Vuelta Wrong Way re-enactment ride. 7 Sept 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SJH

A Magical Mistley Tour to Essex. 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SJH

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