Resolutions

I have fallen victim to the classic bloggers malaise and have failed to post anything for some time. As a sort of parallel to my rather aimless physical existence, through the my writing  you’ll possibly have noticed I’m not a huge fan of targets, resolutions and so forth. I’ve always hoped that since I enjoy writing, and (occasionally) enjoy riding, somehow the two might conspire to improve each other.

Looking back at a some resolutions I wrote last year I am saddened to see that I didn’t really take heed of my own advice. I suppose this should come as no surprise, and I can muster plenty of excuses. The abhorrent weather at the beginning of the year certainly didn’t help, and as it currently stands my job involves spending a large portion of my time outside with my bike – where I often feel that I’m not only fighting the elements, but also other people too, people who drive cars and people who ride bikes; big people and little people. After 30 hours a week of this, sometimes it’s a real struggle to voluntarily throw oneself out into the car utopia of suburban London even for the relatively short trip out to the green bits. In this vein I do not judge my failure to meet my ‘targets’ too harshly. No doubt there are some people who could easily overcome those obstacles, or perhaps not even perceive them as obstacles, but that isn’t me. Working outside with children is, in a word, exhausting. Sadly I let that affect my riding in my own time.

Of course it isn’t all doom and gloom. I did a little bit of off-road riding on my workhorse commuting/touring/mountain bike. And my thoroughly documented tour of the South East. And a bit of riding in Wales and the Peak district, and some stunning rides in the sunshine.

A panoramic view of Anglesea

Since my last writings in December I’ve been on and off the bike sporadically, stamping out the miles in Kent, as I’d promised I wouldn’t be doing last year. I feel like I know most of the surfaces, changing gradients, pinch points and off-camber corners, in a way that I wish I didn’t. Of course, in reality, every ride is different, and if I haven’t turned back a couple of miles after leaving the house due to hopeless indifference (mostly rare) then I never regret making it out there, watching the seasons change and noticing that it’s harder than it was in July. 

I’ve done most of my winter riding on my fixed wheel. Whilst I have had the company of my friend Michael for most of those rides, I have to confess that riding fixed almost sentences you to riding solo. Which is a shame. But I still really enjoy riding it, and I’m not willing to give it up, especially in winter, even if that confines me to riding alone for much of it. I’ve also managed to throw in a couple of off-road rides to keep things interesting. My bike handling off-road is pretty iffy, but it’s fun nonetheless, and I’ve still got plenty of local bridleways left to explore, like this little hidden gem just outside Biggin Hill:

I have an Audax lined up for the near future, which I’m looking forward to. Resolutions? Ride all  my bikes throughout the year less sporadically. We’ll see how that goes…

The shortest night

It’s a warm evening and I feel hot. We leave the city with everybody else, jostling our way through the traffic lights and endless junctions. Already the light feels mostly gone as we reach a quiet crossroads: To our right, miles of suburbia,  Wembley, 24-hour cab depots, kebab shops, drunks; to the left, open fields, gravel tracks, people having supper and going to bed. Our lights begin to take effect as the dark hedgerows contrast with the wide open sky. The moon is almost full, shining brightly over our shoulders.

Steadily the light fades as we disappear into covered lanes, winding up and down, and away. We turn into a long valley. The sky opens up and the moon bathes one side in silver light, casting long and surreal shadows. This lane seems to wind forever, like a small flowing stream of tarmac. It’s like black and white – except it’s definitely silver. I am tempted to turn my light off, but realise this is a bad idea, I’ve tried it before, I felt blind. A toad jumps out of the road in front of me. A moment later a tall, upright bird moves into the hedge as if I have intruded upon a meeting. Ludwig is behind me; I can’t see his light, but I can’t stop here, the view is better in front of me anyway. Finally I come to a junction, lined with a small row of houses looking up the valley we have come from, and towards another which runs parallel. We’ve missed a turn. We go back the way we came.

We turn along a small track which feels like someone’s driveway, and emerge onto a pockmarked strip of road heading upwards. We turn again, into the wind. It’s hard to tell how fast we are going, inevitably it is probably quite slow – the wind is in our faces, ripping round our ears, all I can hear is white noise. The moon remains bright. Already my body is telling me I should be in bed and my legs are slow to respond, instead naturally following my internal weary rhythm. “Combe lane!” I chuckle, as we make a turn, I did one of the same name not so long ago. I shouldn’t have laughed – uphill it goes, just like the last one, steeper and longer than I was expecting. This time I only have one gear.

Finally it is completely dark, and now it begins to rain, slowly at first. It defines the rest of the night as it does not stop, and it gets heavier. We keep moving. When we stop I am alarmed at how wet my face is – we are talking less now; quietly working away at our pedals to the soundtrack of raindrops on…everything. Three badgers reluctantly move from our path. We come upon some familiar lanes, a covered descent, and suddenly I enjoy how my light is carving a channel for me, slowly forging my way through the darkness of a sunken lane. We arrive and depart small villages, silently slipping through, reminding ourselves of the absurdity of riding through the night.

Almost as suddenly as it arrived, the darkness lifts, and it is clearly morning, announced distinctly by solitary early birds. It is still raining and my hands are wet and numb. We are nearing the end of our ride, and all signs unhelpfully point to Slough. As we fumble around for directions, a startled deer runs for cover. Eventually we emerge on to an empty dual carriageway – a fitting end to any ride – and drill the last couple of miles to the nearest train station. It takes me a couple of minutes to get my fingers working again as I try to get my oyster card to read, hoping for a seat on a warm train. The train is cold and the wind whips through the automatic doors. There is no sun, no warmth, no euphoria, and limited satisfaction. I ride home still shivering from the train and see no other cyclists.

Days 3 and 4: Along the South Downs

Day 3: Abottstone to Pyecombe ~ 75m

This was probably the highlight of my mini-tour. It was the lngest day distance-wise, had scorching summer weather and the was easily the most scenic. It was topped off by a great camping site perched in the heart of the Downs outside Brighton.

I was in a good mood as I settled down to make some notes that night.

“Today has been very different. As I write I have a log fire before me. Wolstonebury Hill slopes up and to the North, beyond that, there is only the fading light in the evening sky.  The ever-present hum of the A23 in the valley below is the only noise breaking the peace; the sleepy village of Pyecombe*  is nestled into the side of the valley above it. I have the campsite to myself. It is almost too dark to see the lumps of milk powder in my tea.

The day started with quiet and wide B-roads out of New Alresford, gently rolling and furrowing their way through the spring landscape. It was still early morning, and with an appetite for exploring, I took an unsigned lane roughly towards where I thought I should be heading. What I saw hinted at the views of the downs to come – I could see the back of the Meon valley I’d avoided thus far. The lane twisted and climbed higher to West Tisted and to a 12^th Century church, where I stopped for a snack and had my first encounter of the day with a native – a friendly and knowledgeable churchgoer.

The day was heating up as I made my way through a maze of lanes around Froxfield, the rapeseed glowing brightly along banked lanes lined with bluebells. I climbed gradually towards Steep, where the road descends fantastically towards Petersfield, clinging to the sides of the hill and offering views along the wooded escarpment. I stopped for Coffee in the town square as preparations were underway for bank holiday festivities.

The B road out of town wound its way towards Nursted, and suddenly the familiar lumps if the Downs were before me. It felt as if the first two days were merely a preamble to this part of the ride. The Downs were on my right; and there they stayed for the best part of 40 miles of rolling lanes along the foot of the hills, through quiet villages and deserted lanes. Bepton, Cocking, Treyford, Graffham, Berwick; all separated by winding roads with stunning views. I took to the odd bridleway too – a time-consuming but satisfying diversion.

As I progressed I realised portions of the route were familiar from an audax I’d ridden a couple of years ago, on a cold January day. A short and steep climb near Codwaltham tested the legs that day, when ice gathered at the foot of the slope. It was harder today.

I shortly ran out of maps and my phone ran out of juice too. A long bridleway section slowed my progress. A troupe of MTBers flashed by in the other direction, mostly ignoring my salutations. After a horrible section of straight and fast B road into Storrington I wanted to avoid the A roads as I approached Brighton, but became quite frustrated when a particular Bridleway narrowed to a single-track path up a short, branch-strewn incline. Finally I emerged onto the road to Fulking, and the Downs re-emerged once more in the evening light. The spine of combes and bostals stretching away behind me. One last climb, I thought, as I wrangled my bike up a short incline towards the Devils Dyke road, reveling slightly in the fatigue and my newly bronzed, glistening arms. There was one more climb – first up to the footbridge to cross the A23 to Pyecombe, then continuing up the ancient track to the farm and my campsite. I have a day of more familiar roads tomorrow. I think today will take some beating.“

* The -combe rhymes with boom, apparently, for non-sussex speakers…]

Day 4: Pyecombe to Pett ~70m

What to say about this day? It kind of tainted the rest of the trip and showed how badly prepared I was, how easily my routines could be broken. 

I woke to the gentle patter of rain on the tent; something I’d feared but expected the night before. The tent magnified the sound, and I dawdled for a while, hoping it would stop. I eventually packed. Packed wet and slow. I made my way gingerly down the farm track and up and over Clayton hill, almost enjoying the grisly challenge. It was 9am – everyone had their headlights on. The noise of fast, wet tyres on tarmac was a little overwhelming. I followed the familiar ‘underhill’ lanes towards Lewes. Stupidly I decided to explore the odd hill around the town, went up the High street (twice), and eventually found a tea shop on the outskirts where I stopped for a second breakfast of Mushrooms on toast and tea. I needed to warm up. The rain didn’t stop. “Will you be getting the train?” the waiters asked.

I made my way to the familiar flatlands past Glynde. I was soaked through, although my feet were ok. My hands were freezing. I even put my buff on around this point. I stopped for tea in Arlington, ignoring several “Road closed” signs. I ate my tea and scones while the tea ladies managed to tell everyone and no one at length about the folly of the road closures. It carried on raining.

I’d arranged to meet my parents in Hastings later on, and was making slow progress. I’d planned to ride over Exceat and Birling gap (the highlight of an otherwise fairly boring days riding between the downs and Kent) and was loathe to skip it just to be ‘on time’. I was getting stomach cramps and stopped for a loo break. There was no dryer in the toilets, but when I emerged it had stopped raining. I puffed my way up Exceat, trying to steal views over Cuckmere haven without weaving all over the road. My breath formed dense clouds in front of me as I climbed. (Impatient motorists formed dense queues behind me.) Finally it got a little brighter, and the sun emerged as I descended on Birling gap. I shed some layers and enjoyed the almost deserted climb; less so the descent into Eastbourne, as my brakes seemed to be completely glazed. I chanced upon a bike shop and bought some better ones, to be fitted later.

What followed was an irritating couple of hours where I tried to make good time to Hastings, having misjudged the distance, and the ease of getting there. I started cursing NCN2 and its crap cycle paths and confusing signs. I tried to recharge my phone in Bexhill and found a puddle in the bottom of my pannier from the 4 hours of rain earlier. I followed a ridiculous section of bike-path-cum-drain-cover through Hastings, by this point late, frustrated, incoherent, and still damp, and eventually met my parents. I was fed tea and cake in a pleasant little café in the Old Town. The grind out of Hastings was long, tough, and a bit grim but by that point I didn’t really care. The sun came out again as I burrowed down the lanes behind Hastings to my campsite, going down hill at about 5mph as my rear brake was completely shot.

In my notes I seem to have had serious doubts at this point about whether a touring trip around the South East was a good idea or not.

(No pictures from this day as everything went a bit tits up and I’d run out of batteries for pretty much everything – phone, camera, phone charger device etc.)

Days 1 and 2: Surrey and Hampshire

Day 1: Nunhead to Alfold ~ 58m 

Two days before I departed, I’d been stuck in a freak hailstorm cowering underneath a stranger’s porch with 6 or 7 miserable and wet children. It didn’t look good for the week ahead.

Thankfully the weather brightened, and after sloppily gathering together everything and stuffing it (badly) into one pannier, I managed to head out at about 10:30. As I withdrew some cash a friendly stranger asked about my trip and we exchanged cycling tales; he recommended I leave the country as soon as I could and head for Belgium and Holland, but wished me well nonetheless. I slowly made my way up College road in the sunshine, and along the familiar and rather dull journey out of London through Elmers End.

From the top of Tandridge

Chugging along on my heavy bike it felt a little lonely. Surrey was quiet and bright and the roads were smooth and gently undulating, constantly flanked by Oak and Beech trees and high farm hedges. Occasionally the boughs would give way to a vista of the famous Surrey hills, which I’d purposefully flanked all day. Quite by chance, much of my route took in the Surrey cycleway, as I saw signs for it all day.

I arrived quite late at my campsite, and couldn’t find any local shops that were open. I settled for some eggs from a roadside house in Alfold and made myself a simple omelette that I ate in the fading sunlight, followed by tea from my little kettle – a supper ritual that I followed most evenings.  It was a pleasant place to pitch: a small site of friendly caravaners next to an orchard of fruit trees, where chickens and sheep were left to graze. Ducks waddled through the grass nearby, and I could hear a Cuckoo in the nearby woods.

Day 2: Alfold to Abbotstone ~ 48m  

A relatively short day. I struggled to find campsites in Hampshire, and on top of that I’d planned a longer ride the day after. The night was cold, but the sun was shining from the early morning and soon after leaving the campsite I was peeling off layers, heading out straight into the Surrey lanes where I’d left off the evening before. I took a small diversion down an unmarked lane and descended through quiet woodland casting dappled shade on the smooth tarmac – refreshing after the potholed lanes of Kent. I emerged into Chiddingfold where the peal of church bells announced the morning service.

After some tricky navigating through Haslemere, I wound up in some more bucolic lanes and slowly made my way up a gentle climb towards Selborne. where I paused for lunch. I had to find some shade because it was rather hot. As I made my way out of Selborne, more rapeseed fields clung pressed in on the roads, and what followed was a glorious couple of miles through quiet farmland and a reasonably long climb up towards Four Marks. The climbing is slow, but all the more rewarding for it. I saw a bird of prey at this point but couldn’t recognise it – I suspect it was a Red Kite. I stopped briefly to figure out the way to my field for the night but otherwise ploughed on into what was flatter farmland outside of Winchester, followed by a fantastic cooling descent towards New Alresford. I dropped off my stuff, and as it was still early headed into town to pick up some supplies – bread, local cheese, a hearty pasta meal as well as a bottle of Old Dick (snigger). I scoffed the cheese and some biscuits under a tree in the woods surrounding the campsite, and quaffed my beer while planning the next day’s route. 

So far the solo riding hasn’t bothered me – a couple of brief conversations with other campers is enough to remind them and myself that I’m not a complete nutter. ‘Normal’ people in non-cycling attire come up to me quite often during the course of the day and wish me luck. That seems enough…

(In my little journal I have a rather long paragraph whinging about the campsite. *snip*)

Touring: A little corner of England

I’ve been quiet for a couple of weeks, partly due to laziness, a busy work period, and most importantly, rushing around making last-minute preparations for a week-long tour around the south east, from which I have just returned.

The set-up. Ugly but functional.

As touring destinations go, the south east of England does not seem remotely adventurous or glamorous. I had my reasons though. Being new to touring, I wanted to ease myself in to things in an environment I’m familiar with, with possible bailout options if I proved disastrously incompetent. A part of me also feels that the area I passed through is generally under-appreciated or taken for granted as a holiday/touring destination, with it being so populous and relatively affluent. I’ve lived in the South East for a fair chunk of my life but have never really explored it meaningfully. This week long trip would give me a chance to do that. I will also have to confess that I was partly inspired by the writing of Edward Thomas and Robert MacFarlane, who’ve both written elegiacally about the South Downs.

I cobbled together an approximate route to gauge distances, and in the end it looked roughly as I’d planned.

My plan was fairly simple: around 60 miles a day, stopping for photos, eating lots and hopefully enjoying a beer in the sunshine at the end of the day at a relaxing campsite.  All told it was about 450 miles in 8 days, easily my longest stint on the bike. I had good weather and bad weather. Strangely enough my legs feel fine. I’ll probably write a little about each leg of the trip in some forthcoming posts – hopefully with pictures – like so:

Days 1 and 2: Surrey and Hampshire

Days 3 and 4: Along the South Downs

Days 5 and 6: The Kent Coast

Days 7 and 8: Swale and homeward

I’ll try to keep whinging to a minimum. In short, it was a very good trip. I’ll keep some general thoughts for another time. But I’m really glad I did it.