EH? What? and a trip to Brandon

Off to West Suffolk Hospital for a hearing check. For some reason (lost in the mists of time) I accepted the offer of an 8.15am appointment. On a Wednesday. Was I mad? Or did I mishear what the lady said?

D-lock strapped to carrier on trusty Pearson (rattles all morning - but I only hear it after the appointment) and off to bustling Bury. 5 minutes early. Not a soul at the clinic's workstation. 08:25 someone from adjacent discipline (dermatology) writes my name and the time plus appointment time on a scrap of card, and tells me, and the only other patient, that there would be a delay of about twenty minutes. No explanation or apology. She tells my that I should take a seat 'half way along the corridor'. Now (I promise this won't go on much longer, though it might seem to) I am user of dermatological services, and automatically went and sat in the usual place to see the skinman. The lady saw me do this but said nothing (maybe just thought 'silly deaf old fart')

Half an hour later a rather tetchy woman in a white coat thrust her face towards mine (I was reading the paper)
"Are you Stephen Hill? I've been calling for you for ages" she barked.
"Well I am hear to get my hearing checked" I retorted
"Well this isn't the Hearing Clinic!"
She replied, missing the irony completely. We got through our business quite quickly and, now re-tuned to the frequencies of twenty first century noise returned to Pearson patiently waiting (is that why we're called 'patients'?) in the bike park. Check mob for messages.
"Brandon Country Park" Peter's economic text advised.

How to get there with a minimum of main roads? I bumble around Bury for a bit, like a homing pigeon circling after release to pick up the route to loft and home, then set off along Thetford road to Fornham, and the road to Culford and West Stowe. Today it is closed for repairs - which is great for a cyclist. Turn left on the final corner of the time trial course (planning to via Icklingham then right towards Lakenheath) and, after a few hundred yards my eye is caught by a jumble of red splodges weaving about, some hundreds of yards ahead. Hooray, the Mercredistes, il Mercoledisti, my chums.

We follow the route that I had planned, though TomTom added a few refinements for greater interest. At the ever-difficult crossing of the A11, we are hailed by a cheery fellow in a pickup truck as we reach the other side. It is Steve Mayes our redoubtable meetings secretary, in his company vehicle, quite a contrast for a man normally seen on an immaculate Colnago or in his bright red speedy coupé.

The weather is cool and, until we leave the Café, cloudy. We enter Brandon from the north, which means joining the poor town's all-day traffic jam. It's a bit tricky to encourage 18 riders to make like couriers down the middle of the road (though I slip down the inside) so there is a block Wheelers pretending to be an articulated truck, inching up the High St.

The siting of the Country Park's Café is picturesque, surrounded at a respectful distance by trees. The building is simple and functional, with much timber having been used. There is a snag, however. The food is very manufactured, all wrapped in cellophane, chilled and sparingly portioned. The price is not too high - but most of our favourites charge much the same for REAL food. It's a shame.

TomTom was going to offer riders a choice of route home - follow him on a scenic route of slightly greater length or go down the main road to Bury on their own. Option 'B' has no takers, so we work our way round to Croxton (I find this confusing, as a one-time Cambridge rider. There is a Croxton to the west of CB) which is north of Thetford, climb its sharp hill and speed our way to the town, round a few roundabouts, then out towards Tesco and Thetford Garden Centre thus picking up the standard route home (via that other duplicated settlement 'Brettenham') past Shadwell Estate which intrigues me, because of the London connection and Thomas Shadwell who was born at Santon. If you look on the OS map you'll see 'St Chad's Well' marked on the Estate. I had thought that there might be the sort of connection between titled landowners in the country giving their names to bits of London that they owned. Euston, for instance, and Tavistock Square and, er, Westminster.

All I know for certain is that the junction with the Thetford - Diss road is a pig when riding 72.5" fixed. There is a very real possibility of a silly tumble down the gradient if I have to stop and put my foot down where the road isn't. Junction successfully negotiated, we follow the well known route without incident. It was particularly good to see Peter S-W in our number, also Simon Wallace who was a member back in the early nineties (no relation to Justin Wallace, even though Justin has a son called Simon)and is coming back to cycling. Simon was riding a marvellously retro 'Concorde' frame complete with those strange Campag 'Delta' brakes. I could never see the point of these, because behind the slick alloy shroud there lurked very pedestrian-looking mechanicals. But I didn't say that to Simon (so don't tell him).

Next week, we must fend for ourselves, because TomTom and Justin are elsewhere and Peter wants volunteers to step forward with destination cafés and routes. It'll be interesting to see what happens - Glenn Morris has found a Café in Assington, but it will all come down to wind direction. Today (Tuesday 6th) has been very blustery from the SW, which would be fine.

SJH

In Olden Days a Glimpse of Stocking . . .

. . . . was thought quite shocking, but nowadays we make do with Sharon's slipping knee-warmers towards the end of a ride. A long ride as it turned out.

But first we had to start off. Justin outlined the route to a collection of blank faces, while Glenn Morris dismantled his handlebar/stem interface and made a few crucial adjustments.

"OK Everybody? Right, off we go then" cried Justin. Glenn was still tightening his bars - but we caught up with everyone before they crossed mount road. Heading up towards Rougham the leaders' hands went out for a left turn, and someone panicked and applied their brakes. To the surprise of everyone and the alarm of Tiger Tony Panting who (so it was reported) threw himself onto the grass verge with arms ahead in the now-banned Superman position. I shall be copying this to the UCI - the Wednesday Ride may well have its licence revoked. And all because of an incautious application of brakes. Barely half a mile later, just past Rougham Church I hit a pothole and, with a loud 'click' my handlebars dropped about 6". More shouts and confusion as everyone attempted to stop in an orderly fashion. Matt lent me an allen key (that reminds me that I must go and check the torque on the bolts - Pyrenees next week, don't want a mishap do we?)

We did the now familiar route up to Lt Welnetham and down to Sicklesmere then climbing through Gt W and left onto Straight Rd. Nice steady pace. All together.

When eventually we tackled the Cote de Stansfield and the Col de Poslingford, the group de-grouped, and I did my usual fading on the steepest bits. Then, as the gradient eased just a little bit I found that I was passing those who had previously passed me (obviously they weren't trying, taking a breather) I felt like the opportunist in Le Tour who sees that the Schlecks can't decide when to attack, and Cadel and Contador or just watching - gaining by default. As I neared the Poslingford sign, I saw Ron Fisher (last remnant of the early break) stop just 30 yds short of the sign for a comfort break - so what would you do? I put in a bit of an effort to guarantee the prime. Peter Heath wasn't on the ride, so no red card, and anyway, there wasn't anyone near enough to turn it into a sprint. Shortly after this minor coup Jonathan drew alongside to point out the minor infraction of the rules. We had a conversation. No more will be said.

Turning right at the foot of the descent from Poslingford, Justin slipped in a surprise couple of moves (a bit like the more gripping parts of the game 'Mornington Crescent' on the radio show 'I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue', based on fantasy route planning through London). So we went left (though actually straight on) then second left up to Hundon - then the daring move of a left to descend Chimney Street, through Brockley Green and Keddington to then cross the A143 to Gt Wratting (I once acquired to half-Siamese kittens from a farm near Wratting - could have been Birdlip or Mousehole, but those would just have been silly).

The lumpy road through Thurlows (Great and Little), Bradley (just Great) and Burrough (Green) caused the group to split into three - and at one point four or five. There were two reasons, or maybe three; anyway amongst the reasons were traffic (cars and the occasional truck overtaking part of the group so that when they moved on they left a gap) and the lumps which, if they coincided with the traffic just mentioned caused even longer gaps. The small group at the very front had several advantages, the traffic just went straight past, being on the front means you don't have to change pace all the time and by definition they were stronger anyway. This left the other three groups to variously chase, close gaps, slip off the back, go to the back to see who was missing then fail to get back up to where you started (having discovered that the rear was already covered by the ever-reliable Mark Saunders). By the time were singled-out along the A1061 into Newmarket (very, very busy) we were almost all together which was altogether better. The break was still ahead, but Phil and Paul were predicting that they would be caught at the tea stop (a newly-introduced UCI feature which it was hoped would make Grand Tour riding more interesting and relevant to the 21st century, in the manner of Triathlon with its transitions). We telescoped into a single entity by Newmarket High St with all its traffic lights. This sorted the potential cycle-couriers from the tourists and provided the variety and interest of chasing to get back on (why do we bother when it's only five miles to tea time?). Phil and Paul's predictive abilities proved (once again) correct. At tea o'clock we were all together at last. La Hogue coped well, despite having already been invaded by yummy mummies with offspring climbing out of high chairs and/or screaming and manoeuvring ludicrously large prams between the tables and chairs. At least here there is enough room - plus the great outdoors - unlike in the old days at No1 Delicatessen in Clare when the screaming and shouting was never more than a foot away. And the children were quite noisy too.

Jonathan didn't stay to tea, having pressing business to attend to, leaving the rest of us layabouts and parasites to munch and slurp our calorie replacements. Just replacements? You're kidding.

Back via the marginally more direct route of Kennett, Herrinsgwell and Tuddenham, then at Cavenham the Thurston-biased nature of Wednesdays asserted itself with a left to Lackford (Ron Back took the Bury route for Stanningfield) then West Stowe - Brockley (not Green) - Ingham - Ampton - Gt Livermere - Gt Barton (Ron Fisher took the right at the top of the hill) and Thurston. By this point, the indefategable Tiger Tony Panting had covered no fewer than 107 miles, having left home at 06.30 to get an extra 40 miles in. Yes, it's official, he's going to ride the ECCA 12 hour. And so is Jonathan, who has a complex plan to lift the (pre -2nd World War) Club 200 mile record on the way to completing his first '12'. Now I'm not a lawer, and Jonathan is, so I'm sure he's got it right, BUT, surely the fastest Club '12' would implicitly be the Club '200' on count-back (where the '12' exceeds 200 miles, natch). So to be on the safe side, Jonathan - make certain that you lift the '12' record as well (whatever it is).

Justin led us a merry ride through Suffolk and (even) Cambridgeshire, and a good ttime was had by all. My total was 75 miles. Must go now - off to France. SJH

"Just Shout if you're Getting Dropped"

The sun shone on the new Club HQ as the Espresso ride gathered for the first time at their new venue for the Sunday fast run. Justin had volunteered to wait at Cornhill to catch any strays, and redirected Mark Harris. Young Will's Mummy took the photos with my trusty Ixus (Will has been riding with the Wednesday Crew the last few weeks, has just turned 14 and has a new bike to prove it). Barry read the riot act (no, I mean the new Club Run Guide Lines) adding, after the bit about riding only two abreast that "If you're dropping off the back, just shout, so we can wait for you" (Hold that principle in your mind for a while).

We were twelve whizzing down Southgate and wheezing up Horsecroft Lane. Josh confided to me that he'd forgotten his cycling shoes, and was struggling a bit in what looked to me like plimsoles
He said that he was getting his Dad to bring his shoes out for him, and would catch up with the ride to hand them over. It transpired that Josh hadn't actually shared his problem with his Dad, so negotiations had to start from scratch - with dropping his phone and having to stop to pick up the pieces and re-assemble them(I tried to make it easier for him to use his phone by pushing him, but it didn't really help as much as I'd hoped). The bunch was pulling away from us.

Now you will all be aware of the tale of the boy who cried "WOLF!" once too often. I had been shouting to the group about a (very patient) car behind us, and suggesting that they should single out. Espressi have been good at this lately, but this morning they were deaf and desperate to keep up, still 'all over the road' as motorists would describe it. SO, when I actually really really wanted them to hang on a minute, go easy, SLOW DOWN etc etc it will have been easy for the bunch to dismiss my shouts as just so much background noise. So they disappeared over the hill - and probably far away.

Finding no mobile signal at Pinford End, we carried on to Lawshall where a mobile signal was available. I tried Justin but, as he told me later in the day over a landline, he was too busy trying to keep up to be able to take even one hand off the bars, so no reply there then. Josh got through to his Dad. Well, I say 'got through' but there seemed to be a certain amount of confusion between father and son as to where exactly the latter was, and how the former could best rendezvous with the aforesaid latter. I suggested that we should head next left to Shimpling and telephone the paterfamilias when we reached the A134 Bury - Sudbury road. Josh's plimsoled feet were already suffering, and he was glad to reach the main road and phone his Dad and tell him where we were. Josh then told me that I could carry on with my journey home if I wished - and (dear reader) I did.

Heading for Bury, then taking the right turn towards Lavenham, through Cockfield then left towards Cockfield Green and Felsham I thought that I should pone home to say that I would be a bit later than planned. As I fumbled (should that be 'thumbled'?) with my mobile, freewheeling as I did so, I was aware of a rider alongside.
"Enjoying your ride?"
He said, "Going far? How far have you gone so far? Where are you headed?"
I outlined my morning so far, suitably edited. My new companion was a sixty-ish chap of amiable manner and solid build astride a 'Ridgeback' hybrid of astounding cleanliness. He told me that he rode 20 or so miles nearly every day (though space had to be made for golf) and that he'd owned his immaculate white bike for 8 years. He asked if I rode with the Espresso or Cappuccino rides.
"Ah, you know all the stuff" I said.
"Yes, I live in Briar Hill, round the corner from Dick Seggar (could this possibly be our very own TomTom, Richard?) who's in your club. I used to work at the same place as him"
My phone went off, in response to my earlier failed call, and my newest companion powered away at speed, with a polite farewell (obviously taking care - as one would- to demonstrate how I'd actually been holding him back a bit) without my finding out his name.

So, home about 30 minutes adrift, with a mere 30 miles covered, but the Good Deed for the day now done and dusted. And, according to Justin, the pace of the bunch had been so ferociously fast, that we'd never (Josh and I) have got within sight of the disappearing group. Will had no trouble keeping up, Justin (at times) was losing the will to live and Mark Harris was dropped towards the end. All sounds perfectly normal to me.

If only I'd shouted louder they'd have waited, wouldn't they?. Wouldn't they?

After a Vodka Martini, later in the day, I found that none of it seemed to matter any more.

SJH

7 August 2011

By Flandria to Sandringham. 24 July 2011

Bury St Edmunds impressed the organisers of last year's Tour of Britain, and the ToB impressed Bury, to the extent that the Council stumped up the ante to do it again. So we have another East Anglian stage - and it starts in Bury and finishes, courtesy of HMQ, at Sandringham. This year there was a 'Tour Ride' in aid of (and run by) The Prostate Cancer Charity. It's a British 'Étape du Tour' - except that the French don't 'do' Charity like we do. They feel that the care of the sick is the Government's business (C'est pour quoi nous payons nos Taxes, mate). I leaned that nugget of cultural background when I was attending French lessons at WSC. And there will be those who will glance at my parenthetic aside, and wonder what I actually did during said classes.

Despite several full pages of editorial coverage in the EADT, and the handing out of leaflets at the last Club Meeting (first Monday of the month, 7.45, Club HQ, Shaker's Lane entrance of Priory School), there were hardly any Wheelers present at the start. A great many Stowmarket and Distracted CC, however. I observed to a S&DCC rider alongside me

"Good turn out for your Club; not many of our lot seem to be interested"
"And your lot being? . . . . ."
(I was in full New Club Strip)
"West Suffolk Wheelers"

"Oh. Anyway I've got a cold , coughing and sneezing and I haven't done a ride of more than fifty miles since January and I'm down for a hundred next week so heaven knows how I'm going to do do that I don't know if I'll make it this morning really what with so few miles in the legs and what with the cold and everything but I suppose I'll struggle with it as far as I can"

The struggle began just as soon as we swung out of the gates and up the bumpy and leafy lane (swerving to avoid a lady in pink as she coped with one of her behind-the-saddle bidons leaping out of its cage as she hit a pothole - and by the way what is the point of those devices? Without wishing to be rude, the lady is unlikely to be going fast enough to have serious aerodynamic problems and would be better of with the bottles where she can (a) reach them and (b) not loose them). We sweep past Justin who is lurking suspiciously, looking almost like someone who hasn't signed on and paid up. Left past Nowton village hall then join the A134. Straight up to 23mph.

There about four of us hitching a ride on the Stowmarket Express - but I'm the one without a ticket or, to continue with the analogy, the one in first class with a standard class ticket. Actually it is neither of the above; my ticket is clearly labelled 'Single. Lavenham.' Just before I decided to let the others go, we whooshed past a lady in WSW colours. When I checked the photos from the event (about six cameramen dotted around the course) you are just behind me as we climb towards the snapper. I had no idea. And I still don't know your name - and because you were out of focus identification is tricky. They say the camera doesn't lie, but in the picture I'm sharp; yet I was feeling distinctly unfocused at the point having averaged 22mph courtesy of S&DCC.

With the help of a cross/tail wind I managed to hang on to most of my hard-earned average (slipping a bit as I climbed out of Monk's Eleigh towards Semer - a bit early for tea, it's not eight yet) and still above what we used to call 'evens' (20mph) as I negotiated Hadleigh. The sun shone, the wind blew, the miles passed.

Along the A1071 towards Ipswich, still very early so far less traffic than when Sir Jack and I followed the same route in the Bury Bike Ride on June 12th. And I'm going faster. Down the hill into Ipswich at 30+ mph, I caught up with a couple of guys who'd passed me earlier, and hung on as we negotiated the Ipswich Crits towards Christchurch Park - where I went straight past the gates (to the probable amusement of the lady in a hi-viz gilet waiving riders in). OOps. Never mind, first left, follow the perimeter, make it look like I chose to go this way. soon back on course. Spot of climbing, Northwards. Since Lavenham I've so far found no one to team up with. They either flash past in a cloud of embrocation vapour, looking like lycra-clad greyhounds (Iceni Racing Team) or they are solo 'testers' of the sort who used to catch me for handfuls of minutes back in the day I was a middlemarker. Even if I could keep up I'd have been most unwelcome, draughting (or slipstreaming, or wheelsucking) being a big no-no in 'The Race of Truth' (and why bring 'truth' into a discipline where most riders tweek their times as a matter of course - 23m 01s becoming 'a long 22' in extreme cases). These chaps tend to be quite stocky, and aged 62. They beat me when I was 40, and they're passing me now. Slightly rolling style, often with knees outwards, grinding a massive gear with relentless power. Or, of course they're even slower than me. As a driver, I am used to classifying everyone; faster than me and they're lunatics, slower and they're a nuisance.

There was a surprise right turn on a straight section south of Diss (I think - much of the route is now just a blur) which I was pleased have not quite missed. I was actually passing the turn when I glanced down it - and saw the arrow nestling in the hedge. U-turn (another TT no-no) and saved one rider from missing it while missing saving another one who did (miss it). I rode in company with a guy who caught me up, for the last three miles to Diss - but I missed the sign to the drinks stop and he didn't. This wasn't a problem, in fact it was probably a bit quicker (but no shorter, I hasten to add).

After Diss and Shelfhanger I was passed by a couple of guys who started in Diss. I stayed with them, and we worked for a while, until it became apparent that one of them was seriously slow on anything like a climb. I waited twice (self interest, it was a strong crosswind) but then they dropped just too far back and carried on. After Dereham, when we turned WNW to Sandringham, the wind was almost head-on and getting stronger. Probably our graphs were crossing - I was getting weaker at the same rate as the increase in windspeed. I needed help.

Grabbed a gel and, as I had stopped (gels can be disgustingly sticky and messy) a rider passed me. I recognised him as having passed me early on, and spent the next three miles catching him up. He was clearly suffering as much as I was, but without the motivating effect of having something to chase. Perhaps I should clarify that term; this wasn't "chase" as in a road race, this was "chase" as in very, very slowly gain on another tired rider. I had rehearsed my introduction.

"Why don't we ride together?" I suggested "I been trying to catch up for the last three miles or more. I'll go in front first then you take over"

"OK"

Something had given me the impression that my new best friend hadn't done this sort of thing before - and this proved to be the case, but he caught onto the idea v quickly and, after we'd finished he said he was so impressed with the possibilities of group riding that he thought that he would try and join a Club. Unfortunately, he lives in Sudbury. Unfortunately again, the results website isn't operational any more so, though I looked up his name, I've forgotten it and can't go back to check.

We made much better progress as a two-up, our speed lifting from 14mph to 18 - 19mph as we fought back against the wind and the grippy, heavy Norfolk road surfaces. Sandringham at last! Then a bit of Estate Road, then left and another, then right then left then barricades that the crowds had been drilled to bang on for each arrival, two sweeping curves - feeling Tour de France-ish, get ready for the hands in the air . . . . and round last, blind bend they took the tarmac away and it was a rough shale section, like cyclo-cross, with big lumps randomly distributed here and there. Rather spoilt the effect. But it could take the shine off the relief felt by me and my NBF. A sniff over126 miles in 7hrs 40m.

Its just so wonderful when you stop.

SJH

SJH & Sir Jack's Long Day's Ride

Sunday 12th June began as a morning of brilliant perfection to the extent that I thought that I might be overdressed (though my wardrobe choices had been dictated by the ambient of 8c that greeted me when I wheeled 'Sir Jack' from the garage). All around in the sunlit Abbey Gardens, cyclists in shorts and short sleeved tops looked casual, confident and fit as butchers' dogs. Sir Jack leant casually against a tree (see photo) but as you can see, his attempt to engage in conversation the top-of-range Basso failed utterly. So he turned his back. There was a very reassuringly high proportion of our 'new' Club Strip on show, as we shared our consternation that the route was (as the posters advertising the event had made completely clear) 'all new'. I stared at my copy, pretending to memorise it. Parts of the route, and its overall shape remained in my brain, along with the overall impression that there wouldn't be much climbing. During the ride I relied on the brilliant way-marks at every turn. This decision was made easier when my copy of the route was blown out of my bicycle basket at around 15 miles. We who were about to ride a hundred miles went off at 08.15 (ish) which was a full hour before the other rides. Even with the early start I was concerned that I might not get back before 5pm when the finish would pack up and go home, and I also worried that we would actually start a bit late (like last year).
In past years the hundred attracted only the most committed cyclists. With the huge increase of participation in 'Sportive' events creating a much larger pool of riders, we were 60 at the start this year. The slight downside to the 'Sportive' upsurge is that many who participate don't actually ride with others very much, and lack some of the basic skills and courtesies. I enjoyed the occasional moment when, having been passed on a climb by an erk who didn't respond to my olde-worlde greeting, I would gradually haul him back in on the flat and then sit on his wheel for a few miles before the next climb. It was the frequent slight turn of the head to see if I was still there followed by an attempt to drop me. Hah! once you've got 23 kilos of steel and heavy-duty rubber rolling along the flat, it keeps on going. Floriat Momentum, I say.
I had a clear idea in my head that by the top of Mount Rd I would be on my own, watching a tight bunch of hardmen disappearing down the road but, because of the numbers and resulting bunching on the hill, the last road-biker didn't pass me until near Lavenham. Several groups and pairs overtook me several times because I didn't stop at the designated feed stations. I was particularly pleased to be passed three times by the group that included a Junoesque young woman with a slight German accent who had ridden behind and then alongside me in the first five miles. She was impressed by my single gear (if nothing else). On the final two passes she was towing the blokes along.

One guy overtook me on a short climb just west of Hopton - but I caught him a couple of miles later (see photo) and, after a bit of a chat, he became the only rider that I dropped on a climb. Now some would say that I should've offered him a wheel, but charity would have been a lot to ask after 80 miles - and I doubt he'd equal the £3 a mile that I was getting for the Multiple Sclerosis Society. So, time for a plug for my sponsors.

Thanks to long tailwind sections, and the fact that heavy old 'Sir Jack' would freewheel at 16mph with the slightest of downward gradients (plus a new route that had no serious climbs) meant that an average of 14 to 14.4mph could be held for the first 50 miles. As the wind became stronger and unfavourable, with spots of rain becoming proper showers I no longer felt overdressed - and not as fresh as I had when the ride was young. My two-stop strategy served me well, taking on more supplies from my team car just twice for a total time penalty of five minutes. The route passed within yards of our house, and the final 30 miles remained within 10 miles of home, so Susan and Polly were able to provide refills for bottles and re-stocking of fig rolls, energy bars and dried apricots.
A bicycle basket is absolutely perfect for this sort of ride, everything needed is there, laid out (and bouncing around from time to time). I grazed and slurped at regular and frequent intervals for the entire ride - which may explain how I was able to complete the ride in a shade under seven and a half hours - half an hour inside my target of eight hours (which really was just plucked out of the air as a time that might be possible, but only if I was lucky). In fact, including being given the medal to which all finishers were entitled and then riding 7 cold and wet miles home I was still inside the my projected time. Total mileage for the day 114 miles.
The high point of the final section, as I grovelled up from the Honington crossroads battered by a bad tempered crosswind was the sight of a slight and welcome figure of Rich 'Tom Tom' Seggar riding towards me. With his '50' already under his belt, and the rain beginning to get serious, here he was prepared to add another 25 miles to his total. As Polly's photo shows, I wasn't too proud to tuck in behind the senior rider.
A note on the Hat. When Andy Abbott came to take the photos for the East Anglian Daily Times, I crammed the trusty panama on my head to match the picture on the www.Justgiving.com/stephenjameshill web page. Then I though that I'd wear it for the start, so people could make the connection with the news story. I never considered that it would actually stay on. There were some ferocious gusts on my way round and, though there were occasions when I felt the brim flap about at no point did it feel that it was about to part company from my head. The only modification was that on fast descents (max speed 30.4mph) I had to flip the brim up rather than the customary down. In fact for most of the ride the hat stayed like that. Like a cowboy galloping to head 'em off at the pass.
Thanks to all who have donated to the MS Society via justgiving.com. I believe that the page remains open for another two weeks, so you didn't forget – you were just waiting until I'd actual done it

There are more photos on the West Suffolk Wheelers & Tri website's Picasa link


SJH

Go-Ride for Grown-Ups

In between Wednesdays and Sundays I tried the “Go-Ride for Grown-Ups” sessions at Priory School, run by Barry Denny. I was one of those 'happy to help but prepared to learn'. Mostly learning, I can now reveal. The first session was done entirely on the grass of Priory's playing field; all the basics, weaving in and out of cones, picking up drinking bottles from the top of one crate and putting them down on another (two laps passed before I got the hang of that). Riding side by side touching elbows? An interesting exercise. The 'cyclo cross' dismount, 30ft walking the bike just holding the saddle ditto scooting along with one foot on a pedal (best to get the appropriate foot and pedal combination sorted out. Will Curtin was keen to demonstrate that there wasn't an actually 'wrong' way to do this – but failed to convince) then swing the free leg over the saddle and off you go. Generations of cyclists over the whole of the twentieth century have mounted their bikes this way, and I still do this if I'm riding my trade bike. Guessing that we might be asked to do this, I had a go on my Mercian the day before; it's very different when your foot is clipped in and the bike is half as heavy. I fell in a heap on our paved forecourt, almost instantly. At least no one was watching. We also tried riding through a 'chicane' or 'slalom' two abreast, then three, then four then whooops! Perhaps not five after all. There was a fine 'scotch mist' or drizzle for a lot of the time, and the grass became very slippery. Barry kept telling us that we'd cut the session short because of the weather – but carried on until just ten minutes short of the scheduled finish.

The second session (Saturday 19 March) was the last of the two, and entirely on tarmac. More of the same – elbow to elbow, in and out of cones – PLUS going round cones (they are only a few inches tall, by the way) so that the front wheel goes one side and the rear goes the other. Every bit as hard as it sounds, until the penny drops and the technique develops. We did stopping in a box with feet clipped in, we went under the limbo pole, we clung on to a large, tethered wheelie bin with one hand, and then moved off, Barry and I demonstrated the possibility of two riders holding each other up, to a sceptical audience and we went on a miniature club run which, in the best tradition was split into two rides which wound their way around the roads near to Denny Bros. We saw Barry's group only once – and they looked very impressive, riding in pairs with arms on each other's shoulders. I fear that 'my' group looked a bit bit of a shambles until we got Lara's son on the front (he had the double penalty of a tiny bike, and being over twenty years younger than most of the group- and sixty years younger than some). Warm Sunshine made it a very enjoyable couple of hours. We really need more of these.

On most runs there are moments when you can see the gaps in riders' skill set. It's when we stop for someone's puncture, or wait for a long time before launching ourselves across a main road or (occasionally it happens) turning round in the road because we've taken a wrong turn that the difficulties show up. A hopping and scooting, wobbling and weaving, taking too long to clip in, inability to let go of the 'bars for more than a couple of seconds. Greater confidence brings better safety. The 'stop box' exercise we used was a real test for many, but is a basic necessity if you need to just pause for long enough to check a junction, without doing the whole dismounting bit. I know that u-turns are frowned on at time trials for safety reasons (and you really must check behind you before you do this) but I'm often surprised by how few otherwise skilful riders just cannot turn in a single-track lane with putting a foot down.

Wednesdays in March

Time for a look back at a few Wednesday Ride accounts that have been lurking aound the dark corners of my laptop

On Wednesday 9^th March, around 16 of us set off for 'La Hogue' which is fast turning into a favourite browsing and sluicing station. It is on a single-track road off the the road from Kentford to Chippenham. Heading East you turn left at the apex of the second bend of the 'S' about a mile after going over the A11. In fact, if you pass La Hogue and keep going you meet the A11; but you may only head to Norwich. We went by a circuitous route that included Ousden and Dallham, and it was just before Dalham that Mary Narey (noted runner, but new to road cycling) slammed through a pot hole and punctured both tyres. Enough spare tubes were found, and also the expertise to fit them. We Wednesday guys (that's 'guys' in the American usage which encompasses everyone) are just so deeply wonderful and truly helpful.

At La Hogue, it turned out (Dawned on us) that it was Dawn's birthday, and she was presented with three candles in her chocolate muffin. I preserved this moment with my Canon Ixus, as well as a snap of the multiple-puncture moment. Later, attempting to adjust the file-size setting (which had been changed to the smallest setting, giving quite poor quality results) I inadvertently wiped the memory card. Feeling hugely digitally competent, I downloaded to the laptop that I have 'inherited' from Polly, the free software Zero Assumption Recovery, and rescued the missing pictures. Hurrah!. The following Wednesday, I told Dawn all of this, and promised to send her a copy. Then while doing some cleaning-up of the photos on the laptop – I wiped them all ! This time it was permanent. I haven't told Dawn yet, so not a word, OK?

The following Wednesday, 16^th, again we were around 16, and I was on gears for the first time since last September. Surprisingly, so was my usually-fixed wheel companion Glenn Morris. I was having a road test of Richard Stiff's Flandria, with a view to purchase, Glenn was on a dark grey full-Carbon job. He mentioned that the Flandria's front brake was rubbing. I thought to myself “how on earth did he hear that?” forgetting that Glenn is still in his prime. We of the Wednesday Core often communicate via 'dialogues of the deaf', so such acute hearing is bound to impress. We head North-Eastwards, with the inevitable Bressingham tea stop as our goal. Justin takes us out via Walsham le Willows and Gislingham and thence towards Mellis. We meet a few tractors, and have the odd car behind which just sits there for what seems like miles. His means that we travel in single file for rather more of the ride than we enjoy. There is grumbling at the back, concerning the 'Yo-Yo' effect, plus some who were spooked by the approach tractors – one of which was quite exceptionally wide, and tested the nerves of the less hardened. We went through the edge of Diss, out the other (North East) side and looked settled for a substantial loop before tea. This was a tactical error. We had within our number Sharon Calton, who has intimate knowledge of the area, and had noticed that we had just passed a right turn that would have taken us to Bressingham – metaphorically speaking, we could smell the coffee. Result? Rebellion. The tail end turned round and took the tea route (which also led to coffee). Justin, and those riders 'loyal to Justin' carried on.

The breakaway arrived after about twenty minutes. Can 'breakaway' be the correct description? since they were arguably 'the ride' and we (lounging around sipping and nibbling) were the breakaway – except, of course, for the fact that we broke off the back, so what should we be called? I think that at one point Justin could have been relied upon to come up with a few suggestions. Now that we were all together (though at separate tables – see photo) there was a degree of jollity and that relaxed and warm friendliness for which the Wednesday ride is so rightly famed.

The service was quite the fastest I've experienced here. The scones were the now-usual enormous size, but felt a bit yesterday-ish. When eaten, they were well up to standard though perhaps those who opted for microwaved ones enjoyed the best experience. We returned as a group, though there was a certain friskiness at the front that had to be tamed. Again, we had quite long periods of single file riding. By dint of an extra loop after Thurston, dropping off Tom-Tom at Woolpit on the way, Justin and I managed 55 miles.

Wednesday, 23rd March. Probably most Wheelers will know that this was a slightly controversial ride, though enjoyable for (I venture to suggest) almost everyone. The weather was so warm that I took off a long sleeve base-layer before we'd even set off. Jeremy Waterson (new rider – done a couple of Espressos) kindly (and unpromptedly) offered to store my surplus clothing in his van and we set off. Crockery Barn was the destination, and Peter took his ride leadership to a new level by phoning ahead to make sure that the Café could cope with the 19 riders that we were. We somehow managed the lanes with our large and unwieldy peleton without too much drama, Rich Seggar navigated with his usual panache – he does this trick (doesn't work with me because I've been to Crockery Barn too many times) of almost circling Ashbocking before emerging from a tiny lane, almost opposite the entrance, which gives the impression that we are in the middle of nowhere. We are, in fact, barely a mile from the main road from Wickham Market to Needham ditto.

The friendly staff had already moved the outdoor furniture into position for us, and coped pretty well with a group that was probably three times the usual size. Smiles go a long way in compensating for delays. Lindsay Clayton, who had been coping with only one brake for most of the ride out, left early to ride up to Diss, Madgett's for a new cable.

On the return journey, in glorious sunshine and with a favourable wind, the pace began to rise and, by the time we reached Debenham, the gap had grown to the point that communication was difficult. Not so much Chinese Whispers as Chinese Bellowing, but the effect was the same. I missed what I had thought was the left turn we were supposed to take (but wasn't). Behind us came cries of (we thought) “straight on”. What was meant by “straight on” was in fact “straight on past the one you've already missed and take the next left” - but the cries of left got lost in the wind, and flew on to a set of lights at roadworks and waited there. No one appeared. We sent an emissary who reported no cyclists to be seen. So we carried on towards Eye, not quite realising the storm that we had caused. The rest is history and red cards. I clock up nearly 65 miles.

There was quite a good turnout for Wednesday 30th March and there was a deal of light hearted banter about Red Cards and unacceptable behaviour. Peter was toiling around the villages collecting the collecting boxes full of change collected for the Marie Curie Cancer Care. This is an arduous task; coins weigh a lot; panniers soon get over-heavy. Peter spends several days spread over a couple of weeks each year doing this (secretly getting stronger and stronger).

I can't remember whether we went to HollowTrees or to the Cavendish tearooms, but I do know that we met this lorry unloading building materials near Liston (I think). Quite a tricky job carrying the bike while walking in cleats on a 45 degree grass slope and leaning against the large vehicle.