About a week before a sportive, the organisers email out a booklet with full details of the event including signing-on times, signage, rules and regulations, and so forth. They also provide route maps and downloadable files that riders can load onto their GPS units, so no excuse for going off course or getting lost. Well, in theory at least! Being an old-fashioned sort of rider I always like to take a paper copy of the route with me in my jersey pocket. That’s got me out of trouble more times than I care to count.
Looking at the GPS file on my computer I noticed that the total route distance was coming up at 97 miles. Disaster! Several checks and calculations later, I was still stuck with 97 miles. Well, in this Sixty Centuries endeavour, 97 miles just doesn’t cut it. So what was I going to do? There seemed to be two options. Either to deliberately go off course somewhere along the way to snaffle the extra miles, or get to the end and keep going for the additional 3 miles; 100 miles is 100 miles, not 97 miles. Imagine if you went to the bank for £100 and you received £97. You wouldn’t be a happy cyclist. So in the same vein I had to get my 100 miles by one means or another. I eventually decided to tack them on at the end of the event.
With that in mind I rolled up at the start, the Crusaders Rugby Club in Little Melton, signed on, received my rider number and was on the start line and ready to go at 7:55am sharp. After a safety briefing from the organisers I was soon under way. I made good progress and was in a group moving along at a good pace (20 mph). The sun was out so it got quite hot, and I was drinking regularly to stay hydrated. The first feed stop was at around 35 miles so I was trying to bear that in mind as I slurped my energy drink.
We made good time and were soon near Buckenham. Now those of you who know this part of south Norfolk will know that there are two Buckenhams, Old and New. I was busy concentrating on the wheel in front of me when we made a sharp left turn, because of a temporary road closure, or so I thought. After nearly 2 miles a light went on in my head. We were heading towards Old Buckenham; the feed station was at New Buckenham. Time to consult that paper map. Most of the others in the group were head down and pedalling with determination. With a shout, which was ignored by the others, I pulled up and quickly confirmed that a U-turn was in order. A 2 mile backtrack and then another mile along the official route saw me in New Buckenham, filling up my bottles and scoffing a welcome banana. And, joy of joys, I might now just complete the hundred without any extra riding at the end of the event.
The rest of the ride was uneventful; pleasant, but uneventful. As I approached the finish I reckoned that it was going to be touch and go for the century. Looking down at my Garmin as I crossed over the finish line I saw that I had covered 100.9 miles. Phew! And I have no idea what happened to the rest of that group. They could by now be in north Norfolk heading for the sea. Who knows!
Monday 25 July 2016, 104 Miles
In Search of Some Saints (C#25)
After yesterday’s outing I felt the urge to repeat the experience. In fact, quite literally, because for part of today’s ride I rode along a stretch of yesterday’s sportive course, which I had also ridden twice yesterday. Still with me? Well, it doesn’t really matter if you are or not.
Today’s objective was to explore the South Elmham villages which lie south-west of Bungay and above the Waveney valley. Well I say ‘above’, but altitude is a notional concept in Suffolk. The River Waveney lies at an altitude of about 20 feet hereabouts and the highest of the villages is at 145 feet. This part of Suffolk is often called ‘Saints Country’ as there are several villages each named after a saint, that of their parish church. There are twelve saintly villages: All Saints, St Andrew, St Cross, St James, St John, St Lawrence, St Margaret (South Elmham), St Margaret (Ilketshall), St Mary, St Michael, St Nicholas and St Peter.
The eight churches of the twelve villages each have their own character and atmosphere. None of them boasts anything that is especially historically significant, but collectively they are quite unlike anything else that I have seen in Suffolk. The ruin between St Cross and St James is marked on the map as a Minster and lies within what may have been a Roman fort. It is almost certainly not a Minster in the traditional sense of the term, and how it came to be recorded as one is unclear. For readers interested in knowing more about the area the Suffolk Churches Interweb site33 developed by Simon Knott is well worth visiting. There is something trainspotterish about visiting them all. I reckon that I managed to ride past or at least see in the distance seven of the eight churches. I’ll have to return another time to achieve a full house, though that might involve a spot of walking.
Apart from the churches, there are only two buildings of note in the area: these are South Elmham Hall in the parish of St Cross, part of the former summer retreat of the Bishops of Norwich; and St Peter’s Hall, former home of the Tasburghs, a local landed family, in the parish of St Peter. The beauty of the Saints is in their bleakness, their remoteness. There are no shops, no pubs. Only three are recognisable as villages. Instead, there are scattered farms, nineteenth-century cottages, farmworkers’ council houses. And those rural village churches, of which only one, incredibly, has been made redundant.
One other item worth mentioning is that St Michael is a ‘Doubly Thankful’ Village. Thankful Villages are those where all the people who served in the armed forces during the First World War returned safely. Doubly Thankful villages are those where no people were lost during the First and Second World Wars. Researchers have identified 53 Thankful Villages and 14 Doubly Thankful Villages.34 St Michael is the only Doubly Thankful Village in Suffolk.
One thing that did strike me about this area is that it seemed to encapsulate almost every type of countryside that Suffolk has to offer, with the exception of the Breckland heaths and the manicured horsiculture of Newmarket. The Suffolk Churches website refers to the area as wide, remote, scattered and traditionally lawless. I could certainly appreciate the first three descriptions. As to the lawlessness I can only assume that with so many churches in such a relatively small area there must have been a lot of sinners looking to repent.
Friday 29 July 2016, 105 Miles
Flat Fenland Foray (C#26)
As I have previously written, I have occasionally poked my pedals onto the edges of the Fens. I felt the time had now arrived to go the whole way and have a full-on Fenland ride. Resting on my bookshelf is a copy of Chris Sidwells’s compendium of 100-mile rides. Now already I can feel you thinking, ‘He’s got a book on this; it’s becoming an obsession.’ Well, obsession or not, the book is quite interesting even if I’m unlikely to ever ride many of the routes described; there are a small number that I may be able to ride in time. And one of them has caught my eye.
The Fens can be a bleak and lonely place so I decided to do the ride with Daren, a friend and fellow Bianchista. We loaded our bikes onto the roof rack of my car and drove over to the start of the route at Wisbech. Wisbech is the capital of the Fens and in the past was a thriving port. The town is closely linked to the development of the Fens, which at the time was fiercely opposed by local people (the Fen Tigers) who sabotaged much of the drainage works during the Civil War. Oliver Cromwell quashed the Tigers and the drainage work then proceeded apace, creating the flat landscape of today. Agricultural land prices here are the highest in the country and crops are grown on an intensively industrial scale.
After saddling up we headed north out of Wisbech aiming towards The Wash. We had only gone a few hundred yards when Daren experienced what cyclists refer to as a ‘mechanical’. In a nutshell, something seemed to be out of alignment with his drivetrain which was emitting a loud clicking noise every time he pedalled hard. Riding behind him I could see his chain and rear derailleur arm jumping. Well, we tried all the obvious things without success, and not being a quitter, Daren resigned himself to a less than ideal ride with the possibility of a repair bill at the end. There was also the risk of terminal damage along the way, but perhaps rashly that didn’t
really feature in our thinking as we continued on our way.
We were soon across the River Nene at Sutton Bridge and over the county line into Lincolnshire. There was an increasing sense of remoteness and isolation as we rode along a quiet county lane which had just been tarred and chipped – the bane of the road cyclist’s life. We could sense, if not actually see, The Wash a few hundred yards away; we were riding almost at sea level with a high embankment between us and the sea. About 12 miles to the east we had occasional glimpses of Norfolk where the land rises gently upwards.
Turning gradually westwards we had our first taste of what was going to prove the major challenge of the day: wind. At 12 to 15 mph it had a significant effect on our progress. Pedalling directly into the wind on long straight roads with no shelter whatsoever became both a physical and a mental struggle. As we made our way towards Spalding our average speed ebbed away. What kept us going was the prospect of eventually turning east and getting the benefit of a tailwind. But the 30 to 40 westerly miles between Holbeach and Market Deeping were some of the hardest I had ridden for a long time.
We stopped for an alfresco lunch at Cowbit where the local village store and garage provided a sandwich and drink for us to refuel on. The garage forecourt had the usual bucket of cut flowers wrapped in cellophane on sale. But as this was the Fens, there was an additional local speciality: leek plants wrapped in cellophane. I couldn’t help thinking that arriving at any of my friends or relatives bearing gift wrapped leeks was likely to be met with a degree of scorn. But maybe it’s the custom in these parts. And I haven’t got a clue whether the leeks are meant to be eaten or planted!
Eventually we dragged ourselves back to our bikes and set off again for the final push west before, hopefully, being able to turn out of the wind. Our mood lightened considerably once we arrived at Market Deeping and turned south-east. And our speed quickly picked up. When planning the route, I had noticed a long, straight, level road which I was keen to try out. By ‘long’ I mean 6 miles. By ‘straight’ I mean arrow-straight. And by ‘level’, well, the road drops 17 feet over the 6 miles. I know, because I’ve measured it!
By the end of the straight we were happily whizzing along at around 20 mph, interrupted occasionally by the clicking and clacking sounds of Daren’s chain. I was certainly glad that we hadn’t ridden the route the other way around because I’m not sure that I would have managed the 6-mile straight in a headwind.
The last part of the route back to Wisbech was relatively straightforward. Daren even tried to entice me to sprint against him at one point, which I declined. We both agreed that it had been a unique experience, but not necessarily a wholly enjoyable one. This had also been Daren’s longest ever ride, which was another cause for celebration. My suggestion of doing it again on a wind-free crisp winter’s day was met with less than enthusiasm by Daren. A bit like my response to his attempt to get me sprinting against him.
And by way of a footnote: the cause of Daren’s mechanical turned out to be a broken bearing in the hub of his rear wheel.
Sunday 31 July 2016, 99.8 + 7.1 Miles
The Ride London-Surrey 100 (C#27)
It’s 4am in north London and I’ve been woken up by the sound of a rooster crowing. I roll over, bury my head under my pillow, but the rooster just gets louder and louder. Eventually I remember that it’s the alarm on my phone which I’ve set for 4am! I drag myself out of bed, have a quick wash, make and eat some porridge, gulp down a mug of tea and ease myself into the Lycra. By 4:45am my Infinito is loaded on my car and I’m heading for the Lee Valley Ice Park about 10 miles away.
Within the first quarter of a mile I have my first sighting. Then a group of four, and then lots of ones and twos. Gradually I see more and more of them as I get closer to the Ice Park. The car park is full of them. I unload my bike, stuff my jersey pockets with gels and energy bars, and grabbing my daysack, start riding the 3 miles to the Olympic Park. As I ride along I am joined by more and more of them – literally hundreds. Like bees returning to the hive, nearly 30,000 cyclists are converging on the Olympic Park for the start of the Prudential RideLondon-Surrey 100. I wonder if someone is filming this from a helicopter as it must be a spectacular sight. I am in one of many swarms all converging from every direction onto a single point. The route is well signed and marshalled as I make my way to the start point to hook up with Paul and Rob. The three of us have been chosen to represent BOCUK (Bianchi Owners Club UK) for the event. We’ve never ridden together before and have only met briefly when we signed on yesterday. So apart from a little Facebook chit-chat we are relative strangers. The wait for the start gives us a chance to natter a bit, but each of us is also pretty focussed on the ride ahead.
Eventually, together with a couple of hundred other riders, we are out of our loading area and into the starting gate. (It will take around three hours to get everyone riding.) Then, with the pulsating beat of ‘Pump It Up’ by Danzel, we’re off. The first mile or so is steady as we get into a rhythm, with each of us gauging the others’ riding technique. In no time at all we’re on the A12, whizzing past Canary Wharf and heading for the centre of London. It is a simply amazing feeling riding on traffic-free roads past some of the capital’s iconic landmarks. Even at this relatively early hour on a Sunday morning there are small groups of people on the pavements, waving, clapping and cheering us on. And the speed is fast (for me at least): well over 20mph. Nelson’s Column, Harrods and the Natural History Museum flash past as we head westwards. The three of us seem to be quite well matched as we’re staying together without any difficulty.
We cross the Thames on Chiswick Bridge and are soon into Richmond Park. Already 20 miles are under our wheels and we’ve been going for less than an hour. We cross over the Thames again on Kingston Bridge and we’re into Surrey. We’re constantly amongst a mass of riders, some slower than us, others faster. Concentration is essential, especially as some riders either swing out without warning, or else they flash past mere millimetres from my shoulder. This is compounded as the roads get narrower the further we get into the countryside.
The North Downs beckon and the first real ascent comes soon after Newlands Corner. It’s not that steep, but under a gradually warming sun and with nearly 50 miles now in our legs it’s enough to raise the pulse rate a tad. Then we sweep down past Shere and Holmbury St Mary before turning north at Forest Green for the climb of Leith Hill (Warren #17). I rode up Leith Hill earlier in the year so I have a notion of what’s coming. It rises 500 feet in a little more than 1 mile at an average gradient of 7 per cent (maximum 16 per cent). On a narrow road with this many other riders I was not expecting to post a fast time. Getting up without having to stop could, in itself, be an achievement to shout about. In the event I completed it in 8 minutes 23 seconds. Simon Warren’s target time is 6 minutes 30 seconds. My excuse for the two-minute deficit is that I nearly got brought to a standstill by a car that somehow got out of a driveway onto the supposedly car-free road, and was also trying to go up the hill. A couple of marshals soon put a stop to that, but I ‘know’ that I was stuck behind it for at least two minutes!
Paul, Rob and I had agreed that we would each do the climbs at our own pace, so we regrouped at the top for the fast descent into Wescott and Dorking. A combination of dense shade, a rough road surface and lots of other riders made this quite a challenging section. Leaving Dorking we reached the iconic climb of Box Hill (Warren #14). This is often called the Alpe d’Huez of the south-east because of its setting, complete with a couple of hairpin bends. It’s a very popular climb, and the last time I was here I had to wait at the bottom before I could start; it was a bit like queuing for a ski lift!
Up to this point everything had been going brilliantly. The three of us were riding well together and had even managed to have a few chats along the way. We kept spotting other Bianchi riders and tried to work out if they were BOCUK members. Rob even tried to go on a mini recruitment drive to get some new memb
ers. Once I mentioned that there were no time bonuses for this, he changed tack. All this meant that the miles were slipping by almost unnoticed.
Ascending a small rise just before Leatherhead I was brought back to earth with a bump. Or rather with the grinding, gnashing sound of metal on metal. Whilst changing down to a lower gear my chain had slipped off and became wrapped round my crank arm. I managed to freewheel to a stop without falling off. No matter what I tried I couldn’t free the chain. Every attempt to shift it made it get tighter. Damn! There was only one answer. I had to split the chain, free it up and rejoin it. Fortunately, I had both a chain splitter and a magic link in my bag, so I could do the necessary. The biggest casualty of this incident was my white handlebar tape, because in my haste to get going again I had forgotten to put on the disposable gloves I carry before handling the greasy chain.
I was soon under way, but pedalling carefully until I was satisfied that the magic link was securely in place. I was feeling a bit dispirited because I felt that I had let Paul and Rob down, and probably wouldn’t finish with them now. I was pedalling along in my own little world, trying to work out what message I should text to them, when I rode up alongside another Bianchi rider. From my jersey Jo realised that we were both BOCUK members (Jo was in disguise, wearing her club jersey). We had a nice little chat which lifted my spirits considerably and gave me the strength to try a spot of pursuiting to see if I could catch up with Paul and Rob. I set off, giving myself 15 minutes to reach them, otherwise I would text to say I would finish separately. After some very hard riding I eventually caught Paul near Esher and we rode on together to link up with Rob.
From Esher we headed back towards London. By now the pavements were crammed with spectators cheering us on. It was an amazing feeling and gave us a real boost, especially for Paul who was suffering with back pain. The last 15 miles sped by in a blur, with more and more people lining the pavements. With less than 10 miles to go we crossed the Thames on Putney Bridge and were soon onto the Embankment, where my eldest daughter, Katie, was waiting to cheer me on. Then I was flashing past the Houses of Parliament, up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square, before turning under Admiralty Arch and sprinting up The Mall to the finish line. The cheering crowds lining both sides of The Mall made the finish feel incredibly special.
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