Wednesday Chain Gang – Dad’s Army Go Barmy with the Ultras

 It was not what I planned, even at the point of starting the ride. The ‘ultras’ were to go off first; I would go with the others. I counted them as they set off – 4, 5, 6, 8, 10, 12, er, hang on, oh, ok, we’re all going are we? Righto, I guess that works, sort of.

I found myself toward the back of the straggly bunch, and then at the front of it, and then between them and the ultras. I felt that I could speed up and catch the back of the ultras, so I did, all the time wondering if this was a wise thing to do. I mean, I’ve done this before and I usually get spat off the back at the first rise in the road, or when they all move up a gear, so why waste effort so early into the ride? But I went with the flow.

'Little And Large', Good To See Both Joe And Dave HH Back On The Chain 

The lights at the De La Warr were red, so I was firmly in the bunch when we restarted, sweeping at speed around the edge of the roundabout, then along the crowded curve by the Metropole Lawns (this is the name of a hotel once stood here). I was doing ok, keeping pace, effort levels manageable and enjoying the buzz of rumbling with the big-boys. There was a slight wind from the south west, but nothing much. We were riding at a good even pace without yet rotating the front.

And then the first test loomed – the mountainous slope that is South Cliff. ‘Don’t panic, don’t panic’ I said to myself, in the manner of Corporal Jones. We cornered two-abreast in neat, controlled lines and then pressed on up the short steepish climb to the ‘summit’. This part of the route is often the scene of some more competitive riding, with stronger riders showing their superior speed, leaving the likes of yours truly feeling like they have legs of lead. There was some untidy bunching, but we moved up in a good group, and I was still in touch as we swooped down the other side to meet Cooden Drive.

 Once around the corner, the pace upped and riders were out of the saddle to accelerate to the speed of the leaders. Some had gone off the front, but were reeled in by the time we reached the corner at the hotel. We were around the bend at a sensible rate before turning left into Herbrand (or Captain Mainwaring Way as the locals call it). A rider cut in from my right, causing me to point out the error of his line and manoeuvre in language familiar to those of us who ride with Peter Buss. ‘Sorry Neil’ was the mild and polite reply from George, who I would not knowingly swear at, as I know he is a gentleman, whereas I am a quick-tempered ruffian. What do you expect with a surname like Smith?

And so onto Herbrand Walk proper, with tyres fizzing over the tarmac and pedals spinning at a faster rate as we left the lee of the beach huts, riding along the edge of the shingle. A scattering of stones littered the gutter, making some of us a bit twitchy, the pebbles we could not avoid being pinged left and right from under high-pressure tyres. At this point the speed went up noticeably and I was soon riding alone, turning towards the marshes with a view of fast-disappearing rear lights and no real prospect of catching back on, unless there were some handy traffic lights to hold the group for me.

 No, there were no lights to help me, so I rode up Spooky and down the other side, aware that the next batch of riders was catching me up. Their lights grew brighter and crazy, spidery shadows thrashed in a deranged fashion as torch beams and bikes overlapped. First past me was Simon G, followed by Duncan (I think). We rotated the front, with another rider holding on at the back, until we reached the last straight when the tagalong came around us and made for home. ‘I say, bad form old bean!’ - or words to that effect - came from Simon G. I decided I’d catch the miscreant, so poorly schooled in the etiquette of group riding, passing him easily enough, pushing him into the hedge, and then buckling his wheels. Only joking.

I rode past the large group already in the layby, taking a spin around the roundabout, on which East Sussex’s finest road maintenance operatives were sprinkling a selection of traffic cones. There were various mysterious markings on the tarmac – numbers and crosses – so I presume they are preparing to create the next traffic jam for folk heading across the marshes, or else a black magic ritual of some sort.

 Soon enough, we turned around and headed back across the marsh, with me again out front, ‘hanging with the fast crew’. The speed increased more quickly than at the start of the outward leg but I hung on, moving up through the group, feeling a lift from the slight breeze (all help gratefully received). Various ultra riders offered encouragement, other looked slightly puzzled to see this interloper in their speedy midst. Yeah, me too! I dunno either! It’s mad!

On we sped into the night, a mass of hard-working flesh, steel and carbon fibre. I knew what was to come – Spooky Hill and my departure from the group – so I prepared myself for a bigger effort. It was tough, but I was still with the group as we hit the down slope, breathing hard but enjoying the thrill of moving at speed in a strong group. I love it, especially when we take corners together at speed, holding our nerve and our line, keeping up the speed and keeping it smooth.

 We took the fast left bend at Normans Bay and stretched on to the Star Inn. We could see a car pull off the front of the pub, shouts echoed down the group and across the dark, damp fields. But not, it seems, into the sealed cabin of the car. It crawled over the bridge and then, we found, stopped half way across the road, slowly turning right and oblivious to near-invisible group of cyclists (not) just behind it. Now because I am a ruffian (see above), the words of admonishment left my mouth before I could stop them. Perhaps I need the same anger management course as Peter B? All I do is waste precious air with all that shouting.

We picked up speed again, rattling through the wet stretch between the Inn and the level crossing, taking the left and right bends swiftly, and avoiding the pot-holed edges awaiting the careless. Up and over the railway line, left alongside the sea defences, and up the slope by the buildings where I was doing my best to take a turn at the front. Barney was out front, spinning with awesome power, a faint whiff of burnt rubber as his tyres struggled to grip the rippling tarmac.

‘****!’  I was struggling, head and body going side to side, bike waggling, but I made it in front of Barney, and then watched as the group again hit its speedy stride, going past me at a rate of knots. Well, it was nice whilst it lasted, but again I was enjoying a solo ride for the remaining few kilometres.

A few hundred metres onto Cooden Drive and a horrible thought struck me. What if I not only fell out of the ultras group, but was also caught by the riders behind me? What if, you know, Simon G was amongst them and again was to beat me to the lights?

A pulse of adrenaline thumped into the pit of my stomach and out through my body. ‘We’re doomed’ shouted the voice of Private Frazer in my ear, ‘doomed I say!’ I turned around to have a good look behind me. Yes, there it was, a bright front light already onto the Drive. Simon G was behind me. It had to be him – bastard!

I was feeling a bit tired by now but I upped my pace, not so high that I would run out of puff, but fast enough (I hoped) to make sure he could not catch me. I took a half-glance back and thought the light was a bit closer. Dammit! Cooden Bump was in sight – I needed to keep it going up here, but struggled toward the top. A time-trial rider I know told me to ‘take it out of them on the down, not the up’ and that suits my style of riding, so I pushed on down the hill toward the crossroad, going through at 25mph – ok, not a stellar speed but enough to maintain the gap.

I like the last stretch of the Drive as it rises slightly and then drops again past the park towards the lights. Another quick look back – yes, the light was still there but, surely, he was too far back to catch me now? Don’t count your chickens, keep your head down, keep going, keep pushing all the way – that Simon bloke, he’ll just appear alongside if I slacken.

I hopped up out of the saddle to gain extra momentum, sitting back down when I had achieved a faster cadence. The ultras were already at the lights, sipping cappuccinos and eating those little almond biscuits, when I clattered into kerb, slamming on the brakes, arriving a happy man. I looked back and saw no Simon. I looked to the side and front as well, just to make sure, but he was nowhere in sight.

‘How absolutely lovely’ purred Sergeant Wilson.

Now, there is some admin to sort out – chain gang classifications. It seems that the various names I have given the different groups of riders have ‘stuck’ – fasts, super-fasts and ‘the rest’ or ‘stragglers’. I think it was last week or the week before that I christened the ever-faster supers as the ultras, which again has caught on. But what now to call the rest of us? Do we all move up a league, as it were, or stay in the ‘Conference’ or whatever they call that now?


The suggestion from the ‘speed classification working group’ is that we move to ‘ultras, supers and moderates’. Fair enough, I’ll try to use those terms – any objections to be posted with the committee by noon on Sunday. But this is just a bit of fun folks. Kindly ignore any other naming conventions offered by Mr P Buss – he is quite deranged.

Ivan has Some Nasty Grazes But It Could Have Been Worse!

Final paragraph is dedicated to Ivan ‘The Hardman’ who crashed at the weekend, but turned up last night riding a mountain bike modelled on a Massey Ferguson tractor. I have to say Ivan that you were not a pretty sight. Your usually finely chiselled features were decorated with some rather sore looking grazes and bruises, collected from an unpleasant encounter with the tarmac. From what we can gather, Ivan’s handlebars broke on the left-hand side. He rode on, right hand on the bars, left hand on the stem and does not remember much after that. Malcolm surmises that the dangling handlebar flicked into the wheel, throwing Ivan off the bike and breaking the carbon forks. Well done getting back on the bike so soon after that one Ivan, I think we are all relieved that you were not more badly hurt.

Good to see George again last night and also Joe Kingsman making an appearance after a winter break.  See you all next week.

Neil S