Just fewer than 30 riders thought it a splendid evening for a chain gang and so it proved, with warm airs in the town and no wind to speak of. Eleven ‘ultras’ made off first with me again chancing my arm with the big boys (and girls). I’m nursing a chest infection at the moment, so I was not sure how well I would ride (yep, getting my excuses in early). To start with we made comfortable progress to the edge of town, the pace increasing gradually as we got nearer to Herbrand Walk.
There were no stones to contend with this week and we rode as a tight group to the turn for the level crossing, without being filmed either (so that’s what I look like on a bike!). So far so good – I had just one or two coughing fits, having told the supremely smooth Stuart Hodd that the only time I hadn’t been coughing was when riding the bike. Nearly true – definitely coughed less, but there was more wheezing. My legs lacked the snap and fizz of recent weeks; not a good omen.
On we sped, hacking around the twists and turns of the road that lead to the Star Inn, calling the traffic and squeezing up to make space. Once over the bridge, we rode on to Normans Bay (People’s Republic of…) and then, still in a group, pressed on up Spooky Hill. Last week, this was the scene of some triumph for me, as I shot up it in 1m 15secs, sharing the KoM with some illustrious riders. But this week I was 18 seconds and 20% slower, going up in 1m 33secs. Ugh! Not enough in the legs. More annoying though was seeing the group pull away, gapping me by 10secs or so before hitting the down slope by Rock Cottage. I could not make up the pace and I rode the rest of the outward leg alone, losing more time without the benefit of the group to break the wind.
I got dropped on Spooky Hill again on the way back, but fell into a group (the ‘Sub-Ultras’) with Tom Norris, Nick and the gentleman who rides a lovely powder-blue steel bike, with shifters on the down tube. We rode a pretty neat and tidy chain on the return leg, rotating the lead fairly consistently. We didn’t quite get the front right, with the pace varying too much which tired us, but we stuck together to very nearly the end. Tom put on a spurt as the lights came near, but by luck I was tucked in behind him again and found the legs to pull around him and edge ahead to the finish. Always a gent, we shook hands after honourable combat.
Stuart was pleased to report a strong ride from the PB team, with three of them pulling strongly to the end. I think they are coming into a spell of good form - have a look at the KoMs that the awesomely powerful Barney and Stuart piled up last night on the way to the chain. The rest of the ultras are working well too, hopefully improving their performance week on week and providing the competition for each other that will drive still better performance over the summer.
Elsewhere, Peter B reported a good group ride with Simon G and others, saying that he ‘spanked them good and proper’, but that I shouldn’t mention it in the blog. Ok, I won’t, but I will mention that he recorded the ride, using Strava, as a run, breaking the course record and making himself no1 runner out of 381 rivals. I think that one will stand for a while Peter – congratulations!
Stewart B was on his Grifter again, mashing his pedals like mad and damaging the tarmac with his ‘hi-grip’ tyres. He tells me that he carries a range of plumbing tools with him, in case he gets an emergency call whilst out on the bike. He was also sporting his ‘go-faster’ tattoos last night – images of speeding Tour de France riders cascade down his arms and up his legs, disappearing under his cycling gear and then reappearing at his neck. He did most on them himself during a stretch at Pentonville, but he didn’t want me to mention that, so I won’t. What’s past is past Stewart – we knew you couldn’t pay for that roller purely from your plumbing and piping profits. We don’t judge, we just ride (man).
I enjoyed a great ride back to Normans Bay, chatting briefly to Ruth and hearing about her leg wounds (nasty – get well soon). She sped off in pursuit of Tom and others who were still feeling competitive, so I fell into an easy pace with Peter B. Bats whirled around us in the lanes and cars, blinded by Peter’s mega-bright lights, veered towards the hedges and ditches. Turn them down Peter!
It was such a pleasant night that I decided to ride on after dropping Peter at the border with PRNB, heading off to repeat the chain route to the Pevensey roundabout and then back into Bexhill. The riding was easy enough and I pushed myself a bit but not too hard, concentrating more on spinning the pedals in circles, rather than thumping them hard on each down stroke. I turned at the roundabout and swept back onto the lanes, consciously relaxing my upper body and keeping my breathing even and deep. Then coughing madly.
The sun was setting and the first dark of early night inched over the land, its shadowy fingers feeling their way through the hedges and rushes, hushing birds and quieting insects until the sun again touches and wakes them. The suddenly-silent marshes quickly became cold and I was pleased that I had put on my arm warmers. I increased my pace a little, not wanting to get chilled, but the ride continued pleasantly as I reached the area by the nature reserve. Half a kilometre or so from the west slope of Spooky Hill it became colder still – unusually – so I hunched my shoulders, lowered myself toward the bars and upped the pace further.
And then, the strangest feeling, of someone close behind me, almost touching my back - a feeling of a hand stretching towards me. Was someone..?
‘Hello.’
A girl’s voice, clear and even, light and cheerful. I jumped out of my skin. Where the hell? Then nothing – no sound or sight of anyone. Jesus! Then a car was alongside me, a girl of 18 or so in the passenger seat, pretty, dark-haired. Fear crept up my back like a large red spider, tickling and scratching.
‘Hello’ she said, smiling, looking in my direction, but somehow not at me. I wobbled and half smiled, confused, perturbed.
She laughed and the car sped forward: noisy, smoky, too fast. Where on earth did it come from? Before I could think or respond the car was gone. Had it turned its lights off and parked? It wasn’t fully dark so I should be able to see it. If this was a game, I was not enjoying it at all. It did not feel right and I was afraid.
What to do other than keep pedalling home, to make contact again with the reassuring signals of normality – street lights, houses, cars and people walking their dogs? Pedal on Neil, hopefully that’s the last you’ll see of them; pedal home to wife, children and a hot meal.
I rode on briefly, my breathing returning to normal and my legs shaking less as I went on. Some way ahead, a car’s lights came towards me. It pleased me to think that ‘normal’ was back and I smiled with relief. Instinctively, I pulled slightly left to make more room on the road. The car came on towards me and suddenly that feeling – of someone being too close, too cold, with uncertain intent – came back to me.
The car started to weave left and right, from one side of the road to the other, in a sickening swinging motion. I heard laughter, high and mocking. I looked for somewhere to pull over, to get off the road, but the car was coming at me quicker than I could think – my mind was in a chilly fog, unable to react, hypnotised by the car’s left and right movement. ‘Hold still’ a soft voice said and I fell under its spell – numb, scared, my life about to be smashed on the bonnet of a hatchback. At the last moment, I closed my eyes and waited for oblivion, wife and children flashing into my mind’s eye.
‘BANG’ – a sickening high-energy thump sent a shockwave through the air and knocked the wind out of me. Gasping, choking, I thought ‘this is it, this is how it ends’, but I felt no pain. Shock forced my eyes open again and in front of me, no more than five metres away, was the car, stock-still, silent. It looked as if it had hit a tree head-on, but there was nothing ahead of it but me. The front was completely caved in, the windscreen smashed and the engine shoved back into the cabin.
My breath returned and I staggered backwards, unable to take in the scene. Some part of me responded, remembering the training I’ve had as a motorcyclist to deal with crashes. My legs moved me forward as I raised my right hand in front of me.
‘Don’t move, look at my hand’ I shouted, as I walked toward the car, anxious that the occupants didn’t move their heads and make worse any neck or head injuries. ‘Keep looking at my hand, keep still, I’m coming to help, look ahead, look ahead’ I shouted, my voice trembling in fear of what I would find in the car. ‘Keep still, let me help you’ I said as I reached the driver’s side first.
No-one was there, there was no sign of anyone. I looked across to the passenger seat – it was the girl, not moving, her face turned away from me, her body slumped in the seat surrounded by the jumbled contents of the car – a deicer can, sweets, a bloody road map crumpled on her lap.
I ran around the car. Her unconscious head was resting on the passenger window. No choice other than to open the door, carefully, and be ready to catch her if she fell sideways. I put my hand to the door handle, ready to lift it. I felt its weight as I pulled upwards, the spring in the latch resisting my fingers.
Just as the handle reached the point of release, she looked up, smiling, but looking in my direction rather than at me, as if focused on something or someone distant. And then her eyes glazed over, her skin turning to fragile white china, her hair falling dull and lifeless around her face; lips blue, blood drying black and everything wrapped in an icy, bone-chilling cold. I gasped in shock, pulling up sharply on the handle, but then pulling up through thin air as the door, the car, the girl – all of it – ‘ceased to be’. I fell on my backside, unsure which way I was facing, how long I had been there or where my bike was.
There was nothing to show anywhere - no broken glass, spilled coolant, shredded tyres or stinking petrol - to mark the spot where moments before I had thought I was going to be hit head on by a car. I span round, realising I had my phone in my hand, clearly intending at some point to call 999, clearly having not done so, and good thing too.
I can’t say it disappeared because I’m not sure it was ever there. But scrabbling back onto my bike, trying to clear my mind and work out the basics like ‘which way is home’, I came to the realisation that I had been in a loop of time, stumbled into once and perhaps never again, by me or anyone else. I’d cycled through a hidden door and seen something that perhaps had happened once, 10 years ago, maybe there, maybe somewhere else – a jumble of memories and images burned into time by tragic death and loss.
Getting home quickly was my priority, getting away from the marshes. I was exhausted, as if I had been cycling for hours with no food or drink, but I cycled as fast as I could, eager to get to Herbrand Walk. On the east slope of Spooky Hill (ha!) a fox cried out from the marshy field to the right, making my heart thump and my throat gag with fear. ‘Calm down mate’ I said out loud, stooping low over the bars to gain as much speed as possible. Every moment dragged as I rode on, legs turning through syrup, wondering if I would make the beach without expiring or crashing for real. Still the cold bit into me, tightening my lungs and making my stomach ache bitterly.
The level crossing came into view across the curves of the road. My heart leapt with relief and then fear as the lights began to flash red and the barriers dropped. Damn, let me out of here! I slowed down, determined not to stop. If I could time it right, I could keep rolling, as if this in some way made me safer from unknown dangers. Where was that train? Ah, there! Coming from Cooden Beach station, just two coaches. Steady does it… The barriers lifted in front of me and I was able to roll over the rails.
As I did so I felt I left behind another realm hidden behind an invisible curtain. No word of a lie, the temperature instantly rose, maybe by as much as 10 degrees, like stepping from a cold garage into a warm living room. The starkest change I have ever felt in all my rides back and forth over the marsh. With the cold I also left that feeling of foreboding that weighed heavy on my shoulders, its last icy grip making me want to weep with a sense of loss and timeless sleep. Just keep pedalling…
More signs of our usual world came into view as I rode hard along the top of the beach. Warm orange street lights, houses lit by lights and flickering television screens, a car pulling out of the Cooden Hotel car park. Nearly home, I felt relief and a strange kind of peace come over me, as if I had been shown something fearful but which I did not need to fear. It was not my story, but someone else’s, long gone, remembered by only a few people unknown to me. Not the future either, although my four daughters were very much in my mind. A word to them about being driven around by daft lads, I think.
Having pulled down the garage door and parked the bike, I sat alone and quiet for a moment. How close we are to other times – the scattered polaroid’s of the past - but how very unaware we are, as we rush and bustle about, of what has happened in a place and how much has happened over hundreds and thousands of years. Sussex has deep history and you breath it in every time you ride its lanes and hills, you taste it as you stare out to sea from its beaches and your dreams are coloured by the brushstrokes of past lives. Go gently.
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