What a ride! What a day. For me, it showcased some of the best that cycling has to offer. I met loads of other Bianchi riders and exchanged a smile, or a nod, or a wave, or a few words of mutual support. Seeing other BOCUK riders was like being in a large family and greeting cousins that you knew but had never met. And as for Paul and Rob: well, they were my brothers for the day. So I say to them both: ‘Chapeau and Passione Celeste!’ And if you don’t ride a Bianchi then you won’t understand ‒ and don’t know what you’re missing.
Eagle-eyed readers may have noticed that the RideLondon-Surrey 100 was actually 99.8 miles. So I’ve added the extra 7.1 miles that I rode back to my car so that I can claim this as one of my sixty centuries.
Saturday 6 August 2016, 113 Miles
A Very Ferry Ride (C#28)
Today was an opportunity to try something different. My usual ride to the Suffolk coast at Orford often includes a small detour to Felixstowe Ferry. As today promised to be sunny, I thought I’d go the extra mile. Well, an extra 5 miles, so not much of the ‘extra’ really. I followed the usual route to Woodbridge, where I normally turn left towards the coast. Today I turned right in Woodbridge and rode through Martlesham to the outskirts of Felixstowe along what were some surprisingly quiet roads, waymarked as the Ipswich to Felixstowe cycle route.
I have no desire to visit Felixstowe. I once went there about 20 years ago and vowed never to return. It just wasn’t my kind of place: the archetypical British seaside resort. Namely, shabby and down-at-heel, with ‘entertainment’ arcades and shops selling tat. The other main ‘attraction’ is the container port, but that’s largely off limits to visitors. I realise that I could be doing a great disservice to the place and it has probably picked itself up in the intervening 20 years. Do let me know if I’ve got this wrong, and I’ll stand corrected.
At the edge of Felixstowe I headed down a Quiet Lane. Note the use of capital letters here, readers. The sign at the start proudly proclaimed it as a ‘Quiet Lane’ for cyclists and walkers. And it was quite quiet. I counted five walkers, three joggers, three cyclists and one car emerging from a driveway. Perfect for a balmy Saturday morning. Soon I could see the North Sea on the horizon, and then I found myself riding through the middle of a golf course. Well, I wasn’t actually riding on a fairway; the golf course ran along both sides of the road.
After a couple of bends, Felixstowe Ferry with its Martello Towers suddenly appeared and the road ended at the edge of the River Deben. Now, lesser mortals may think that I would have to turn around and go back the way I had come. But no! By getting here I was on the very threshold of achieving today’s goal: getting the bike across the river on the seasonal ferry. As I arrived, the ferry was ready and waiting. A quick walk down the jetty, a scramble over the side of the boat, and I had boarded. No sooner than I was on board, we were off. I was the only passenger!
Chatting to the ferryman revealed that: (a) he had already taken several cyclists across the river this morning; (b) he had no idea how wide the river was and wondered if my Garmin could work it out for him; and (c) if he had £1 for every passenger’s photo he’d taken he reckoned he’d be a millionaire. So there you are! We were soon across the river and the Impulso and I were back on terra firma. To celebrate I had an ice cream on the quayside; the Impulso declined. Then we were off.
As I rejoined my standard route I thought of cutting the corner and giving Orford a miss today, instead going straight on to Snape. But the Impulso had other ideas, and so we soon found ourselves in Orford. I soon realised why the Impulso had declined the earlier offer of an ice cream: its heart was set on a doughnut. We rolled up to the Pump Street Bakery, which was as busy as ever, and I bought the desired doughnut for the Impulso. I just had a skinny latté. Believe that if you will.
The rest of the ride was unremarkable. There were a couple of stretches of road which had recently been tarred and chipped, which is something I hate. The slippery surface, increased risk of punctures, and the potential for stone chip damage or tar spots on the Impulso’s frame are almost too horrible to contemplate. As this has been such a lovely day I’m not going to have a rant about this. Nearing home I was in high spirits and singing ‘Ferry Cross the Deben’ to the tune of ‘Ferry Cross the Mersey’. Try it sometime. You might be surprised!
Sunday 7 August 2016, 101 Miles
The Camaraderie of Cyclists (C#29)
After the excitement of yesterday’s ferry ride I thought I would go on a rather more subdued ride today. But what to do? Where should I go? As I left home I still didn’t have any idea of where to go. Perhaps I should just ride around aimlessly until I had notched up the required miles. That did seem a bit pointless, though. Then it struck me! I would ride the four counties route again through Suffolk, Norfolk, Cambridgeshire and Essex (see C#2, 29 February). Only this time I would go the other way around. At this point I was slightly off piste but I quickly worked out a cunning plan to get me back onto the route.
So off I went, making good progress, and I was soon back on course. Although I had left home under heavy, leaden-grey skies the sun soon broke through and the temperature began to rise sharply. This looked like becoming one hot day. The only downside was a very high wind which gusted quite strongly. Several times I had to grip the handlebars tightly to avoid being blown over by the crosswinds. The strong wind meant that as long as I was moving I didn’t notice the temperature. But as soon as I slowed it became apparent that it really was hot. The other giveaway was that I was drinking a lot. A stop to refill my bidons was going to be necessary.
Arriving at Clare in south Suffolk I called in to the local branch of the Co-op. Over the last few years the East of England Co-op seems to have reinvented itself and today provides all the essentials that the thirsty and hungry cyclist needs, without too much razzmatazz. Propping the Infinito up against the shop front, I headed inside to get a bottle of water and a can of Coke. At the till I joined the queue behind a fellow cyclist and we acknowledged each other with a cherry ‘Hello’ and a smile.
I emerged from the Co-op to discover said cyclist examining my Infinito, which he approved of and had spotted that it was equipped with Italian (Campagnolo) components. I then quickly discovered that my fellow cyclist shopper was riding with a friend, and that they had come from Cambridge and were heading for Lavenham. I let slip, or even perhaps gave out a minor boast, that I was on a mission to ride sixty centuries and that I was blogging the rides. So details of my blog were duly recorded on my fellow rider’s smartphone as we passed the time of day over cold drinks. My cyclist acquaintance also kindly took a photo of me posing outside the Co-op.
It was soon time to set off so we said our farewells and I was on my way. As I rode out of Clare I realised that I didn’t know my photographer’s name. But, if you did read the blog or this book, then thanks for taking the pic and I hope you both enjoyed the rest of your ride as much as I did.
Musing on this brief encounter caused me to think what a nice lot we cyclists are. In my experience, cyclists are generally a very friendly bunch. And riding a bike is a great leveller. Most cyclists acknowledge each other with a friendly nod, wave or a hello as they pass each other. And the stories of riders stopping to help those in trouble – a puncture or a mechanical – are legion. For me the social aspect of cycling is one of the greatest enjoyments. For sure, there is a serious, competitive side. But time and time again, those I have met on the road, or ridden with at events, are the people who have really made the ride. And sometimes, through the shared experience and effort, I have made some new friends on the road.
But there are risks, as I have found out. Once while riding along I noticed a rider at the side of the road with his bike lying on the verge. I slowed and called out, ‘Do you need any help?’ ‘No thanks’, was the rather curt reply. At that point I realised the stop was natural, not mechanical! Just as well I didn’t offer to lend him a hand!
Friday 12 August 20
16, 110 Miles
The Only Way is Essex (C#30)
Assuming I completed it, this ride would be the halfway point in my Sixty Centuries Series. So I thought I would ring the changes and ride somewhere new. But where? Help was at hand in the shape of Chris Sidwells’s ‘Best 100 Mile Bike Routes’ book. Browsing the tome last night, his description of one ride caught my eye. The key words said: ‘there are no long climbs and not too many steep ones, but there are plenty of hills. It’s what competitive cyclists call good racing country’. That settled it. I was going to Halstead for a ride around north Essex.
The weather forecast promised sunshine but that infernal wind still seems to be sticking around. I made my way over to Halstead and parked near to Sainsbury’s. Although it was described as a short-stay car park, six hours’ parking only cost £2.60. So a bargain was had.
I got the bike off the roof rack, sorted everything out and was soon away heading roughly east out of Halstead bound for Bures and then Dedham. Following a couple of navigational challenges getting out of Halstead I was soon into open countryside with quiet lanes and spinning along over the many ups and downs with a tailwind and warm sunshine on my back. I passed through Bures for the first time and made a mental note to stop here for a sandwich on the way back. The route was a sort of sideways figure of eight, with Bures as the pinch point in the middle. Then it was into Constable country as I passed through Dedham Vale. The village of Dedham was quite busy, so apart from taking the obligatory photo I didn’t linger.
Next up was one of those surprises that you sometimes get on rides. As I rode along a quiet lane approaching Higham, I spotted a grass snake sunning itself on the tarmac so I pulled up for a chat. I tried suggesting that it should move out of the middle of the road to avoid getting squashed but it told me it wasss enjoying the sssunssshine and the warmth of the tarmac. After something of an impasse I found a stick and gently tried to encourage it to move towards the verge, which it did very reluctantly. Job done, I thought, so I set off again. Looking back over my shoulder the sssssilly snake had already started to ssslither back into the road. Oh well, I tried my best.
From Higham I rode north to Hadleigh and then turned westwards and into the full force of that wind. The next 15 miles or so weren’t particularly pleasant. A combination of a busy road, the dreaded wind blowing directly at me, and increasing heat meant that getting to Bures was something of a slog. I ground out a rhythm, telling myself that lunch awaited at Bures. Lunch was a delight. There was an excellent deli where the lady running it made me a lovely chicken and bacon granary sandwich. This, together with a can of coke and a couple of bottles of cold mineral water to refill my bidons, soon restored me.
From Bures I carried on west to Finchingfield which was mobbed with people enjoying the sunshine, and then at Radwinter it was time to turn south to Thaxted and Great Dunmow. From there it was an easy ride back to Halsted, passing along the way through a succession of villages whose names end with the word ‘End’. There was Bran End, then Duck End and finally Oxen End. I spotted a magnificent wagon shed at Duck End with, quite literally, some mature sweet chestnut trees growing up through the middle of it. And unlike Bran End and Oxen End there is no village sign for Duck End; well, I couldn’t see one. I should also mention that this is Mark Cavendish country, as he lives nearby. Unfortunately for me, the Manx Missile is in Rio getting ready to ride and hopefully win Olympic Gold in the Omnium. Bumping into him ‒ not literally ‒ could have turned a very good ride into a great ride!
After the Ends I was soon back into Halstead, which was very busy with rush hour traffic. And a final few words of advice. Queue-jumping the Friday worker heading home is a very risky activity. Be warned!
Well, that’s it. I’ve arrived at the halfway point. I wonder what the next thirty centuries have in store for me?
10. MORE MEMORIES AND SOME MEDALS
Sunday 14 August 2016, 108 Miles
Nostalgia in the Chilterns, or Where It All Began (C#31)
To mark the start of the second half of my Sixty Centuries Series I thought I would go back to the beginning. For a long time now I had wanted to do a ride in the Chilterns where I grew up and where I started to ride long distances. My first ever century ride started from our house in Prestwood and I have many happy memories of rides around the Chilterns lanes. As this was all nearly 40 years ago I suspect that there may be a gap between my memories and the reality. But whatever, it must have been good because I haven’t stopped riding since.
Using Chris Sidwells’s book as a starting point I mapped out a route that took in a lot of the places I used to visit. The route was a sort of circle, starting and finishing in Prestwood. It included a mix of lanes through the Chiltern Hills towards the Thames Valley and then turned northwards, eventually reaching the Vale of Aylesbury before finally heading back south to Prestwood.
An early morning alarm call had me rising at 5:30am, and following a quick breakfast I was in my car and quickly off for the two-hour drive to Prestwood. After parking up and unloading my Infinito I was soon ready for the off. It was interesting riding along the High Street and noticing the many changes that have occurred, notably round the shopping parade. But it was also revealing to see what hadn’t changed, and I recognised quite a few houses where I used to visit school friends back in the day.
Heading out of Prestwood I gradually became aware that my recollection of distances was a bit off the mark. Places that I thought were quite close together turned out to be further away than I remembered. But no matter; the constant succession of landmarks, some remembered but many forgotten, were making this a very interesting ride.
After a few ups and downs I was soon speeding down Whiteleaf Hill, a famous climb in the area and the place where I learned to hill start when my Dad was teaching me to drive. It is so steep and narrow that I could hardly believe my father would have taken me here. But it must have worked, because even though I say so myself, I’m a competent hill starter. And I’m a passable hill climber.
Talking of which, after about 15 miles it was time to tackle the first main climb of the day: Kingston Hill (Warren #122). This starts with a long, gentle drag before gradually ramping up through a series of bends at a maximum of 17 per cent, before finally levelling out after about three-quarters of a mile. I filmed the climb as I rode it, but the video is probably of no interest to anyone else! Much more entertaining were the red kites that I saw and heard on the first part of the climb. These magnificent birds were soaring gracefully on what I guessed were thermals rising from the escarpment. It’s incredible that these birds, which were once hunted to near extinction as vermin, have made such a comeback. Five birds were released into the wild in 1989; now they are a common sight and their distinctive shrill calls make it easy to know that they are about.
After recovering my breath from the Kingston Hill ascent, I enjoyed a great ride along the crest of the Chilterns with occasional views westwards towards Oxford. By now I was not alone, and at times it seemed as if every cyclist in the Home Counties was out riding. Maybe they were? A left turn and a long steady descent took me through Pishill. As a teenager, Pishill was one of those place names that was always good for a joke. The name derives from Old English – ‘hill where peas grow’ – and not what you might have first thought!
The next few miles showed me why I used to so enjoy coming here. I rode along undulating lanes through a succession of hidden valleys and coombes. This is great unspoilt countryside which must have looked much the same for hundreds, if not thousands of years. And amazing, too, to think that London lies less than 30 miles to the east.
Skirting the edge of High Wycombe, I headed back towards Prestwood to complete the first half of the ride. I spent a bit of time riding round, revisiting old haunts. I also stopped outside the house that we used to live in and where I would have set out from on my first ever century ride, in about 1973. And many more after that. Riding away from the
house I followed the route that I used to ride on each day to get to school; only about 4 miles each way, but five days a week in all weathers. My first ride was on 8 September 1970 and after making allowances for days when I either got a lift, walked (yes, I did occasionally) or didn’t go in, I reckon that I rode around 6,000 miles by the time I left. So clearly the bug had bitten.
Leaving Prestwood I headed over towards Chesham and Tring before descending out of the Chilterns for a circuit round the north of Aylesbury. I have quite good memories of riding out here from home, which at the time seemed like heading into a different country. I guess this reflected the pronounced contrast between the Chiltern Hills and the flatter Vale of Aylesbury.
All to soon it was time to turn south past Waddesdon Manor, once the home of the Rothschilds and now owned by the National Trust. This is a rather splendid pile stuffed full of fabulous and valuable works of art. Gradually the Chiltern escarpment got closer and closer before I reached Ellesborough and passed by Chequers, a weekend retreat for Prime Ministers. As I stopped to take a picture of the main gate there was a quiet whirring sound as the CCTV cameras took an interest in me! Then it was a fast blast back to Great Missenden with a short detour to see my old school. I then retraced most of my school ride back to Prestwood and the end of the ride.
Impressions and highlights? Far too many, really. But to pick a few which stand out: the countryside is a delight to ride so it’s no wonder that I’ve developed a love affair with cycling. The roads are much, much busier: cars and cyclists. The hills haven’t got any easier; quite the opposite in fact! And the sights and sound of those red kites greatly enriched my enjoyment of being out and about in the Chilterns.
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