side of New York we headed off for the Bentley showroom at the corner of Bruton Street. Rejoining the defective lead vehicle we crossed the great divide between civilization and barbarism and breeched Regent Street into Soho. Brewer Street rolled. Wardour Street to Noel Street, a tour up Great Marlborough Street and environs. The sun shone and we detoured down Carnaby Street to purchase several Acme Thunderers. The whistles distributed we once again toured Soho to the shrill and thunder and the expletives of the local population who turned out to be a real bunch of miserable so-and-so's. Finally turning onto Berwick Street, our primary destination almost met we joined the Stonking Fireflies Big Brass Band led by the indefatigable North Eastern soul, Mr Colin Smith, by heck and the sound of that old Southern spiritual When the Saints Come Marching In. Down Beak Street we rolled, a juggernaut of red and yellow, proud, heroic and slightly off key. True to form the defective lead vehicle missed a left turn, the band split and you ain't seen anything funnier than the brass section trying to blow with a mouth full of cheese. After pursuing several solo careers, some successful, some brief, some hit by scandal, the band reformed and we continued on to the March of the Saints around Golden Square and into the Garden and the proud greetings of our supporters and more importantly the generous contribution of Corona Extra Beer of Mexico and a couple of stooges dressed as beer bottles. Also much appreciation to Chas from Madness who drew us in to much applause. Beer was drunk. And the first day passed into oblivion and much mirth was had by all. Only the cars for the airport were a-comin' at 5 am... Gracias Adios Ariba! Countdown minus 1 day and I hate EasyJet. Even more so Gatwick and even more so the computers that decide to crash on the cheaper airlines. Cheap though is sometimes good. Elbows to ribs, clear gaze into holiday makers eyes we found our way to the check-in and so to the plane but not without first distributing several fliers to fellow travellers. Many thanks to Boots International for providing Sudacrem to Bryan whose poxy arse was all a glitter with noxious pustules (he's much better now, thanks). Allez a Geneve! Dropping through the clouds Lake Geneva looks terrific. Watches, chocolates, banks, the Red Cross, cheese and a certain neutrality... Oh and the mountains... ahh... no. The mountains rise to the snow line and then a bit higher and then the tops often disappear into the clouds that the plane just dropped from and suddenly the airport transfer desk looks fairly inviting as an alternate destination comes to mind... the Seychelles is quite flat I hear. Almost all the bags made it through; all but Fuzzy's. EasyJet tough luck. Vans. Bags and a few circuits of the airport we finally make our way to our first destination and official start point. Morzine. A terrific stone and wood farm house ironically named The Farmhouse was availed to us and we soon begun the process of assembling bikes, procuring new and useless things, polishing chains link by link and generally measuring up against each other as to who possesses the greatest bike although this is of course a non-competitive adventure. Go Go Go Team Serotta! A few of us decide on a little litmus and rolled out onto La French Tarmac for a lick of a descent. Darn and uh-oh. This shit is different from London to Brighton... The fear spreads to loins... Dinner comes and like a self-help group we reveal the reasons for our presence. The spirit is born. Hallelujah brothers and sisters and may God have mercy on our souls. Germany and Holland played and drew. And after, we all slipped into the individuality of our dreams and nightmares. Snoring and farting. Drooling and bleeting. Bon Nuit mes amis. Bon nuit. The Big Red One. The sixteenth of June is here. Col de Colombiere beckons. Allez. The Mountains, the mountains, the mountains. After an extended breakfast and much posturing the hour of reckoning was upon us and at 8:54 am we rolled out of Morzine for our first date with pain. The sun was merciful and veiled herself with feathered clouds and a little cool breeze. The group moved off en masse but soon spread to form a spectrum of ability and for some the friendship of solitude embraced us as the closing in of the pine trees. To speak of the view would be misleading although the presence of epic nature is all around. The focus of sound, of water falling, the drift of firewood smoke from out of the forest, the smell of decay and growth, the rich soil blooming in the early summer. The view is however mostly of the 3 feet ahead into which most of your thoughts, concepts, ideas, curses and nothingness are poured, the focus an unbelievably small hole of space that is entirely sharp in the minds eye. From here there is only distraction. Turn after turn, spoke after spoke and stone after stone the legs push and push and push. For three hours. A foot of flat, an imperfection in the climb become as hallowed ground. Relief from the climb for only but a third of a second. We have this mineral, rehydrating beverage that is supposed to aid in the ascent. This is true. Until one drinks and the flavour is initially only familiar but not at all pleasant. Gotta drink it though. Still climbing. Gotta drink. Foul stuff. A bill board ahead declares that we have entered the land of Reblachon; a killer soft cheese. Drink. A cow smiles from the illustration. Damn! This shit taste like full fat cows milk cheese and I got another 1400 meters to climb and the temperatures rising and the tongue feels like a cows udder. I have to say one thing though that lifts the spirit is seeing the thin red line rise against the green high above. The pace levels out to something akin to the walk of a snake and the speed drops to just above zero. But still we climb and still nature is only but a presence and an occasional glimpse that both lifts and disheartens. How far! The power of arrival at the top. Around 2000 meters. That's 6000 feet in old money. Col de Colombiere has arrived. A destitute pass, a gift shop and a cross and two cold, hard mountains rise either side and ahead of you the down, the delicious, precarious down. We dress for the wind chill, mount up and clip in. The first challenge is overcome and the reward is in the descent somewhat. Although the risk increases with speed. A pedal wrongly placed can knick the bend and into oblivion goes your fate. With teeth full of flies we grinned all the way to the hotel. Beer and food, table tennis and hot tub and many variants on melted cheese. We will grin all the way to our beds and sleep and dream of the road ahead. For all the Relations our day is over but just begun... The Fireflies Meditation. Be with me and help me to emanate light as naturally and effortlessly as you do... click on the link to view the video: day1.mov Posted by joe marcantonio on . |
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 The Fireflies' arrival into Cannes has generated great support from the advertising industry and culminates with a hero's welcome at the Palais des Festivals. |
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