The Hungry Cyclist: Pedalling The Americas In Search Of The Perfect Meal. Tom Davies Kevill

       Prologue

      It seems only right that the seed of what was to become the Hungry Cyclist would be planted at the end of a fateful cycling holiday in France, a country the natives would argue, justifiably, is the centre of the gastronomic universe, and also the birthplace of the bicycle. But at the start of that journey, waiting in the darkness while the impatient growls of a hundred cars and trucks echoed off the metal walls of a cross-Channel ferry, I had no idea what lay ahead.

      The air filled with the choking smell of diesel and combustion, and men in orange jumpsuits hurried to disconnect heavy chains. The jaws of the boat fell open, daylight cut through the darkness as if the stone had been rolled back on an ancient tomb, and our cycling holiday had begun. Squeezed into our finest Lycra, like a pair of badly stuffed sausages, we rolled our bicycles out of the fume-filled hulk of the ferry and into the fresh air of France’s hottest summer on record. We squinted into the bright sunshine.

      It was summer and an old friend, Charlie Pyper, and I would use eighteen of our cherished twenty-five days of annual leave to cycle down through France. For ten days we would pedal our way through the back roads of the French countryside, and when the job was done enjoy a week of relaxing and pleasurable wound-licking. It would be a holiday of a little exercise, country roads, superb restaurants, good wine and lashings of cheese. That was the plan.

      As a fierce heat-wave gripped the continent, old ladies perished without air-conditioning in Paris apartments and nursing homes, forest fires swept through the hills of Provence and the world’s media screamed headlines about global warming and climate change. Meanwhile, Charlie and I took to the hills and lanes that connected the small villages of Normandy. It quickly became clear that I was having a great time, but on each gentle incline I looked back at a wheezing, red-faced mess of a man, cursing, sweating and panting. An affable and chunky six-footer, Charlie dwarfed his slim racer like a cycling bear in a circus, and each slight hill was met with an onslaught of Essex’s finest abuse.

      ‘Bloody French hills. The fucking map said this bit was flat. I thought you said this was going to be a holiday.’

      Exhausted at the end of a long first day, the small bed and breakfast we collapsed into could not have come soon enough for us both. But for Charlie it had come too late. He endured a sleepless night of cramps induced by dehydration, and nightmares about bicycles, derailleurs and hills. I woke from a good night’s sleep to find him at breakfast in the garden, his concentration focused on our map.

      ‘We can hire a car twenty kilometres from here,’ he said glumly without bringing his eyes up from the map. A buttery piece of croissant hung in my mouth as my jaw momentarily unhinged itself from the top of my face.

      ‘You what?’

      Having endured his graphic complaints for most of the previous day, and been woken by his cramped agonies during the night, I knew he wasn’t happy. But this was Charlie. The toughest guy I knew; the football legend; the hard-hitting, fast-bowling cricket star; my well-needed back-up in school punch-ups; a hero. And he wanted to quit. I couldn’t understand it.

      ‘Come on, mate. It’ll get better today, I promise. We can stop for a long lunch. We can find a nice river for a swim.’

      My optimistic words and false promises fell on deaf and sunburnt ears.

      ‘Sorry, mate, it’s just that I’m not really enjoying any of this. I guess I’m not a cyclist,’ he offered remorsefully before painfully pulling himself out

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