If you're going to drop someone in the final 20 miles, it's probably best not to choose the one person best equipped to get his own back. Fortunately, I'm a reasonable man. For instance, I never refer to the time that Neil rode away when I had a puncture in the first ten of a two hundred K audax - and I will, eventually, put the latter part of Sunday's ride behind me too.
As you can see from the photo, we gathered on Cornhill in brilliant sunshine that cast exciting shadows, making a work of art out of my snap taken merely to help me remember who was there (there were three other shots). I felt that I needed help, because the head-count yielded a total of 19. Another time I might take a video, and mumble the names.
It seemed that Justin had The Plan, but no one that I spoke to in the early stages of the ride seemed to have any idea where we were going to take tea. Even Mark, at a quite late stage said "I have NO idea". Barry took to the front from the start, riding strongly towards Horringer, bearing left at the foot of the hill, and then swinging off to go home. 18 left. Rob Norman was dipping his toes into a brisker paced ride, and Jonathan Howe (new member) said that he'd done 40 already (and who was I to doubt him, he's a solicitor after all) and would only do a couple of miles or so to judge the pace.
Because I replaced Barry at the front, with Justin (and no, I didn't think to ask about the tea stop), I had no idea who dropped off the back or when - but it became eventually obvious that were a compact group of sixteen. I say 'compact', but Adi made it abundantly clear at Kedington that most of us were anything BUT a tightly-knit group. In fact, in knitting terms we resembled most one of those loose, baggy jumpers run-up with huge needles in thick wool and great haste by an Aunt with only the shakiest idea of your size. We did our best to pull ourselves together. Knit two together . . . . . and I seem to remember 'drop one' in the instructions for my mother's knitting patterns. Oh how apt. How very apt that would prove to be . . .but I'm over it now.
We were on roads that I knew from Cambridge days - but Mark (who had assumed control) didn't take the direction that I expected. Every junction took us further from Bury, and the mileage was over 40 when we were due South of Cambridge. Finally we swung onto the spacious car park of the 'Comfort Café'. This used to be a hard-core truck stop, which I first visited as a lorry driver (this was long enough ago for the vehicles to be actually called 'lorries') based in Worcestershire and bound for Gt Yarmouth. (also home of the motel allegedly used by Alan Partridge; ed.) Mike Bowen (who controls trucks for his day-job) hinted darkly at additional comforts available on the upper floors, back in the day. Well, I thought, brightly; some of us could do with a nice massage right now. I may have misunderstood him.
We swung out quite a long while after our arrival; it takes a while for one willing girl to service sixteen fit men in urgent need.
Again, on the route home, Mark took the road least traveled. We avoided Newmarket and headed slightly southwards to Gt Bradley, thence to Cowlinge and Upend and . . . . we lost Adi and Paul C. Also Mark, though those at the front didn't realise that wasn't at the back until the met him coming towards them from the front. By now the pace had risen to Deane's speed of choice; 22.5mph. Now Deane had seldom been seen at the front during the earlier parts of the ride. He explained this by telling us that his choice was to go OFF the front far enough for the shouts of criticism from behind to be inaudible, or to stay in the bunch at about fourth wheel and get some peace. I think that by the return journey he'd had enough, and we resigned ourselves to situation normal, all lined-out and gasping in his wake.
At some point after Upend my legs gave up the fight, Paul Rooke realised he was sitting on the losing wheel and came round me to disappear into the distance with the rest of the (now diminished) group. There was a thundering tailwind (though not much help up Ousden hill) that eased my journey home, which ended with 85 miles at 17 mph. A blisteringly hot day at an occasionally rapid pace - in fact at the back, it was like a 'thirds & juniors' race, complete with panicky accelerations and unnecessary braking. Ah, nostalgia; another thing that's not what it used to be.
SJH
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