How come we were not riding the usual chain gang route, I hear you ask? The weather was cold but it otherwise perfect for the sacred Wednesday ritual – no rain and nearly no wind. So, what calamity would prevent us from taking our weekly pleasure on the marshes? What foul deed would deny us our right to travel Her Majesty’s highways as we see fit, requiring not a license like those who drive cars, and bringing only peace and love in our energy-efficient wake?
Well, Sluice Lane is now closed at night for ‘new barriers’ to be put in place. Apparently, local activists have established the Peoples’ Republic of Normans Bay (PRNB), and are using the pretext of upgrading the level crossings at Herbrand and Normans Bay to seal their borders. The aim is to keep out undesirables, especially those that hail from Hastings and especially those that also ride bikes. Fear not, we have a man on the inside…
And so we made alternative arrangements, as passing through the PRNB passport control is a lengthy and expensive business requiring large amounts of money and goose fat (don’t ask). Instead of the usual route, 23 riders repeated the chain gang ice route, making 5km circuits around Cooden and Little Common in something akin to a criterium, but without the racing. We agreed to ride four loops of the ‘Cooden Crit’ circuit and then Stuart Crabb, club president, would tell us to head for the lights. Simple – what could go wrong?
We set off as one group, but were soon riding in two as the ‘supers’ (hereafter known as the ‘ultras’) found their stride. We poured through the now semi-permanent traffic lights outside the De La Warr (what are they doing there?) like water around rocks in a stream, a slick wave of fluid motion, made of parts but acting as one. Well, that’s what I like to imagine. I did enjoy the look on the face of motorists unsure what to do in the presence of so many stunning physical specimens and Peter B. By the way, Peter is a changed man, recently returned from offender rehabilitation in Barcelona, a man at peace with those he rides with, a calming presence in the peloton much in the manner of a Buddhist monk.Anyway, we rode on, with me mouthing off instructions and directions that amazingly most people seemed to listen to (you see, Peter’s influence is spreading, we CAN change…) and in a loose group of a dozen or so riders. We followed the road around to the junction with Cooden Drive, stopping for traffic, which gave me an opportunity to point out the start and finish of the loop.
Over the junction and we were off! Later, when asked politely what my tactics were at this point, I agreed with the questioner that I was indeed ‘going as fast as possible and then slowing down’. That sums it up. I felt strong last night, coming off the back of some longer rides but also a week of lighter riding. It felt good, no – it felt GREAT to be on my bike – and I wanted to go for it.
For a while, my legs and lungs went along with my ride-rage, pumping furiously up the slope of Birkdale, whizzing down to the turn and pumping again up the hill to ‘Posh Cooden’. I flew down the hill toward the railway line, cutting under the bridge and turning hard at the hotel. I pressed hard again up Cooden slope but by now I was tiring. The beams from a chasing group were illuminating my bike and legs, a crazy flashing disco that grew closer and then caught me on Cooden Drive.
Simon G asked the question about my tactics as he drew alongside, and also made a dry comment about ‘having broken up the field nicely’. Ahem. Well, I decided I would not admonish anyone for loose group riding, at least not last night. So, after another slightly manic lap, I rode in a fairly well behaved way with an often-changing group of riders featuring Simon, John S, Steve D and some others whose names I cannot recall. Eddie Bell did the last lap with us, I think, and we also caught Tom Norris late on. Duncan rode with us, he whose legs turn at half the rate of mine as they push a huge gear. He might also have stretched the patience of the group we were both advised to ease off at the front or be let go. Fair enough.
I rode more considerately on the last two laps, and more slowly as a result. But sometimes it’s good to push yourself, to get more breathless than usual. This I surely did last night and great fun it was too. There are four decent rises on the route to test the rider and maintain interest, and two good downhill stretches. Without a wind, a consistently high pace is achievable, with last night’s swiftest lap put down by Ruth S riding with the ‘ultras’, and the most excellent Stuart H just one second behind. Goes to show that however fast you go with the wind on a circuit, you will never make up the time you lose riding into the wind. Try it.
Strangely, as was evident last time we rode the circuit, there were at times riders seemingly going in all directions, but who then were not the next time I saw them. What was going on, why this deviant behaviour? The circuits are anti-clockwise – going the other way is wrong (but I might try it next time I am out). To be serious, riding it clockwise does mean making right-turns across the traffic, so it comes with a bit more risk. Sorry, once you’ve had health and safety training you is ruined for life!
I’ve been trying to put off writing the next bit (jealousy, bitterness, hatred), but at this point I feel I must mention Stewart B’s new bike. I’ll admit, I was shocked when I first saw it – “was he seriously going to tackle a chain gang riding that?’ – but fair play, he proved me wrong. Stewart has invested a lot of time and some money into restoring an original 1970’s Raleigh Grifter (Mk1). The stunning successor to the Raleigh Chopper, it sports such innovations as twist-grip gears, BMX styling and handlebar foam. The bike was an instant hit, proving itself the ‘winning ride’ in such races as the Giro de France, the Tour de Milk and the Bexhill Paper Round.Proportionally, the bike suits the smaller rider, so Stewart did struggle somewhat to sit on the bike without it disappearing up his arse. Through a blend of determination and advanced sphincter control, he was able to apply his powerful thigh muscles and propel the ‘Griff’ at impressive speeds. The knobbly tyres were particular suited to the cratered Westcourt Road section, limiting outright speed on the longer, smoother sections. But then he likes it rough. Stewart and his fancy new steed are inseparable, and they plan a few days away together soon, the better to know each other. Ok Stewart, you win, you’ve out-blinged me good and proper this time chum!
El Presidente was nowhere to be seen and even the most fervent chain-ganger was ready to make for home after five laps. The group was whittled to five or so riders at this point. John S made an early breakaway – too early – and Simon G and I reeled him in near Collington Station, pulling around him for the final stretch. I fancied myself on this one and made for the front with a semi-impressive spurt of speed.
It was going well, I could not hear the squeaky progress of Mr G coming any nearer. Aha, this one would be mine! But no, the squeaks came closer. Damn – I pressed harder on the pedals and put my head down. Fair play to Simon, he just about managed to crawl past me, perhaps making the lights a millimetre in front of me. I’m not one to split hairs; I let him take the honours again.
The ultras had all gone home, weary after four laps of high-octane riding. So, without too much shilly-shallying Peter, Kevin, Stewart and I headed toward Cooden and the PRNB checkpoint. Stewart did me the honour of cruising alongside me on the ‘Griff’, the orange streetlights throwing lucozade-light onto the metallic blue paint, setting off a dazzling display of sparkles. Peter B has a blue sequined top that has a similar effect, underneath the mirror-ball at Eastbourne’s Saturday night ‘Grab a Granny’ ballroom dance.
The ‘Griff’ rolled on making the unique sound that comes from cross-country tyres running on a deep section chrome rim. I rode open-mouthed, in awe at what I was seeing: a near-magical union between man and machine, at one with each other, connected in ways that only a plumber can achieve. Great pipework Stewart.
We waved off Kevin ‘knackered knees’ Hills and Stewart. Peter admitted he was nervous and asked me to ride with him to the border crossing with PRNB. I wasn’t sure, as I was worried I would blow the cover of our ‘man on the inside’ and we would lose a vital source of intelligence. But I recognised that he’s the one taking the bigger risk so I plumped up my courage and rode along Herbrand with him.
An eerie quiet fell as we neared the crossing. The road falls slightly after the section of road without beach huts, and then turns to the right, as you all know well. A dog bark broke the silence, in a way that said ‘come any closer and you’re dinner’. My mouth went dry, the bike wobbled and I was suddenly less sure about this.“You go on Peter, they know you”, I stammered.
“Oh thanks, you’re a mate!” he snarled, his recent rehabilitation falling away like dodgy plaster thrown on a dusty wall.
Just then, there were shouts from the guards – local militia by the look of them. I waved. Why did I do that? They shouted something in a guttural tongue that I didn’t recognise immediately, but then realised I had heard hints of in Peter’s more strongly worded outbursts. It all made sense – he was with his own and I was somewhere I didn’t belong. Time to go.
“Good night Peter, great riding tonight, hope they let you out again soon. When will it be like the old days?”
“Maybe soon, maybe never, maybe next Monday”.
Oh, should be alright for next week then…
Regards, Neil
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