Arriving in Colchester I got ready and double-checked my kit: still all ‘yes’. But as I was none the wiser about what was troubling me I set off and made my way along the busy Colchester roads onto the B1025, heading for Mersea Island. The plan today was to ride round some of the Essex creeks and marshes, which is another of those rides in Chris Sidwells’s book. One of the great things about riding in a new area is that there are usually plenty of surprises, and mostly quite nice ones too.
The first surprise came after only a few miles near the village of Abberton. Riding along quite quickly I passed an intriguing banner, so I stopped for a look. The Crafty Goat is an ice cream parlour and Interweb café. Now, the real reason for stopping, apart from common curiosity, is that my younger daughter Megan has a thing for goats, so I wanted to get a picture to amuse her. Unfortunately, as this was the start of the ride I felt it was too soon to sample their wares. But if I ever do this route again I might go the other way around so it’s near the end, as I’m quite partial to an ice cream or three.
As I rode away I had one of those light bulb moments. What had been troubling me on the drive down suddenly became apparent. I was about to cross over The Strood, an 800-metre-long causeway that links Mersea Island with the mainland. Chris Sidwells’s notes on the route strongly advise riders to check the tide times before crossing over. Blast! As I approached I worked out that the tide was probably coming in, but didn’t yet seem that high, so I thought I could probably get to East Mersea and back before I got cut off. Ho-hum, fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and all that!
The lane to East Mersea gradually got narrower and narrower until I literally reached the end of the road – which I had expected. So I had to turn around and retrace my steps. Riding along the island was quite an interesting experience because there was a very different feeling with the place compared to mainland Essex. Not something I could put my finger on, merely a slight sense in the airwaves. I made it back to The Strood in good time to discover that my fears were groundless. There was no way today that the tide was going to cut me off. But the water depth markers showed that at certain times there must be some pretty impressive high tides.
I then headed along the north side of the Blackwater estuary to Maldon. Coming into Maldon I encountered a short but rather steep hill to the start of the main shopping street. From there it was downhill and east towards Bradwell on Sea, which is a very attractive small village close to the imposing and now decommissioned nuclear power station. Then I turned back to ride across the Dengie Peninsula. That’s a name I love, it has a nice earthy sound to it. Try saying it. Go on, you know you want to: ‘Dengie’! Throughout the ride I could see the coast across the marshes and creeks, but very rarely got close to it. And there was the familiar tinge of ozone in the air to remind me that I was near the sea.
After a pause to top up my water bottles at a busy Burnham-on-Crouch, I continued westwards to South Woodham Ferrers. Although I was on a B-road there was a lot of traffic so the riding was not particularly enjoyable. I then headed roughly northwards along more busy B-roads to Danbury, which was nicely wooded with some small hills which broke up the monotony of flatland riding.
From Danbury I headed to Tiptree, which I had been looking forward to. Unfortunately, it didn’t really live up to my expectations. I have often enjoyed those tasty jams and marmalades that Wilkin & Sons make. For as long as I can remember I have been aware of their distinctive black and white bottle labels which, en masse, make an interesting display on shop shelves. And as a child, I always associated their small, single-serving jars with a special treat. I can still remember having afternoon tea with my Mum and Dad on the Brighton Belle train. Ooooh, what a delight that was. Perhaps I was expecting too much, as the part of Tiptree I saw was a bit uninspiring. But I will concede that I must have ridden past the heart of the village, so I’m going to put it in the fridge so to speak and come back for another taste. From Tiptree it was a pretty uneventful ride back to Colchester. On the way I passed a sign to Messing that made me smile. We do seem to have a way with place names in Britain.
All in all, this was quite an enjoyable century ride, if perhaps a slightly underwhelming one. I had been expecting (hoping) for rather more atmosphere as I rode around; perhaps similar to that created by the late author P.D. James in her series of novels featuring the detective Adam Dalgliesh, many of which were set on the remote and exposed coast of East Anglia. And the volume of traffic on the roads meant that I had to concentrate quite hard, with less time to look around at the sights I passed.
Thursday 1 September 2016, 106 Miles
Gateway to The Broads (C#35)
Having enjoyed a few away-days on my recent rides, I decided to stay closer to home and do one of my regular century routes today by heading east to Halesworth and then across to the Waveney Valley at Bungay. And to ring the changes I thought I would head a bit further east to Beccles, which I don’t think I’ve ever ridden to before. I have certainly driven past the place many times on the way to Lowestoft or Great Yarmouth.
Reassuringly, as I set off on my Infinito my brain was free of the nagging worries of last Tuesday (C#34, 30 August). If I had forgotten anything, I was blissfully unaware of it! I made good time to Stradbroke and Halesworth before heading north past those delightful South Elmham villages that I wrote about a few weeks ago (C#25, 25 July). Then after dropping down into the Waveney Valley I was soon at Bungay and on the threshold of today’s goal.
As I’ve said many times before and will no doubt say many more times, one of the delights of riding in a new area are the encounters I have with the unexpected. And the unexpected can present itself in unexpected ways. I’ve noticed over the last few years a growth in number of people selling free range eggs. Initially these seemed to be the business of householders selling from their front doors, presumably aiming to earn a little extra on the back of keeping a few chickens. More recently I’ve seen a growth in the number of places selling free range eggs from the farm gate on what I would describe as an industrial scale. Quite a few of these places now seem to have a brightly coloured sign usually depicting a happy chuck or even a happy flock, presumably intended to catch the eye of passers-by. Well, today’s unexpected moment came in the form of a couple of chicken cut-outs advertising prize-winning sausages. Now, maybe they do things differently round here (we are very close to Norfolk) but have you ever had a chicken snorker? I certainly haven’t!
Putting the local delicacies to one side I headed on to Beccles, which promotes itself as ‘The Gateway to The Broads’. Beccles is a very appealing place. It’s an attractive and bustling market town with some impressive architecture. Most of the recent building has been to the south and east of the town, which combined with a northern bypass for the busy major road has meant that the town centre is largely unspoilt. The town sits above the River Waveney which, judging by the number of boatyards, is certainly a gateway to the Broads if not the gateway. I now have half an idea forming of a century ride round the Broads starting and finishing in Beccles. So watch this space…
Leaving Beccles I rode through Gillingham, which threw me slightly: I passed the other Gillingham last Sunday on my way back from my East Kent ride. I then turned north to Loddon where I paused to refill my bottles. From there I passed through Seething. My dictionary defines ‘seething’ as being agitated (by anger, excitement, etc.). Well, everyone must have been out today because it was a pretty sleepy place with not a soul to be seen.
Leaving Seething to its own devices I then headed generally south-westwards to rejoin the standard route for the last 20 miles home. Riding a familiar route brings its own interests, and today I noticed that a gradual and quite subtle change in the countryside is taking place. Gone is the lush green vegetation; it is now a rather duller shade. The grain harvest is largely complete and the fields have wonderful hues of gold and bronze, or else a rich brown colour as the farmers rush to plough and sow their next
crops. The end of summer may just be approaching. What will autumn bring?
Sunday 4 September 2016, 128 Miles
Vuelta a Norfolk (C#36)
I spent part of yesterday evening watching the highlights of Stage 14 of the Vuelta a España. What an exciting stage; professional road racing at its very best. To watch race leader Nairo Quintana, resplendent in the race leader’s red jersey, and the Froomedog battling it out on the slopes of the Col d’Aubisque in the Pyrenees, was breathtaking. I can’t begin to understand where they find the strength to climb at the speed they do. And Simon Yates’s phenomenal attack in the latter part of the stage totally lit it up. Robert Gesink was a very worthy winner and the fact that he was riding a Bianchi absolutely made my day.
So without in any way wishing to trivialize the achievements of yesterday, I decided that today’s century would be a celebration of yesterday’s Vuelta stage: my own Vuelta a Norfolk! One thing I didn’t realise was that the word ‘Vuelta’ translates to ‘Return’ – at least according to Giggle ‒ so that seems doubly fitting as it has been a few weeks since I last did a proper Norfolk century. And to make the ride even more enjoyable I was joined by Daren, who rode in the Fens with me a few weeks ago (C#26, 29 July).
We had arranged to meet in East Harling so I rode the extra 9 miles to get there and Daren arrived soon after. The leader of the Vuelta traditionally wears a red jersey, and as Daren emerged from his car I could see that he had come suitably clothed. Clearly (Nairo) Daren had his own ideas about who was ‘El Jefe’. I was going to be a mere domestique today! Perhaps I should have worn a white jersey to match the Froomedog, who was leading the Vuelta’s Combination competition.35 Instead I was sporting a rather fetching celeste spotted jersey. Well, that was my view. Nairo quickly unloaded his Bianchi, an Intenso in celeste to match my Infinito, and we were ready for the off.
After a false start when Nairo remembered that he’d left his heart rate monitor in the car, we were soon riding north into a fairly testing headwind towards Watton and Swaffham. Leaving Swaffham I started to feel that we were entering new territory; crossing north of the A47 feels to me like another of those frontier crossings that herald a big ride.
Despite the headwind we were soon into north Norfolk with its undulating ridges and what felt like some quite isolated and lonely countryside. By now my legs were starting to feel the effort but we were maintaining a good pace. I say ‘we’, but Nairo did most of the leading as I followed behind, perfecting my drafting technique. Well, Nairo is younger than me, and as he was wearing the leader’s red jersey it would have shown poor form to usurp his position. Recognising my status Nairo has started calling me ‘Captain Century’, which has a nice ring to. I just hope it doesn’t mean that all my rides now have to be 100-mile ones!
As we rode along we started chatting about a friend of ours, another Bianchi rider who has recently joined the Passione Celeste Movement. Tracy started riding seriously about nine months ago and in June at the Tour of Cambridgeshire she qualified to ride in the World Championships in Perth. That’s Perth, Australia, not the other one. Nairo has been doing a great job helping Tracy to train and today was the day of the championships. In fact, by the time we started Tracy had already finished. We found out later that she finished in twenty-eighth and was the third-best-placed British woman rider. So that was a fantastic result for her and even more cause for celebration by us.
Finally, we turned east and escaped the headwind, and then after a few miles started to head south with more of a tailwind. This boosted both our morale and our speed. To add variety, we rode on what I had told Nairo was Norfolk’s answer to cobbles: a concrete slab road which certainly made its presence felt. Feeling in need of some refreshment and in the absence of a café, we stopped at the Plume of Feathers pub in South Creake for a sandwich lunch. The food was fine; the landlord did seem less than interested in us and the service would best be described as perfunctory and possibly underwhelming – nothing wrong with it but nothing memorable.
Suitably refreshed we were soon under way heading southwards. One amusing ‒ well, to me, anyway ‒ incident occurred as we passed through the village of Shipdham. Approaching a junction Nairo mentioned that some friends of his lived in a house that we were about to pass. As we turned we saw one of the friends outside painting the window frames, so we pulled up for Nairo, who temporarily reverted to Daren mode, to say hello. It soon became apparent to me that neither had seen the other for a while and that the friend had some interesting insights to Daren’s past. Now, readers, at this point all I am going to say is that my silence can be bought for the right price. Feel free to get in touch!
Much as we would have both enjoyed the coffee we were offered and I would certainly have enjoyed hearing more of the gossip, we were conscious that we needed to keep riding, so sadly we had to set off again. Daren was a tad subdued for the next couple of miles as I ribbed him with my new knowledge. But we were soon both focused fully on the ride and the familiar red-jerseyed Nairo emerged from his cocoon. Occasional crosswinds at gaps in the hedges meant we had to concentrate all the time to avoid being blown across the road.
All too soon we were back at East Harling where we enjoyed a can of Coke, shook hands and then parted company: Nairo to drive home, me to ride the final 9 miles. By the time I got home I had covered 128 miles, my longest century of the series so far. Although slightly further than the Vuelta’s Stage 14 it was undoubtedly easier. Much easier. And a good way to celebrate some fantastic achievements in Spain and in Australia. ‘Passione Celeste!’
Tuesday 6 September 2016, 112 Miles
Hill Climbing Training in Lincolnshire (C#37)
In a few weeks I’ll be in northern Spain riding my own Tour of the Pyrenees with Team Super Six. This is likely to involve some pretty serious hill climbing so I thought it might be a good idea to get some training in. Watching the television highlights of the pros climbing in the Pyrenees on the Vuelta probably won’t do much for my legs, sadly. After careful consideration I decided to head over to Lincolnshire as the focus for today’s century.
‘Pah!’ you’re probably thinking, ‘What a wimp. Lincolnshire’s all flat fens (and poachers) and there aren’t any hills.’ Well, think again readers, for I know differently. In the late 1970s I lived in the city of Lincoln and did quite a lot of training and racing there, including some timed hill climbs. So there is a gradient or two. Perhaps not on the grand scale of the Pyrenees, but if my memory is correct, they were enough to make the leg muscles twinge and raise the heart rate. And anyone who has ever ridden the Lincoln Grand Prix won’t forget the cobbled climb of Michaelgate which has an energy-sapping reputation.
Now, readers, indulge me in a little diversion for the benefit of any non-cycling readers who may not appreciate the subtleties of hill climbing. Hill climbs are classified on a five-point scale with 1 being the hardest and 4 the least hard. Note that I’ve referred to the ‘least hard’ and not the ‘easiest’. Gradient and length typically determine which category individual hills fall into. As a rule of thumb a Category 4 climb will involve a mile or so at an average of 6 per cent, or 2‒3 miles at an average of 4 per cent or less. By contrast a Category 1 climb will be 3‒7 miles at 8 per cent or greater, or 7‒10 miles at about 6 per cent. But these are broad indicators and other factors can come into play. Got it? Fine, let’s move on
What’s that you say? I’ve mentioned five categories but only described four. Well, I just wanted to be sure that you were still with me. Yes, there is a fifth category. A category which strikes fear into the heads and hearts of even the best riders. The fifth one is the legendary Hors Category (Above Category). I’m going to leave it to you to work out what it means, because just thinking about it makes me grimace and raises my heart rate.
Today’s adventure started in Horncastle which is the southern gateway to the Lincolnshire Wolds. (See, more hill references.) I was a bit later starting than usual as
the drive over here had been quite slow. I think every farmer in south Lincolnshire had decided to bring their tractor on to the A17 for a test drive. But the sun was shining as I set off so that was encouraging. The first street sign I noticed as I left was ‘Langton Hill’, so that was a good omen. Sure enough I was soon going up. Vindication!
After cresting Langton Hill, I headed steadily westwards through the villages of Woodhall Spa and Martin before reaching Timberland. Now, something struck me as being a bit odd as this was the edge of the Fens and there isn’t a forest or a wood anywhere near the place. Even single trees are collectors’ items hereabouts so the name does seem to be a bit out of place. What I really struggled to fathom were the plaudits on the large village sign which proclaimed that Timberland was the winner of the Best Kept Village award. And not just once but seven times. The only problem was the last time it won was twenty-six years ago. Has Timberland got stuck in a time warp for the last quarter of a century?
From Timberland I meandered around the lanes, still heading broadly westwards. The meandering was an attempt to revisit some of the roads that I used to train on when I lived in Lincoln. As I rode along I replayed in my mind some of the road races and criteriums that I had competed in back in the day. I remembered going flat out on closed roads in the centre of Grantham for about 45 minutes with a large bunch of riders, just hoping that either I didn’t get knocked off or slip on some pretty ferocious cobbles. I also remembered several races on active RAF airfields, usually in grey, damp, cold, windy conditions in spring or autumn. Fortunately Biggles and Algy were given the day off whenever we were racing.
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