Wednesday 28 Sept. Season of mists . . .

. . . . and mellow fruitfulness (or shallow fruitlessness) is with us but, by the time we are under way the mists had dissolved into hazy sun which, in its turn, becomes a bright shadow-casting heat-source. Summer's last hurrah, forecast to last all week.

A welcome face at Assembly (register taken by Mr Heath, Activities master) was that of Gareth Doman, back on his bike at last after his nasty prang at La Marmotte. He stayed with us to Preston St Mary before turning for home. The downside of our larger club runs is that you can miss speaking to someone entirely, beyond a welcome and a farewell. Sorry to have missed you Gareth. Also welcome were Mark Harris (Braintree CC) who is more usually seen on the Sunday Espresso ride, Paul Callow brought a work colleague called Marcus, and Graham Gidney is a Wheeler new to Wednesdays

Mr Heath's master plan was to go to Hollow Trees at Semer via a cunning and devious route of considerable beauty and (for me at any rate) challenging little climbs. The early stages were usual stuff through to Brent Eleigh, up the hill to the B1115 and right on the switch back road to Waldingfields Little and Great, carrying on to the little roundabout where we took the left (old Roman Road, I notice) and a slightly tricky right and left over the A134 past Cornard Tye and Sackers Green. Lanes were small and views were breathtaking in the Autumn light, making even Great Cornard look romantically rustic. We went down quite a bit, then went back up the ridge on a lane about 1/2 a mile further south. This was the particularly challenging climb of the ride, rearing up between high banks which gave it the heat of a Tour stage (for a minute or two - and I'm not complaining) and more views at the top. We weaved our way towards Assington (which is at least 20 miles south of Assington Green, but quite close to Gedding Hall which is about 20 miles from Gedding. Think misdirected fire engines controlled from Milton just outside Cambridge). Right and left over the A134 (again) and across the A1071. This is a bit tricky, because the road we go across to isn't open to vehicles at this point and as if to reinforce this it has a huge high kerb. Just to the right of you as you struggle over the kerb is a bollard that creates a pinch point. This must have seemed a neat idea to someone in an office somewhere "this will create a hazard that will cause traffic to slow down and take care". Like hell it does; Glenn Morris and I had a 40ft truck thundering straight at us and our rear wheels that were still in the carriageway. The driver's interpretation of taking care was to maintain speed but lean on his horn. I felt the draught pull at my wheel as he passed.

Through delightful Boxford, and up Cox Hill - another mildly testing ascent - then Kersey, Semer and tea. This was my first visit since the new arrangements were opened. The Café is now very light, airy and spacious, with lots of smart pale oak with spruce and welcoming Chloe. It's been so long that I had quite forgotten how low their prices are; my scone and jam with pot of tea was just £2. In the garden there is now an additional seating area that looks to have been specially made for Wheelers, fenced off from the 'old' area. Marvellous interlude.

The cold that I had hoped to leave behind in the Suffolk countryside was still very much with me on the return journey, and I bade farewell to others at Hitcham. I just could not keep up.

SJH

Wednesday to Wickham Market. 21 Sept 2011

Peter was already organising the troops when I arrived, no longer early. Wickham Market was the destination
.
"Richard and I went on Friday to a new café" Said Peter (forgetting that Tiger Tony Panting had been with them)

We were seventeen as we rolled off. It's always awkward to have an odd number on a ride, even with so large a number of cyclists. Obviously, when there are three, or five, or even seven there will always be the tail-end-Charlie, the Nobbie-no-mates, the excluded one. We always say that "two's company, three's a crowd" (though this probably referred to those anxious and insecure times of adolescent amorous entanglements) but in cycling any even number's company - but an odd one . . . . well, it's just a difficult for someone. And when it's a large group like ours, the 'empty seat' can end up anywhere in the group. I rode alongside TomTom, with much to discuss, but in front of us was Glenn Grant, he of the Eagle Road Club who joins our Wednesdays whenever he can for our sociability. What should I do? Cut TomTom and move up the line ? (the proper course of action) or carry on with the conversation? Answers by email, before Tuesday 27th September.

Peter was in charge of the route, and it was a no-nonsense and straightforward affair. Beyton, Tostock, Elmswell, Haughley etc., then after Debenham a more complex (and very enjoyable) route through to Easton and eventually Wickham Market. It was just outside Wickham that I asked Peter which new Café we were going to. He told me that it was the one that we used to use.

Now I knew that there had been a deal of controversy about this place, I'd read about it in the East Anglian Daily Times last year. The lady who had previously run the Cafe had had her tenancy terminated, and the landlords had (apparently) taken over her business and were running it themselves. When the proprietress found a new home, regular customers had rallied round and carried tables and chairs across the market square to her new, smaller, premises. A month or so ago we had visited the the new premises of the old proprietress , where she was doing a good trade with the verve and humour that I remembered. I mentioned to her that I had followed the saga in the EADT, and that I sympathised with her position. I mentioned to Peter that I felt guilty of a betrayal of the lovely lady (though her new premises would not have coped with seventeen cyclists). I sensed that he thought that I was soft in the head (did I mention that Peter was from Derbyshire?). Actually, when we arrived we were down to sixteen, having mislaid Glenn Morris along the way - last seen by Tom Smith riding off the front. We had two new faces roday - Simon Garrard, and another rider who's name I can't remember, but who enjoyed his first ride with a group a great deal. Simon has been out with the Cappuccini on Sundays, but found our Mercoledisti more organised.

Having parked our bikes and shuffled in, I realised the awful truth that the people now running "Café 46" are friendly and efficient, their food is excellent and their prices reasonable. My scone, butter & jam plus tea was £2.80, which puts them at the lower end of the scale. They also dabble in bygones & antiques, which lends a very eclectic feel to the room where we ate. If we ever come to Wickham as a group of 6 or so, we should use the old proprietor's new establishment - otherwise we will use the new proprietors at the old establishment.

I now realise that I didn't check if they open on a Sunday (see Blog passim - Julian Colman will explain). Just checked on the web for Café 46, and they only feature the antique-y bit. I note that they describe their collection of bric-a-brac as eclectic. And there is no mention of Sunday opening.

After a jolly time we go out and disentangle our bikes from the cycle rack (never thought I'd ever put a proper bike into one of those wheel-gripper things. I now can't remember quite why we never used to use them in the past - something to do with bending wheels, I seem to recall. Are wheels now stronger?

Set off for home via Dalinghoo Road (Lane?). A couple of miles , and we turn right. We carry on turning right for (I think) five successive junctions - but we don't end up back at Wickham. I would ask Gerry to give me a print out from his Garmin, but he'd programmed it for a different ride before leaving home, and it wasn't coping very well with the change of plan - I think it was trying to take him home and start again. Reminiscent of Hal the robot in 2001 a Space Odyssey - but not quite so malign. Maps don't have that problem of course, but I hardly ever carry one on a bike ride.

TomTom was on one of his inspired routes, and after our logic-defying sequence of right turns we entered his comfort zone with a more left leaning ride which brought us to the true direction. Back to the days of the Clarion . The road was flat, but twisted to and fro, the wind was getting strong and wasn't in our favour. Tiger Tony did a fearsome turn on the front with Rob Webb, must have been nearly half an hour, before Peter suggested that Mark Saunders and Glenn Grant take over and "take it easy". As if. Glenn has a powerful and high-revving style that copes well with head and cross winds, Mark is usually an indestructible powerhouse, but I thought that I detected signs of slight discomfort as we neared home. When I say home I mean Norton of course, where I live, and could wave goodbye to the morning's chums. As with the last several rides, my total was around 65 miles. And again, in good company.
SJH

Wed. 14 Sept, 2011."Spending a pound to save a penny." Coffee& Co deliver.

An amiable gathering at New Green Centre, Thurston developed into a ride of thirteen (oo- er) that left at a socially well-judged 12 minutes past 9. It is very hard to define exactly what makes a ride work as a group. I'd better define what I'm taking about here, it's not 'work' as in the break that that worked together to average over 28mph for the whole of stage 7 of the Tour of Britain; it's 'work' in the social sense. An easy atmosphere, not an over-the-top bonhomie with braying laughter. It is of course, a combination of personalities, just the right balance of sweet and dry, bubbly and placid; and this can vary according to the mood-on-the-day of the of the riders as well as the basic compatibility of those riders. So, we were all the right people, and all in the right frame of mind (or else hiding our inner torment very effectively)

Whatever it is, on Wednesday the 14th September was this whatever it is. S0, into a brisk westerly, with joy in our hearts and a spring to our pedalling we set off. Richard Seggar was back from Yorkshire with tales of strong winds and lashing rain on high places. He was initially uncharacteristically short on inspiration, so we conferred, he and I, and the general shape of a ride (in broad terms) began to emerge as an initial sketch capable of being modified on the wing. Peter Heath had named Newmarket as preferred bidder for the Café stop. I kept my reservations to myself, but it turned out to a good choice. Richard's variations on our theme were well-judged, taking as they did a weaving course in and out of well ridden routes. A warp to the conventional weft of rides (one could say, if sufficiently pretentious) which lead to several attempts at second guessing which way to go at familiar junctions approached from an unfamiliar direction and departed from in the least expected. What harmless fun this was .
"Left"
"No! Straight ON"
"Left"
"STRAIGHT ON!!"
The final approach to Newmarket was down Duchess Drive (this used to be an essential part of the course for the Divisional Road Race Championships in the 70s and early 80s - though, obviously, they went up it. If you ever get the chance, do ask Neil Dykes to tell you about the time that . . . . . .) This descent is about 3/4 of a mile long, which is quite enough for me on 66" fixed which means that at 27 mph I'm touching 140rpm. I'm not asking for sympathy, I actually like it because it's harder, and anyway, think how much more work I do on the average clubrun? I can keep myself warm with the downhill revs plus the glow of smugness as I think thoughts like "freewheeling is for wimps". Of course, if a long descent is immediately followed by another climb, then I'm sh*ft*d; the legs just don't want to know. When this happens I do try not whinge about being dropped. Honestly I do.

Coffee & Co in Newmarket has much in its favour. It's in a quiet backstreet near the church and has bright aluminium tables & chairs outside. Historically, the downside has tended to be a difficulty coping with groups of 18 cyclists turning up all at once. One one memorable occasion they had obviously decided to do all the drinks, followed by all the food (or it may have been the other way around). This meant that each cyclist had to be visited twice - and located, and asked what they had ordered. Now we can be particularly gormless in this department, it has to be said. "Skinny Latte?" - silence, no reaction. Waiting person moves around repeating the question. All the cyclists carry on chatting. Finally, only one person hasn't been asked "what did you order sir?" (we chaps tend to be even more self-absorbed than women). Cyclist reacts as if woken from deep slumber "Skinny Latte" he will reply, slightly indignantly - as if the question was a bit impertinent. Reader, I what whereof I speak, we ran a restaurant in a previous life.

On this occasion, Peter Heath who was (as ever) first in the queue, took the bull by the horns and, though I (second in the queue by means of sprinting through the other riders in the final quarter mile) didn't catch his opening gambit, but I did hear "Come on! Get your act together!". Now Peter can get away with breathtaking bluntness like this and, with female staff, will be rewarded with smiles and laughter and (even) occasional coyness. I could see, through the kitchen, that extra silver tables and chairs were being removed from a storeroom and placed outside; food and drinks came as a unit for each of us . . . and fast. Quality of food is always high, and prices reasonable. With this level of speedy service we have only ourselves to blame if we stay too long over our tea stop.

We took a variation of standard routes home, using the 'old A45' to Kentford then right, up to Gazeley and the lovely back road to Barrow. By the time we were descending from Barrow there was a natural split developing which in the end left Richard S, Peter Gay and self to make our own way - by way of right at Westley crossroads up to Horringer, and then down towards Bury and across to Nowton and towards Rushbrooke. We reckon we did about 9 extra miles or, as Richard put it "Spent a pound to save a penny" My total was 63.8 miles. A delightful ride. SJH

Vuelta Wrong Way re-enactment ride. 7 Sept 2011

Before we get to the incident that gives this entry its name, we'll just take a look at the rest of this Wednesday Ride.

After a rather depressing forecast we did, eventually, get some sunshine. What had also been foretold by the man with the seaweed hanging in his office at the BBC , was wind. Pretty powerful west wind. This meant the Glenns' Assington proposal was off the agenda, and Ron Fisher and I suggested La Hogue via a version of one of Justin's routes that has proved popular this year when the wind has been in this quarter. We only need (would prefer) to have a tail wind on the final run home, so we enjoyed a mixture of cross and headwinds during which Ron and I engaged in polite conversation whilst, at the same time, attempting to destroy each other. This resulted in a draw by the time we reached Ousden. Those with the ability to freewheel and/or change up to a bigger gear (everyone except me) whooshed down the hill with ease. As it levelled, however, the wind was so strong that we were all pushing hard in a medium gear, and no advantage was gained by anyone.

A very welcome face was that of Ed Bucknell who, when he took a daytime job after years of the shiftwork he had previously enjoyed, said farewell to the Wednesday ride over a year ago. Less welcome, to him, was a puncture in Dalham - but those of us who stayed behind to help were treated to a very swift and elegant tube-change which demonstrated the importance of powerful thumbs. Another new-ish face was the guy called Guy, who is a GP (and has just coughed up and become a Wheeler). We have our brace of Orthopaedic surgeons, and our Paramedics for the more drastic events, but I feel that someone with the knowledge and experience born of years in General Practice will enable Dr Guy fully to appreciate all our many little niggles and minor ailments (minor, only in the inexpert opinion of spouses and partners, of course). He will be made extremely welcome - and never at a loss for someone to ride alongside him. Further ride personnel note: Josh Stuart was on his last Wednesday ride until half-term (or, possibly, the Christmas Hols).

Ron and I had thought we needed about 40 miles to La Hogue, and ended with (in my case) a sniff over 38. We thought this pretty good. Tea stop was as good as ever; I think that the only stop with more space is Blooms at Bressingham (or maybe Cavendish Tearooms). I'd like to digress slightly at this point, just skip to the next paragraph if you aren't up for a spot of autobiographical detail. In my childhood, we (my parents and I) lived in the North Cotswolds, and our nearest large town was Cheltenham, 25 miles to the south down the A46 (as it used to be called). When my mother used to take me shopping (or more correctly, when my mother went shopping and took me with her) we went to Cavendish House. A real old-style Department Store (but then this was in the early fifties, so everything when viewed from 2011 would be 'old-style') we have a photograph of a 7 year-old SJH standing next to Santa. They had, of course, a Cafeteria, or Tearoom and whenever I refer to the Cavendish Tearooms . . . . . . . .zzzzzzzzzzzzz

What?! Eh?! Ah! Yes! The return journey from La Hogue takes care of itself, the clubrun knowing the route no matter who is on the ride. Or so I thought until we reached the roundabout for the A11 interchange at Red Lodge. We went round the first, smaller, RAB without a hitch then hit the larger one and a couple of riders headed off to the left. Toward Norwich. Via the A11. There were shouts, and swerves as the error became obvious. Josh hit my back wheel. I used my (estimated) three stone (42lbs) to stabilise the situation. "You alright?" "yeah" "good" and that was it. But it had been only a day previously that the lead out man for LeopardTreck had swerved the wrong way at a roundabout in the final 500 metres (just think yards plus 10%) of a stage in the Vuelta. Nobody crashed in that incident either - but the guy on the wheel of the guy who went wrong had a job avoiding the barrier as he swerved the other way.

Having all stayed upright, we continued through what I think of as 'Toytown', the new housing development at Red Lodge, only to be overtaken by a small dark blue car (Fiesta, maybe?) with a ladder on a roof rack driven by a person with a problem with being slightly delayed by a bunch of bikies (this is in a 20mph limit) who, on reaching the first mini rab . . . . stopped. Just like that. Nothing coming from the right or left. No other traffic. Just stopped. We were a model of restraint and decorum, and merely shouted a few words of advice as he drove off. What ambassadors of cycling we are, eh?

As we headed towards Tuddenham, past Herringswell, the pace lifted a bit. After Tuddenham towards Cavenham, the pace became brisk. After Cavenham, and turning left towards Lackford, with the slight (but long) descent, the pace rose to 30mph after we had been passed by a tractor and trailer (which Ron, with gears jumped onto the back of). I gasped in every one's wake at 27mph ( did I tell you that I turned my wheel round?).

So, home in good time, and 65 miles under the belt. Tony Panting, however, had done an extra 14 miles before the start - and had been powering along on the front between Tuddenham and Lackford - and so would have scored around 80 miles. That man just can't stop piling in the miles, can he?

SJH

A Magical Mistley Tour to Essex. 2011

The forecast for Sunday the 4th September had been pretty grim all week, relenting slightly by Friday when the torrential rains were downgraded to showers from 1300hrs. Even the Met Office can't help copying America.

Pearson and I met the rest of the nearly thirty-strong peleton at Thurston, collecting Gerry Barton (and Mrs Gerry Barton who sampled group riding until Thorpe Moriuex) at Beyton (not Barton). No Richard "TomTom" Seggar to lead us through the deepest Essex byways of our route, since he was in Yorkshire scampering up and down the Dales. And Dale's brother Lee and sister Dawn were there to keep him company. The route was a well-worn clubrun variant down to Boxford and through Assington (Glenn Morris found a new Café here, where he would like to take the Mercredistes sometime soon) but after Bures, few of us knew where we were.

I had taken the precaution of checking the route supplied by Paul Callow against the Ordnance Survey website, and had made a note of a few discrepancies which could have put us off course if we hadn't the advantage of Mike Bowen amongst our number. Mike's knowledge of Essex is deep, I very much doubt there is even a track with grass down the middle that he doesn't know as thoroughly the tops of his handlebars. By the time he drifted off the front with a breakaway group, we were on course and could trust signposts plus a compilation of the different bits of the route that we variously remembered. Jonathan Howe went down to check if the road actually did go under the A12 as per instructions rather than over as on the map. Over was the answer, but the road markings were very misleading. There are some startlingly steep, short climbs once you are south east of Bures, and I realised that 72.5" fixed was a tactical error which put me quite a way back in the field, but still in contact. Stopping to 'change gear' would have lost me much more time.

Manningtree, Mistley and Mistley Quay make a fascinating string of habitation along the shores of the estuary, looking out across the mud flats of low tide as we arrive. The brutality of the two metre high fencing erected at Mistley Quay itself is a shock. There is, if you follow the link a sad tale of blundering bureaucracy, commercial greed and unintended consequences.

Naturally, the Health and Safety Executive had a hand in all this (they're busy these days trying to expose some of the dafter misinterpretations their advice, distancing themselves from the 'Health and Safety gone mad' image), and you will notice one short sentence, referring to the alleged cause. Trent Wharfage were asked to 'reinstate safety equipment - OR declare the Quay closed, and fence it off'. No where are we told what the 'safety equipment' was, but I bet it got in the way of TW's business. And how about Tendring Council's decisive action to prevent anyone doing anything to the fence without permission - which seems to mean that if TW had a change of heart, and took the fence down - they'd be prosecuted! And I just have to mention the mangled English (Manglish?) in the last couple of lines, from a TW spokesman, who thinks that people who attend meetings are attendants, and that a busy road is 'heavily trafficked'.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, climbing off the bike outside Mistly Quay Café. No doorway. Sounds of catering from an architecturally interesting first floor window. Walk round to the 'back' which is the front and one floor higher. Long low interior with old wood floor. Across this room full of pictures, another doorway with a warm glow, and the hum of busy efficient catering in full swing. The breakaway are just receiving their food. This, at other Cafés, would have indicated that they'd been hear for ages. Not here. The rapidity, accuracy and and friendliness of the service was barely believable. A delight. A talking point. I was asked what I had pre-ordered even before I had sat down, and my tea arrived just as my backside hit the chair. There is a feeling, at the start of a meal in a well run restaurant, bistro or café, of great relaxation and ease which only comes as the result of a complete confidence that everything is under control. A further attribute of the perfectly balanced and organised restaurant is that 'hum' that I mentioned. Contented conversations between satisfied eaters, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and (in this instance) the sounds of a well-run kitchen. In a good dining room, at whatever level, you get the impression that there are far more staff than is actually the case. Like football teams; the rubbish disorganised sides (think England, all too often) only seem to have about nine men and their opponents, fifteen.

I had a few stabs at counting how many we were, but it varied around the 28 to 30 mark. One hour after the first wave arrived, everyone had finished their breakfast, and were sipping second teas and being tempted with croissant by the attentive staff. Would I come again? Like a shot.

We would, for the return journey, stay together until we'd negotiated the A12. There are a few crossings by bridge or underpass but, incomprehensibly, they still have junctions with small roads where you take your life in your hands, twice per crossing as you dash to the middle then fly to the far side. The A12 is a motorway that thinks that it's still a two-way ordinary'A' road - complete with corners - and services those parts of Essex that have a lawless undercurrent. When driving I've identified a particular danger. Powerful black saloons driven with an aggression that is pretty terrifying - this isn't flamboyant, boy-racer stuff; it's a quiet but total ruthlessness.

We escape and head north. The plan had been that we would split up into small groups, and maybe not follow the route supplied. Ron Fisher and I escorted Peter SW and Lara, later meeting up with Gerry & Sean, for a small group that did follow the route. With Gerry's Garmin this was simple, until I had a bright idea at Battisford when Gerry & Sean were out of earshot. "Let's turn down here!" I cried. "It'll take us down to Combs"
Two miles later we where back we started. The turn I should've taken was the next one. I said my goodbyes and followed this one on my own - it did what I had thought that the other was going to do. Back home shortly after one, 83 miles. Some said (Peter Heath) that they'd recorded just 33 miles for the return - this puts Mistley within normal Clubrun range, though it's generally better to have the tea stop at more of a 35/25 split.

The rain didn't arrive until quite a bit later.

SJH