Last Ride of 2013

28^th December, family lunch commitment and, after breakfast, I reckon an hour's ride in the sunshine. Schedule cleared by management, and all kitted up, I pluck Pearson from his hook in the garage. “barring punctures or mechanicals,
see you in under an hour” I say. Under half an hour later, I feel that dispiriting bump of rim and tyre crushing together to announce the exit of air from the inner tube (that achilles heel of all bicycles). A smidgen of atmosphere remaining I roll back home to effect the repair in the comfort of the garage. . . . . .

When changing the inner tube in the rear wheel of a fixed wheel bike, it is best (I find) to place the machine upside down. Like a novice cyclist. The reason for this (there had to be one) is the difficulty of replacing the wheel so that it is in line with the frame – and that the chain has the correct tension. If you have to do this on your own, you soon run out of hands.

The Bottle Cage flopped . . .

Before turning the bike onto its saddle and 'bars you have to remove the bidon and (in my case) the container for spare tubes, tyre levers &c. The bottle cage flopped in half. Next job, pull the mudguard stays from their fixing. The rear mudguard came apart about a foot to the rear of the brake caliper. The morning wasn't improving – but at least opening the brake calipers produced no further surprises.Rear wheel off, check the tyre for an obvious cause of deflation. I find three flints and a 3mm thorn.

Now, I realise that the sharper brains amongst you will want to take issue with my muddled measures ('about a foot' and '3mm'), but I'm not the only one. Newspapers are constantly confusing themselves and their readers with “police are seeking a 6ft (1.80m) white male” and we all mix up tonnes, tons and kilos and that's before you get to hectares, acres and fuel that's £s per litre and miles per gallon. And how come America uses Imperial measures but with slightly differing scales? And yet, and yet – I'm entirely comfortable with this confused state of things weighty, lengthy, voluminous and temperate. In my picture framing, I find metric is perfect (provided one ignores centimetres) – but the height of a person feels best in feet and inches. Kilometres are fun for cycling, because you get through more of them in an hour – but only when the signposts are playing to the same rules. The idea that we should change all our signposts is shocking. So much of our culture is bound up with distances, and our place names would lose their meaning. Or would you prefer 10k Bottom or 16k Bank?

. . . Then  the rear Mudguard came apart

Where was I? I was prising flints from the rear tyre – and then spending longer than expected to remove the thorn. Now, at this point any reasonable person, being in possession of another bike (with the added advantage of being in good working order) would stop wasting time. I wasn't in that state of mind at that moment – but my wife took the initiative and burst on the scene “why don't you get on another bike or you'll run out of time!” she barked. Thank goodness for that intervention. Grab Mercian from its hook, swift check on tyres etc, and away. 13 Miles later, and last ride of 2013 completed. Bright winter sunshine, rich dark shadows - perfection. I have ordered some inner tubes, and a pair of mudguards - plus a rear light to replace the one that my bike 'shed' a week or so ago.

All spruced-up and hanging with friends

It was only the next day that I realised that Peter Stephenson-Wall had joined Justin on the list of crash victims. At the time of finishing this, Peter is back home, but will be off the bike for quite a long time - and Justin is also home, but faced with several weeks of a load-free right leg, (though still able to joke that he left West Suffolk Hospital so soon before Peter that the Wheelers seem to be 'hot bedding' Ward F3). Club Sponsorship of The Wheeler Ward anyone?

SJH

March of Time

Still Progressing

Celebrate No1 son's 49th Birthday on Friday by risking a ride with the informal group of cycling chums all guaranteed to be older than he. First group ride since 5th September last. The thermometer outside the kitchen door offered -4c by way of encouragement. I piled on the garments until I resembled a lycra snowman . 
This outfit has a destabilising effect, as I realised yesterday. When dressed up in the same foolish outfit at the start my second ride on Pearson the fixie, I found that getting my leg over the saddle led to falling sideways against the side of the house - not a very elegant way of setting off. "pensioner in legover-failure incident" might be the local headline.
And the above paragraph was very much in my mind as I prepared to launch the Mercian on to the A1088. Moving, successfully, to the crossroad by The Dog with right arm outstretched I charged into the road to Tostock (just managing to keep ahead of vehicles approaching from in front and behind). Cruising down what Neil Dykes calls 'The Smugglers' Route' I'm well under way. At the agreed meeting point, Justin and TomTom are already there. Soon joined by Stephen L and Ron Fisher. After such a long absence, it's reassuring that little (if anything) has changed. We spend ten minutes discussing possible routes, and probable tea stops. Someone suggests we should decide where to take tea before we address how best to get there. I abstain. I'm not going all the way or, perhaps less amusingly, pulling out early. How about not stopping for tea?
If I remember correctly, we are to go to Hollow Trees by way of a typically abstruse TomTom variation on a well loved (and previously familiar) route through Boxford. We head off from our familiar meeting place towards Drinkstone, and thence down the hill to the Rat Valley. At the foot of the hill we come to a cunning bike-handling confidence test. A white van was waiting for us, having just turned into the hill at the junction. The road past the van was covered an splodges of ice and not particularly wide. Obviously climbing off and tottering by on foot wasn't an option, since my four chums have all whizzed through with effortless confidence. So through I went, successfully. There had been an earlier few patches negotiated comfortably - and there would be a few more. This is why one cycles with friends. A confidence building learning curve. And without incident.
Right and then left, up past that Mill that has been converted to apartments (Hancocks? Hickocks?)and on southwards. Whilst some of our number took a pit  stop, TT, Peter and I looked at the Memorial to WW2 USAF Airmen based at Rattlesden Airfield  and Peter asked, having seen the small, separate memorial stone to one Shirley Lee.  "Is Shirley a man's name in America?"  "Yes, Peter and so are Gene, Tracey and Jessie" (there are more but I can't remember them). A quarter of a mile on, past Punchards Farm we pass Louse Lane, which causes more discussion - and I mention my favourite 'Whelp St' (not to mention 'Baby Lane' which we passed about half a mile back).
At Bildeston I ask TomTom where we were heading "Chelsworth" he said. This was pretty obvious, I was just hoping there was a different route westwards that didn't use this little climb OR Semer Hill. Ah well, here goes. Skip the Granny Ring (the last attempt, a week ago, had led to an unshipped chain and ungainly dismount - or unmanly disgrunt as Susan just suggested) All went well, if jolly slowly. The descent into charming Chelsworth was much faster than the last time, and I did that charmless thing so popular with slow, unfit riders. Cruising past the waiting group at 25mph (or more) and not slowing down until it suits us. Fortunately the burn-out point usually comes pretty soon. Just outside Monks Eleigh, where I realised the plan was to turn left, I made my excuses and left - claiming to go to Lavenham.

Original Title mentioned Morieux - should've been Preston

However I turned right through Brent Eleigh and then up to Whelp Street and Preston. As I turned left from Whelp St (which I now realise is a hamlet rather than just a street), I am gently overtaken by a very clean Land Rover Freelander. As reach the end of  Preston St Mary, I see it coming back. The driver (a distinguished looking gent) stops and the window drops. "Do you know this area at all well?" "Fairly, how can I help?"  "I'm looking for Welt Street"  "Ah, Whelp Street. And I tell him" It isn't often I'm able to help someone with a direction so quickly and accurately. And as for the coincidence after our 'Louse Lane' discussion, well, how weird is that? OK, not very, since we were so close to the place (about 800 yds).
With various changes of direction as I toiled into the north easterly breeze, mostly at a 10mph grovel (but that was fine since I wasn't trying to catch anyone up) I  rolled onto the forecourt of Orchard House at 12.00. Only now was I able to check my watch and change the mode of my computer The Snowman costume plus two-finger 'Sealskinz' precluding any agility without stopping and removing gloves. With the temperature still no more than 2c, that was never going to happen until I reached home.
36 miles, 13mph. Still Progressing.

SJH

22nd August 2012, Cavendish Tea Room revisited.

November 2011. Enormous, but warm and friendly.

We didn't really wait for Pete to be away on holiday before we returned to the Cavendish Tea Rooms, but we felt easier about the visit. Our previous call  is documented in my blog of 23rd November 2011, "The search for the most expensive scone is over" was the title. When I wrote that account I was unaware (these days it is not unusual for me to be unaware, due to age-related Mutton. Rhyming slang; look it up) that Peter had, on that occasion, had a full and frank exchange of views with the management  regarding value for money. I did record my own surprise at finding my usual fiver inadequate to the task of clearing my debt - but I was terribly restrained and merely held my tongue and borrowed from TomTom. In any event it was probably for the best that the terror of the tearoom wasn't with us. Peter will always tell it like it is, especially if the way it is isn't to his liking.

August 2012. Even bigger, but chilly. Cool, even. Hence shades

A picture of decorum

A perfect ambience

Glenn Morris hopes they won't  spot what he's hidden under his napkin

Back to the present then. But with a nod to that previous trip. But more about that later..  . . . Justin because, having looked it up, I realise that there was a similarity in the circumstances. TomTom brought someone to the tea stop by a different route, and someone who had a puncture arrived late, with an escort. Last year it was Dawn Demarco who had the puncture, and was helped by Chris Wiseman and TomTom - who brought them to Cavendish along the main road, while the rest of us took the back road route. This time it was new Mercrediste Graham Dixon's second puncture, and it happened on the main road just short of Cavendish, and it was I who stopped to assist.Though this had the appearance of a second puncture, it was actually the sliver of flint that caused the first one which had been hiding in a cut in the cover for about twenty miles (they do that; if you find no cause for a puncture this means that you've missed it. There is always a cause, and if you don't find it you will most certainly get a repeat deflation).

I never finished this Blog. I came across it this Sunday morning 17th February 2013, after Publishing my 15th Feb edition. The photos are jolly, so I'll publish right away. Maybe we'll be able to repeat a visit in the spring or maybe it has gone the way of all premium scones. Maybe someone knows? Perhaps there Solicitor? No!  that's quite enough Solicitors thank you.

SJH

15 Feb '13.Two Convalescent Rides with Un-planned Starts

I went out on a different15 mile circuit yesterday. There had been a gap of about a fortnight before that - due to the weather. I have read various accounts, from Wednesday Riders, of foolhardiness in the face of snow and ice which have only served to reinforce my resolve to wait for the arrival of Spring. Suddenly, Spring is here (or possibly some counterfeit day or two of  clemency. I don't care which). The sun is up, the grass is riz and a few birdies is tweeting - so I thought "I'm damn well getting out for a proper ride". Fickle fate took the initiative, by giving me a very tenuous justification for a ride. But first; a warning.
You are probably expecting not only a cycling-related blog, but a piece solely and exclusively devoted to cycling. So, if you are not interested in motor cars, and feel cheated, then you would do well to fast- forward past the next four paragraphs and see if there's anything more to your taste at the end. I can't be any more specific, as I don't know how much time I'll devote to my first long ride for nearly six months.
 We were let down  by two of our motor cars - all right, all right, it's true. I'm a cyclist with three cars. I don't care. We are ludicrously attached to them all. There is no logical reason for three - one is essential, obvs. Our 1965 Triumph Spitfire isn't exactly practical, but we've owned him since 1986. He's transported two bikes plus camping equipment down through France to Le Mont Ventoux - in fact, to the summit of Ventoux. How could we possibly abandon a chum like that? The Red Baron is a Dual Fuel (Petrol & LPG) 1988 BMW 325 Touring (That's German for Estate Car). He was, until a year or two ago a 1989 BMW Touring (you know what that's German for by now). We bought Red Baron II because his bodywork was better, and persuaded the sellers to transfer Baron I's mechanicals and seats and lots of other stuff. So deep attachment again. Then we bought another BMW for daughter Polly when she was learning to drive. Now she's in Plymouth, at Uni (as she and her chums would have it) and has no use for a car. Yet again we feel unable to part with ' Baby Beamer'.

I would be amazed if any of you were impressed by the forgoing, but I thought that I'd throw it in as background. The real problem was that the Baron wouldn't start. We were about to take Baby Beamer to our good friend John Gagen at Cockfield, for a service.Traditionally (weather permitting) I would put a bike in the back of whichever vehicle was in need of attention and ride back (then collect when done). For the last few months I've not been able to do this, so we use two cars. I was to drive Baby Beamer, which I took  out of our drive, waited for Susan, then walked down to the garage to check on progress. "He* won't start!!" Susan bellowed. (* each of our cars is a chap) I moved into the driver's seat with the calm reason of one who knows about these matters. Sit in car, apply key. Turn engine for maybe four, fruitless, minutes. I can now tell the problem. "He won't start!!" I yell. I diagnose a petrol-pump related problem, but don't feel in any fit state to crawl under The Baron to investigate. We phone John. I outline the problem, and, like a totally ideal Garagiste, after a moment's thought he says "Shall I come and have a look?". John's workshop is about half an hour from Norton. He will need to finish the jobs he has in hand, but will be with us in about 5 hours. Wonderful. So, since the sun is still out (etc) and it's the first mild day for, er, well, days, I decide on the 15 mile circuit mentioned at the start of all this nonsense. Excellent ride, with a modicum of modest climbing. Average speed (as if anyone cared) 14mph. Quick shower, brief lunch, John arrives in in his black 1991 BMW 318 Touring (did I tell you about that?) and sets about the Baron. Problem identified eventually by a whack to the bottom of the petrol tank.This gets the pump whirring which starts the engine (which also runs on LPG, petrol is only needed for about ten seconds to start the engine after which it just runs on gas). We decide to leave the Baron running. Unfortunately, the petrol pump isn't the type expected, so John will have to source another. It seems best to fix it tomorrow. He will now go home, and we'll take the Baron to Cockfield. and leave him behind the workshop. John leaves. We have the Baron, quietly rumbling as he ticks over (petrol-head term) Susan goes to get Baby Beamer. "He won't start!" she shouts in disbelief. More to the point, the electronic key doesn't work. This means that not only will he not start but we can't even open the doors. Susan cleverly extracts the traditional key from the electric item. All this allows us to do is to get in and sit in the driver's seat - impotently. Phone John. He suggests jump leads to encourage life from a suspected flat battery. Looking for our collection of two sets of jump leads, and failing to find even one, we realise that both are in the tailgate area of  Baby Beamer. Susan has to climb over the front seats, open the rear seats to allow access to the tailgate and crawl round to find the jump leads. We connect the Baron to the Baby and immediately, nothing happens at all. Phone John. He'll be over at 8.30 in the morning.

Morning. John arrives and, as we finish breakfast, we hear the sound of two engines. Baby B has a flat battery, when I used the jump leads I used to the wrong connection. BMW use an odd arrangement involving storing  the battery in the boot and a couple of contacts under the bonnet. There is no problem with the red one, but the three very similar black ones give plenty of scope for error. We will bring the Baron to Cockfield. Only problem now is that Susan is due in Cambridge at 11.00. There's sunshine, and the temperature is inching it's way towards clement. So I will take a bike and ride back - someone has to do it, what a sacrifice!

 Leave John's workshop (which is correctly at Cross Green) and head left onto the A1141 and head home. But why? Do I really need to?

Of course not. The weather is looking sublime. How far would I be able to manage? Turn left off the A1141 towards Cockfield proper  and turn right just after the old railway bridge up Perrydown Lane (no, I didn't know it was called that either) and head south. To Bildeston and right towards Chelsworth. Ahah! A proper climb. Oh dear, it's steeper than I remember. By a lot. Decide that it might be prudent to engage the Granny Ring. A bit of grinding and churning, then finally Clatter-Clatter Grind - and the chain is off and down the inside, cranks rigid. Decide that I would rather not fall off, and succeed  in my effort. A long fiddle to get the chain out from behind the chainring and back on again. Coast back down to make the re-start less hazardous - after all I'm still very shaky in the bike-handling department. I even have to be careful taking a drink (and then replacing the bottle). Just how sad is that? The left turn in Chelsworth through the very narrow bridge and up the hill past Chelsworth Hall is steep, but not as bad as the previous one - and beautiful, and soon eases to a gentle gradient up, to join the A1141 (again), and left to Hollow Trees. This feels very special indeed. I am  under the impression  that the time is about 11.20. However, on my way home I realize that my watch has stopped. I caught the winder on a cycling journey. What else can go wrong? Amazingly, nothing. Well, not yet, anyway.
Scone and tea for £2.80 and a chat to a husband and wife cycling combo at the next table - they were having a huge salad lunch. I thought that  I recognized them, but my ability to remember names is now really terrible, so no chance. They Asked if I'd ridden the Suffolk Punch. I told them I'd just taken a few snaps - they hadn't ridden it either, but spoke of it in awe, and referred to friends who had, and had suffered (in a good way)

After tea I retrace to Bildeston and then turn right, up to Wattisham village, and slightly left back to the B1115 and right to Gt Finborough. The Wattisham bit was new to me - I'm familiar with going via Battisford , Combes and Jack's Lane - but crikey, what a grim and muddy lane up to the main road. Some very smart old conversions, but VERY few. Mostly semi-collapsed barns, broken gates and shabby farm machinery. And yet only a short way away, all was well tended. Just a three mile strip of sadness. If you live there and love it, I'd better apologize. It also looks the sort of area where grudges last, and retribution is enjoyed.

I am beginning to slow down, so a pause for more tea on my way through Woolpit, Chez Seggar.  Sue and I talk mainly about France and their impending trip in September to Le Mont Ventoux. and Burgundy until, finally, Rich. Returns from his ride. He told us tales of no room at Clare, and no café any more at Cavendish (we discuss the likelihood of a Cavendish revival) and how the then sped to Yorkshire Mary's in Long Melford. He mentioned Peter's two punctures,  the main course (so he said) for his 2.15 arrival.

So, 27.6 miles at Woolpit, and a satisfying 30.something at home. A proper ride at last.

SJH

Wednesday 5th Sept. A long story

Peter Heath.

Yesterday the 12^th of January 2013, for the first time in four months, I went out for a ride. On the road. Riding my Mercian road bike for 12 miles with Peter Heath. Why the long gap in my riding? I'll come to that shortly. Right now I want to share with you the detail of our ride, and how it came about – after all, not only have I not ridden since September, I haven't written a blog since 31^st of July. To get me to the point of going on a 'proper' ride I had received offers of escort duty from three other friends since late October. But they relied on me getting my act together first, and I still had a slight feeling of anxiety. A couple of weeks ago I had tottered down to Beyton to meet the chums before they left on their ride. It was OK, but still a slight uncertainty. What was needed was a more positive incentive. Peter Heath.

His email carried an outline short route and a suggested time. Being Peter, it was an imperative suggestion “I'll come to your house on Friday afternoon, I'll phone first ” it ended. Then, on the day, the call. “What do you think?” he asked “Weather seems fine” I said. He turned up at 2pm and barked “Now, you're still happy to do the ride round to Woolpit?” . . . “Yup” Say I, . . . “RIGHT! Off we go” says Pete. . .pausing to check traffic. . . . “ALL CLEAR!!,” ….. and he twiddled off our forecourt and up the A1088 at what felt to me like a positively Wigginsian pace – and I'd yet to get my second foot in. I was already chasing and it was only the first few yards of our ride! How would I cope? But I was back on, just before the left turn to Thurston, “I caught up” I said “only because I waited!” Peter barked with a grin, and we cruised down to the hump back bridge over the Blackbourne (well, Peter cruised, and had no reason to doubt that I was doing any different). We discussed drainage, and the whereabouts of my new running route which used a brand new wooden pedestrian bridge over the Blackbourne and then followed a footpath and a Byway up the top of the climb to Great Green Thurston (on my run, I turn round and go back down hill to home, and a bath. No chance this afternoon). We climb (don't laugh )on the road to the Z bend at the top, and turn left towards Tostock. A hundred yards along the lane, past the excellent new house belonging to Harvey's Nursery, we pass the opening to 'my' Byway. We discuss Barn Owls, and marvel at the amount of standing water along 'my' route today. I relish hearing the sharp cries of warning from Peter “car behind!” “hole!” and “puddle!”. This is a proper ride. We go over the railway bridge, commenting on the newly restored Victorian houses on the right. Peter tells me that the railway is where Thurston officially ends. This was a surprise to me, as one who only recently aware that Great Green was IN Thurston. So on we went. Side by side along the lane to Tostock, down into the dip with another double bend then up through the lovely woodland to the junction. Then right ande left, then right again along the lane to Drinkstone, down past the windmills, the left and in to Woolpit. After a detour to the Health Centre (to collect Peter's drugs – I didn't ask), we stopped for tea in Woolpit and discussed post traumatic whatnots, over tea and cake and scones. In an act of almost excessive generosity Peter insisted that I have the only remaining scone, and that he paid for the entire repast.

Sharon & Rob at Thetford GC

So, how did I get to this? Wednesday the 5^th of September, was the last ride that I had. Around ten of us set off on a ride that followed a route decided by me. We followed a fairly routine route north east, followed by the equally familiar course along to Croxton (which is always a surprise to me, it being such a familiar place when riding west from my previous home of Cambridge), then an enjoyable blast back to Thetford – especially enjoyable, since I was on Flandria, the best bike, and feeling good. Obviously 'feeling good' is entirely relative, and nearly always ends being caught just before turning right to Tesco and the Thetford Garden Centre, the latter being our refreshing destination. Jonathan Howe left before the tea stop – allegedly to ruin someone's life. Jerry Barton also chose the early bath. After our tea we took the usual and always enjoyable via Brettenham (yes, another duplicate) and up onto the A1066 to Rushford where, if my memory serves, Gareth Doman (one of our two Critical Care Medics) turned right to join the A1088 and reach home in Ixworth as quickly as possible. We follow the route (my route) to Coney Weston, where we turn right, as always, and follow the route that gives us the choice of left to Bardwell or straight on to Honington. As in 90% of the rides that follow this general route – we go left. I am on the front (must have been the best bike effect still operating) as we head south westwards. Alongside me is Glenn Morris. About ¾ of a mile along the lane, so I'm told, I hit a pothole, some tree-root distorted tarmac and land very badly. Glenn was unable to avoid my flight from right to left, and fell. Sharon Calton, Ron Fisher and Stephen Linden also fell (I apologise for not being more accurate here - but bear in mind that I had no idea what had happened to me, either). Bikes were damaged, I was later told. Mark Harris, Mark Saunders and Rob Webb managed to avoid falling. To those still conscious (that’s everyone except me) I looked to be in serious trouble. A good deal of blood and no movement at all. I was unconscious, so I'm told, for about five minutes. Sharon and Rob came to my aid and did all the recovery position stuff while covering me with spare clothing, trying to engage me in conversation. I came round just before the Air Ambulance arrived, but I was making no sense at all. Sharon later told me that I asked to be helped up – a spot of the Tom Simpson "put me back on my bike"? The Air Ambulance Doctor asked me questions (apparently) but I couldn't answer. My first memory was of two people working carefully on my left forehead with what I assumed (what would I know?) to be a needle and thread. They were discussing the sewing strategy. I think they'd been at it for quite a while, but I imagine that thirty stitches take some time.

This account, written in January 2013, has been delayed whilst I try to decide what form the blog should take. I began straightforwardly enough - 'pretty major prang' is the default, laconic, approach. But then there's a rather more to say, really. Cyclists, and probably all who do sports with an accident risk, tend to have a fairly casual approach to the inevitable damage of scars, bumps, bruises and grazes. Most injuries do heal pretty quickly. It's when one breaks bones or get's a bump on the head that matters become more complex. And for me that complexity has had a rather long term impact. Our Club Orthopaedic Surgeon, Soren Sjolin had warned me, as he chatted from my bedside at West Suffolk, that it might take me three months to recover. As any seasoned cyclist would, I thought to myself "I'll keep quite, but that can't be right".

Now, in the middle of January and with plenty of time to think, I feel that "Maybe Soren was right after all" was probably the more accurate choice. Then the know-all, argumentative Bikie in me revised his opinion of Soren's judgement – aha! He thought. Soren was wrong after all. Three months? Optimistic nonsense. Closer to five is likely (Sorry Soren). The effects of the impact include a slight (but diminishing) problem with balance. So until yesterday (and there's more of that later) I only rode my road bike on the turbo (and even then I ran out of commitment after 30 minutes, and then several days to regain that commitment). The main advantage of sticking to the turbo was that I was less likely to fall over (not, I hasten to add, that I actually have fallen). I had tried the odd test in our garden, and the tendency to waver in the direction of the leg being swung over the bike was rather too pronounced for comfort. Before Christmas I began an heroic session of 10 min turbo warm-up on ATB (v effective, if anyone's interested) followed by my 5k off road run (at extremely gentle pace). Then it froze, then I got the seasonally obligatory cold followed by chest infection followed by Christmas - and now I'm back on (though not in) the running. An advantage of off-road running is that falling over is less likely - though in the early stages I was unnervingly wobbly. Another post traumatic effect (getting cod medico-technical now) is fatigue. Many attempts at physical or mental effort have been sabotaged over the last four months by the need for slumber. There's been a general slowing up (I rely on my wife Susan for opinions about what proportion of these shortcomings is due solely to being 69, or to a whack on the head) reading is slow, spelling a lot worse, memory has, er, um . . . . oh you know!. Now that I've moved into a more general discussion of all this, I might as well mention the mood swings and emotional incontinence. Or perhaps not.

This last section is one of the dangers of writing the blog - being boring about my health. I'm sure there will be readers who will criticise me for giving too much detail or a flippant lack of, erm, seriousness.

SJH

The Wiggendish Ride. Wednesday 25 July 2012

Stephen Linden's contribution

Who's got the Picnic?

Peter bareheaded

Stephen Linden, Tom Cahill Smith, Ron Fisher, TomTom, Peter Heath, Dale Sturman, Tony Panting, Justin Wallace, Barry Denny, Peter S-W, Michael Lawson, Gerry Barton & me (SJH). Our prime mover for this jaunt into Essex and the Blue Egg Café at Great Bardfield was Peter Heath and we had been, in his email directive, encouraged to wear items of yellow or Union Jacks or anything that would celebrate the historic and astonishing success of the Sky Team in producing not just the Winner, but 2nd place and the Champs Elysées winner in the Tour de France. The title of this blog celebrates Cav as World Champion and regular at the Blue Egg, and Brad as the man who made history.

Peter without helmet!

 If our rendezvous at the earlier hour of 0830 had been a Féte, and our outfits were to be judged in the Fancy Dress Competition, then Tony Panting (left) would have been the undisputed winner. Note the aero modification to the helmet (Of course Wiggo had the Roundel on his TT helmet as his modification). 

One approach to re-hydration. . . . . .

The guilty tyre

Our route was a  joint effort by TomTom and Justin, with a dash of Kevin Flanagan on the way home.The pace seemed quite brisk, and I was glad that I had decided to use the Flandria (best bike). We rattled our way to Clare via Glemsford and Cavendish heading to Essex and a crossing of the main road that most of us still think of as the A604. A short way west of our crossing, just a hundred metres short of Toppesfield, there was a familiar "CRACK!!" from the rear of the peleton. Stephen L had a puncture. But it as rather more serious than a mere flint or thorn, both the tube and the tyre having split - when the tyre was eased off the rim on one side, the damage was far more extensive than the photo shows. As is customary, several of us explained to Stephen exactly why it was entirely his fault (we felt confident in this, since we knew that he only recently returned to serious cycling). Mainly, we accused him of causing damage when fitting the tube. We (well, Stephen mainly) now had a problem. No one (natch) had a spare tyre  (well, ok, some of us were displaying something along those lines - but not the thing we needed). The ride had begun to resemble one of those irritating team-building exercises, where groups randomly thrown together solve problem like crossing  a river using a box of tissues, insulating tape and some twigs. Justin nipped to Toppesfield while the rest of us ran through further possibilities. Mrs Linden was at London learning to be an Olympic Games Maker, Stephen only had enough cash for the tea stop, and no credit card. No one seemed to be able to do any of those tasks now possible with smart phones - not even find were we where - and this with more than one Garmin available! Someone remembered that we had passed Malcolm Borg's Cycle Clinic repair and sales business as we left Glemsford, Gerry had the phone number, and Tom Tom used his photocopied fragment of Suffolk and Essex to explain our position (in both senses of the word). At this point Justin returned to announce great news, he had found a man who would summon a Taxi to take Stephen and bike to a bike shop. No one was listening. It turned out that the man had already phoned for the taxi - so Justin had to nip back and get it cancelled. I thought that Justin handled this reversal with admirable equanimity. With Malcolm due to be there in half an hour, we were able to do what we had really wanted to do at the start; leave Stephen behind.
He would try to make his way to the Café (about 5 miles) and arrive before we had left.
We made a classic Wheelers Clubrun restart, with half a dozen of us dropping the other five . . . . and not noticing that we'd done so until we had a considerable gap. Re-forming into an orderly group we sped to Gt Bardfield and on, southwards, to The Blue Egg. There were a lot of cyclists on the outside area, and more inside, plus a few 'civilians'. We had just formed an orderly queue when Kevin Flanagan arrived -with impressive timing, having ridden directly from his home in Hundon. One of the special features of this place is the ability to cope with large groups with ease. The fifteen or so riders from the Cambridge CC Wednesday ride (fast chapter) who arrived very shortly after us were absorbed with ease. The food is reasonably priced and, with the exception of the scones (which are disappointing) is varied and of high quality. Ron's Bread Pudding was the size and shape of a lump of Belgian Pavé. TomTom and I had bacon sandwiches which, though a bit slow to arrive, were packed with more slices of cured pig than one could count without dismantling the two, huge, crusty and fresh white bread triangles. Stephen had passed on to Peter a Union Jack plastic tablecloth (we were impressed when he brought along a bottle of Champagne in an insulating bag within a small rucksack, with which to ply us in celebration of his sixtieth birthday the other week, so we shouldn't have been surprised at this attention to detail) provided us with a customised table and later, a backdrop for the group photo (sadly, without Stephen) I commandeered my old friend Tim Williams from the Cambridge group to press the button.

Stansfield. The moment they drop me . . .

Just as we were leaving, a sweat-soaked Stephen arrived having been riding hard all the way from Toppesfield.  Good service received from Malcolm, and payment deferred, plus advice that because the tyre appeared to have failed (it came away from the cord) there might be a possibility of compensation from Continental. We allowed him to go and fill his bottle from the standpipe on the outside seating area, and set off, with a slightly different route led by Kevin, which veered left before Toppesfield. Peter S-W has a rear puncture, and we settle down in the sunshine while it is fixed. No one thought to bring a picnic, though. After this leisurely repair we crossed the "A604" at Ridgwell and headed for Clare via Ashen. Still a Glorious ride in perfect weather. Though it was pretty warm I was pleased that I had managed to finish two bottles by the time we reached the café and already getting through the refills as we sped back. After Clare it was, as almost always, a right turn to go through Poslingford and up the hill towards Stanningfield. This was when I felt that something wasn't quite right, I dropped back rapidly up this short (but sharp) hill that normally (these days) I manage quite comfortably. And I'm on the best bike and all. Get back on before Stansfield, pass the group, charge the bank up past the church . . and die again. Peter S-W passes me, with his rear tyre partly deflated. I only catch a distant glimpse of the ride two or three times before they finally disappear over the summit of the Cote de Hawkedon (see picture). Between Stansfield and Hawkedon Stephen L catches up with me, and thanks me for waiting - what a tactful chap, or was it sarcasm? We rode together (he waited after each climb, even uneven road repairs were becoming a challenge by this stage) until the point where I turned left up to Whepstead. At least SL had sound reasons for feeling slightly sub-optimal, having had no tea stop and passing his previous longest ride distance at about 60 miles. He expressed the desire to spend the afternoon asleep in his garden before turning out to collect Mrs Linden from the last London Train at Cambridge.
It is said that history is written by the victors but, as I have said before in similar circumstances, clubrun accounts can end up being recorded by the loser who gets dropped. But I'm not going to complain, I knew my way home (always do). I just regret not having the opportunity to say 'goodbye'.. . . . . . .sob. . . . .
SJH   PS, I haven't got the hang of moving pictures around on this latest version of Blogger - as you can see. I hope for improvements, especially if someone out there has a few tips . . . . .

 . . . . . .and another

Stephen L & Dale at the start

What got missed out over the last two years . . . .

Yesterday I released the Deer encounter account from 2010. On closer examination of the dusty corners of the 'drafts' section of the ramshackle archive of the SJH blog I realise that there are fragments of this and that which could possibly bear the glare of daylight on the screens of those who follow (lately in vane) my accounts of life awheel.
SJH

7th April 2010 Peter H, Darren Fowler, Tom-Tom, Ron Fisher, Gareth Doman John Gould and SJH were joined by Tim from the USA, who is over on a visit - his son is recently returned from Afghanistan, is based at Lakenheath and a keen cyclist. Tim is keen, too, but hasn't done more than a handful of miles since last summer when he first switched to a road bike from ATB. He's done a lot of skiing though, and this kept him afloat for the close to 60 miles of undulating Suffolk that he endured this morning. The picture above was taken by a member of staff at 'Mere Moments' in Diss.

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14 April 2010. USA Tim was back for more, Al MacPherson dipped his toe into the wonder of Wednesdays and Darren turned up for the last Mercredi before a run of unfavourable shifts. Nathan was due back in Bury for a driving lesson, so would be turning back before tea.

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21st July 2010. Tony "Wrong-way" Panting. Two weeks b4 the Lynmouth flood in 1952 had stayed at cottage that was swept away. He could have been a statistic, instead of a legend. Thinking of legends - who else is having a sub-optimal farewell season?

New venue, old attitudes. Peter warns against parking in the car park - 'they' would want to charge, because 'they' wanted £15 for his Rambling group to park there. Also has seemingly-obligatory sign forbidding just about everything, starting with Cycling and including Ball Games except (possibly) walking (though walking too slowly might cause anxiety and suspicions of loitering). Keen to avoid the latter, we moved off at a modest pace pausing only for SJH to nip down to the Bus Shelter and check for riders in the wrong place. I note that the website hasn't been changed yet.

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(date about a week after the above) Justin, Jack, Peter H, Jeff Agricole, Dawn, Richard Muchmore, a guy named Paul on a first-time ride, Glenn Morris (the one who isn't Glenn Grant), Tom-Tom, Tiger Tony and me (SJH).  We met up at our revised venue of NEW GREEN (there is a sign to the New Green Centre, off Station Road in Thurston, on the Eastern side) and had a short but amiable discussion with the lady who looks after the Centre and its car park (we may not use it at present, but possibly at some time in the future we'll cut a deal involving a donation ) during which we tried to project an amiable , approachable impression.

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Thetford Garden Centre - in the grounds of Kilverstone Hall, which used to be the home of the Zoo that achieved fame via those stickers in the rear windows of thousands of ageing family saloons. I knew it well, but only because of the stickers - I never went there. Perhaps that was were they went wrong?

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4th August 2010. How far is it to the far side of Livermere from Thurston New Green? Not far, is how far, and it was the distance that we travelled before the first puncture. As the pictures show, Peter was having quite a tough time even though Tom-Tom was providing assistance. With all the latest techniques acquired at Elmy Cycles' puncture-repair seminar that he attended last winter, and with the aid of my now-famous tool (a putter-on-er-er of reluctant tyres) Peter was all done in a mere twenty minutes or so. Then it was noticed that Paul-on-his-first-Wednesday-ride had a flat rear tyre. This took a little longer. The scenes below took place outside Livermere Village Hall.

After a total stop of  nearly 3/4 of an hour the ride finally got under way. I didn't get as far as describing the remainder of the ride.

Richard sees something

Peter Models his Overshoe modifications

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8th May 2012. The day began with sunshine, then clouded over and then brightened. Perfect tactical weather to get the riders out of bed and into the car and off to the races. The rain came much later and, not for the first time the final race was run on wet roads with grey cloud overhead and pavements now emptied of spectators. The huge amount of snaps and vids I took filled memories and emptied batteries. I was taking the video for Michael Lawson to turn into a record of the day, so needed to begin with the setting-up, against a background of the village waking up. I took most of this with my compact Canon Ixus (nice and discreet) rather than Polly's proper video Cannon Legria  that I didn't yet fully understand. The results looked quite usable. I couldn't have imagined that I would lose nearly all of the stills and video taken . But I did. I got someone to recover most of the data - but there were quite random chunks that have gone forever.

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15 August 2010: How Dare Dat Deer Do Dat?

Buckley's Tea Room

This Blog was found down the back of a settee in my blog Archive. Unsent and unappreciated. Yes; the year is 2010!

With the wind from the North East, the logical route wouldn't be one that took us to the South West. However, when a new venue for tea is discovered it has to be visited at once. So Castle Hedingham it was to be. Justin led us with a directional fluency few could have questioned due to that part of Essex being considered another country to we West Suffolk-ers. We had a Tom-Tom in reserve, just in case a second opinion was needed, but he was able to relax in the bunch free of all responsibility. It was Castle Hedingham that we needed, rather than dear Sible, and the tearooms that some say used to be the site of Buckley-Saxon Cycles (and others muttered that the real site was "just over there") all we know is that the Buckley bit remains in the tea room title, and that the service was very friendly (if a touch confused and uncoordinated for the total approval of Peter Heath, our Teafinder General). We were surprised to find a startled-looking Mike Bowen and friends already seated! Part of the building was given over to Bric-a-Brac and Bygones, all for sale and some bizarre (a chest of drawers in the shape of a Cello anyone?).

As we set off up the fine main street (a touch steep for 'café legs') we past an early Georgian house with a Blue Plaque. I was just able to make out the name of one of my favourite twentieth century English artists, Eric Ravilious. The journey home seemed straight forward, if a little brisker than the outward run. Some miles after leaving Glemsford Tom-Tom took a right turn for a peaceful ride home at his own pace. Then it happened.

Tricia was riding on my right, and we were chatting about something or other that has now quite gone out of my head when it happened. I don't think that we could, in the cirsumstances, be expected to identify the Gender of the Beast. Mercifully, the number of the beast amounted to just the one, and it was most certainly a DEER As to the type of deer - follow the link, and you decide. All I know is that this face appeared from the right and just above handlebar height and attached to a very solid body. The animal being unavoidable a crash became inevitable and the result was regrettable.
I was lucky in landing mostly on the grass verge - swiftly followed by Barry and Adi. Tricia had a high gravel-rash score, specially her right (?) arm. Every one gathered round and, as you can see from the picture, my bike received a great deal of attention. Julian was very concerned that I had bumped my (unprotected) head, and I was very concerned that my front wheel was badly damaged - though probably rideable. Tricia felt it important that she start riding again at once (must be a horsey thing) and was escorted homewards by Julian Long - with a transfer to motor car driven by Mrs L chez Long at Gt Barton.
I was escorted home by a select and watchful group, my main concern was the amount of wobble in my front wheel. I was offered a lift home from Bury, but (as one does) I politely refused. I did, however, accept Justin's company for the entire route home.

SJH

Sunday 22nd April. A Sunny Group Ride

As I arrive at the HQ, imagining that I am early (or at any rate not late) I am confronted by a large group of Wheelers, at the centre of which stood Julian Colman. Organising. "Everyone who wants to be on the B ride, go over there, those who want to join the A ride come down here!!" he was saying. As could have been predicted, at least three 'A' riders were hiding in amongst the 'B' group, only emerging after Julian had done a head count and worried that there might be too many 'A's. I had placed a few possible routes into my medium-term memory, in case no one else had a bright idea, but going to Wheldon's fruit farm at (variously) Newton Green or Great Cornard wasn't one of them. It is actually between the two places, and the only routes that I had experienced (courtesy of Peter Heath and TomTom respectively) were fiercely complex and involved 11% climbs. I was the only person in the 'B' ride who knew (who knew?) so I would need to improvise 'on the fly'. Up Mount Rd from HQ, and onto the cycle path we went - except for the trio who had attacked through the Moreton Hall estate and thus not noticed that they were on their own. They were milling around at the Rougham cross roads, so we were all together again. A few more attacks were  ignored, and then the ride seemed to settle into a fairly ordered group of about fifteen.

We were soon joined by the A ride

There was sunshine, wonderful light, and a fairly brisk headwind. I had settled on a yet-to-be-finalised-in-my-head route that would include a few loops around Milden,  and Boxford. I miscalculated, and ended up going into Boxford from the route that I had intended to leave it by. This left the  choice of crossing to Assington, and the fiercely complex route or turn right and follow the main road. Main road it was, then. But it was rather further than I had thought, however the traffic was light and not very threatening (have you noticed, as I have, that traffic other than rush hours is getting lighter? Is the cost of fuel beginning to change peoples' driving habits?) We did, however, split quite badly before we joined the A134 - the breakaway group waited at Newton Green, and we re-grouped. At this point Sharon announced that there was a short cut via a bit of un-made road through a golf club, to the Tea Stop. Hardly anyone believed this, but I felt it seemed logical - and anyway, it wouldn't be my fault if it lead nowhere. Worked like a charm, through to a T junction, turn left and Wheldon's in 50yds. Since we were over fifteen, the service system was quite stretched. Ten minutes later the 'A' riders arrived having ridden about 44 miles to our 32. This was a severe test for the unfailingly pleasant staff, but I only noticed quite how much of a problem had been caused when my scones hadn't arrived - but chocolate cake was being rushed to the fast group. I was persuaded to go against my instinct, and tactfully enquire about my order. It was hidden under a pile of paper napkins, but there was nothing to suggest that this had been deliberate and a panic production of food and drink brought me in line with the rest of the ride.
We set off ahead of the A ride and predictably they caught us just as we turned out of Gt Waldingfield towards Acton. I think it must have been Shaun Sivertson who crossed the gap and joined the faster ride, but there was a certain amount of  restlessness amongst others in our group until I took us off on a right turn, so that we didn't have the speeding bunch in the distance any more. We crossed the B1071 Lavenham road at Washmere Green and took the little cut-off lane to the B1115 to Monk's Eleigh where we went up past the church and thus to Preston, and home. The favourable wind sped us on our way to the conclusion of a great ride (if you ignore my choice of too large a chunk of 'A' roads just before the café)

SJH

Wednesday 25th April. Very Wet, Very Short.

Would anyone be there? Should I be here? Rain is forcefully forecast by all weather sites viewed, and promised to be very heavy by lunchtime. I am, unusually, slightly early. I cycle in circles, and up and down the roads surrounding New Green Centre in Thurston. I see two bikes resting against the side of NGC - Sharon & another; Dawn perhaps? How long does it take to fix waterproof mascara?

Matt the racing motorist appears, slightly underdressed as usual. And also being slightly built there seems even less protection from the promised precipitation. Wind: east south east, gusts 31mph possible. I was thinking Thornham for tea, but Sharon has the better idea - circumnavigation of Bury St Edmunds so that, if the weather is seriously bad we won't be far from home at any point. I take us on an anti clockwise route which, with hindsight (a special power much in the news these days) wasn't the smartest move if Bury was to be at the centre of the route, since we were beginning 4 miles to the east. And, if we made it round to the west of Bury we'd have a headwind home. But none of this mattered at all, because we only made it round to Haughley before heading inwards. The rain had been gradually getting heavier since (possibly) Drinkstone. I had very roughly calculated that if the rain held off we could cover at least 50 miles without straying further than about 10 miles from Bury - no longer an even remote possibility!

The homeward stretch was tailwind-assisted which meant that what was by  now quite heavy rain wasn't being lashed into our faces; Matt and I began to quite enjoy our swishing splashing progress through the puddles - but in my case, not quite sufficiently to consider riding straight past my house. I waved farewell and scuttled indoors for a hot bath, leaving my companions to ride the remaining seven miles back to Bury.   SJH

Wednesday April 18th. Short Wet One.

I haven't attempted this for a while, the list of riders. We are now such a large Club, with new members nearly every month, that it can be hard to know who is who. I get everyone's names passed on to me by Peter - but I don't know what they look like. Photos, that might help. Anyway, we were: Glenn Morris, Guy Lesser, Will Mapus-Smith, Matt Parry, Mark Saunders, Dawn DiMarco, Sharon Calton, TomTom, Peter Heath and me (SJH). All forecasts were pretty grim - even the most optimistic, why is it that I try to seek out a better forecast? It's not going to change what will actually happen, after all. The promised rain held off until after our pitstop - but it made up for this by really chucking it down. The wind was absolutely as predicted, wild, 19 mph and gusting  to 30mph. I was very pleased that my "Lobster Claw" cloves are not only v v warm but also waterproof. Guy's breathable and waterproof jacket proved that it could only achieve one of those two properties. Don't worry Guy, I fell for favourable write-ups when I bought a pair of Endura "Deluge" gloves that had the word "waterproof" printed in yellow on the backs. Barely showerproof. Evans Cycles took it very well and refunded without quibble (just a "must be a faulty pair, I've used them all winter with no problems" to which the only reply has to be "yeah, right").

Peter entertained us

Pace felt quite brisk, possibly due to the youthful element - but maybe it's just subjective, like the Met Office weather website which gives the temperature and then a "feels like" number. So, pace medium feels like brisk. We are to go to Hollowtrees, which is actually Woodlands Café at Hollowtrees Farm, and is at Semer, as any fule no. As we near Lavenham Sharon peels off for home, and we peel off towards Preston St Mary, down to Brent Eleigh then up to Milden - marvelling that this was actually considered as a Mountain Points Prime in the Tour of Britain 2010 (admittedly, the Heroes of the Tour didn't have to stop at the crossroads partway up). The rain was still holding off as we arrived at Woodlands. Then there was a very loud drumming on the plastic roof of the entrance to the cafe, and on the sky lights in the room. Stair rods is the expression that covers what we saw outside, so we decided to dig in for a long tea stop. We'd arrived earlier than usual, and had time in hand. Every now and again someone would pop outside to check on the rain. Peter entertained us with a graphic demonstration of resuscitation technique - I can't recall how we got onto this - not realising that those at the far end of the table could only see his arms down to the elbow. Not able to see what his hands were up to, they just got the vigorous pumping action. Oh yes, and  his spirited rendition of "Staying Alive". Dawn had tears streaming down her face as we all laughed hard. Apparently, mouth to mouth resuscitation is no longer the priority, it is getting or keeping the heart going that's the thing. Peter quizzed good Doctor Lesser at the far end of the table about matters concerning  blood and oxygen and the good doctor confirmed the change in emphasis adding, dryly, that it was difficult to conduct any controlled tests.

The rain still sounded serious, but wasn't too awful once we were out in it, innitt. Those without mudguards suffered quite badly with the amount of surface water around, and all of us got the aforementioned soaking by the time we got home. Just 42 miles for me - and felt about right.

28th April, 2012. The beginning of an Awfully Big Adventure

Julian Claxton chats to the umbrella-man

Rain was forecast, and there was a bit of drizzle as I rode down to the Wheelers' HQ.   I missed Neil's speech, though he was still standing on a chair delivering the last few words as I struggled through the crush to sign on. It all felt like a Commissaire's race-briefing. Within minutes we were being urged to get a move on and ride down to Angel Hill for the official send-off. There was a quite impressive crowd, with a mixture of cyclists and "civilians" - relatives, supporters, the Mayor of St Edmundsbury and the Rwandan High Commissioner, who had a large black Mercedes (Reg No. RWA 1A), a chauffeur who quietly smoked as he leaned against it, and a man in a chalk-stripe suit to hold an umbrella. We milled around, tangled our bikes and dodged umbrellas. Once the Rwandan High Commissioner's speech was over, and we had rolled out Southwards behind Brian Aldiss on his hand-cycle to cheers and applause, we made a large enough group to cause a satisfying amount of traffic chaos behind us. Past the Rugby Ground and on, on, on to Rushbrooke Lane - oncoming cars inclined to give in and move over when faced with such a large and politely unruly group. By the time we reached Little Welnetham, there seemed to be fewer riders (had we split already?). Not the thirty-eight mentioned in Caroline's email - and far from the forty-eight claimed in the East Anglian Daily Times on Monday. Riding alongside Neil, I mentioned that I was happy to stay on the front for a while - and mentioned the German border as a possible limit.  I could tell how amused he was by how little his expression changed. I (look, I know this isn't all about me - OK?) met several new best friends as the group morphed and mutated and the cocktail-party-on-wheels element  got established.

Neil's interview:  "That's R-W-A-N-D-A"

The High Commissioner's Speech

 Names? Ah . . . names, um, yeah I got some names, but, well, you know how it is . . . Met two guys in smart matching outfits, one from Wickhambrook and the other from Bury. I only realised how local they were when I tried to take us all in the wrong direction, and it turned out that we were on the taller guy's training route.

Caroline, and my two anonymous chums

The groups were splitting up, and the front had to slow down several times. There was a wide disparity in experience; but we were united by our support for the incredible journey the Rwanda Quartet were beginning. At the front we ignored the huge weight penalty born by the our heroes, and pressed on into the increasing rain. We knew that they wouldn't want us to patronise them by going really slowly. We stopped at Bildeston for a thorough regroup, and for a couple

Caroline indicates it's time to go.

of riders to pop into major sponsors Lifecycle's shop to buy extra waterproof clothing. This was the last time we would all be together in one group, until Harwich. The further south we went, the heavier the rain and stronger the wind became - and the stronger the desire to get to our destination as quickly as possible. Neil had gone back to check up on two riders off the back, and I never saw him again. Even at the end. So "Stay Lucky, Neil!" as I might have said. There was a good contingent (half a dozen, maybe?) of Gt Yarmouth CC riders, being Julian Claxton's local club (sadly, only three of us represented the Wheelers. Me, Henry Wood and Paul Callow). They were satisfyingly impressed with Suffolk, even though we could hardy see any of the views on our route. Hadleigh's architecture was specially well-received by 'Ray'; it seemed that the deprecatory term they used for impressive buildings was "not a bad pile o' bricks". I pointed out that a lot of our fine houses were piles of bricks plus sticks.
The GYCC lads were very conscientious about directing traffic around our rolling road block (I know, we don't approve of that in the Wheelers) especially an energetic and muscular little guy with a voice like Jools Holland. I had a good chat with Julian, who is a professional photographer and told me about his awkwardness over appearing in the photos of others. I was forced to drop him near Mistley, because we were going up a steepish hill and, well, you know how it is . . . .
On the map, the road out to Harwich (well Parkstone, actually)  looked like a pan-flat road following an estuary. Not the case at all. There was quite lot of undulation, as with the rest of the Essex Coast round here. And when that finished, we had a block headwind for the final four or five miles, rain lashing us as we struggled along the main A120. Forty-two of the 6,000 miles the boys must travel have now been covered, leaving 5,958 to go. Paul Callow and I stood on the windswept car park of Morrisons and waited for our wives to arrive, everyone else had gone into the superstore in search of coffee. Caroline had turned up in Neil's pick-up - without Neil. She seemed reassuringly unperturbed by this (she had seen him several times through the afternoon, as they coordinated rescuing stragglers). I'm  sure we will all be thinking of the boys as they set off across Europe from Sunday morning. I didn't get up until after nine - and I didn't go out on my bike. I wrote this.    SJH

Today's  Kliban Cat Calendar page

Come on Julian - only 5,958 miles to go