Wednesday Chain Gang - Full Marks for Style

What wind there was last night was northerly, mostly blowing across the 22 riders that made the dark and slightly damp start of the chain gang. The assembled mass of riders split into two groups, the faster 'ultras' heading out at 19:27 with better punctuality than Southern Rail, but may be that is not saying much. The rest of us followed on shortly after, with a couple of new faces amongst the group, as well as 'old faithfuls' such as Tom N and Simon G. I did not fancy my chances in the faster group last night as I currently have man flu. No, don't worry, I'll be fine, thank you - medical back up is nearby if I need it. Yes, it is amazing I got out at all and managed to balance on a bicycle, but I was determined to make the ride. Yes, a medal would be nice.

In terms of style, the second group rotated the lead and maintained a smooth pace for the entire outward leg. It was one of the best-disciplined chain gang rides I've done - a model of safe and swift progress, with very good communication throughout. This was entirely appropriate in the conditions - light rain made the road greasy rather than wet, and I was struggling to see through my glasses, peering over them for a fog-free forward view. There was discussion at Pevensey about whether it had also been a fast ride, but I guess that will depend on individual riders' previous personal performances. I really appreciated the smooth transitions, with no-one shooting off the front, and predictable riding from everyone. Nine of us stayed together as a group after hacking up Spooky Hill, the point at which many groups can break up, so it really was a well-done ride, especially so given the unusual amount of traffic last night.

The return leg saw the faster riders set off with little pause, and a second group of six riders form in the space behind them for another smooth and efficient rotation across the marshes. We climbed up the western side of Spooky Hill at a good pace, what wind there was slightly on our left shoulders as we swept down the east side towards Normans Bay and the Star Inn. We reached the end of Herbrand Walk in good shape, having passed a friend of Michael Mawwell's on his first chain gang. We stayed together up the slope at the Cooden Hotel, the pace increasing off the top as Cooden Drive opened up before us. At this point, the man flu got the better of my legs, the blood withdrawn to keep my vital organs working. Somehow I kept going as the group pulled away from me, content to keep up a steady solo pace and glide my spaceship - sorry, bicycle - into the growing crowd of riders at the traffic lights.

There was no brief glimpse of the Bake Off in the estate agent's window this week, just some random shot of people and JCBs. Lord Buckland remarked upon the quality of his pheasant this year - apparently, they are more numerous than usual and of a larger size, perhaps because of the warmer than usual start to autumn. With the first shoot on his estate due this weekend, he offered me work as a beater - 'come along and whack a few birds in the bush with your stick' - then roared with laughter, a distinct whiff of brandy suddenly present as he slurped from his Rapha 'water' bottle. What did he mean? Neil Shier saved me from further awkwardness, asking if I was riding back 'across the wastelands' with the Eastbourne Posse.

Presently, a group of six was heading west on Cooden Drive with two new riders holding the front very nicely - sorry I didn't catch your names, but I did appreciate the tow you gave us all the way to Cooden. Lord B peeled orf at this point, his chauffeur ordering a flustered maid to dry him off with a hot towel, and a footman ready to take his bike away for new tyres and a polish. I gazed in wonder and envy - what an honour it is to ride with such a gent, his entire fortune based on plumbing for royalty - amazing! We tugged our forelocks, bowed our heads and turned at the station, perhaps each of us wondering why we too had not taken up 'taps and toilets' as our career. Neil Shier and I talked about the constraints of sitting at a desk, legs losing tone as we sit for too long, pursued by emails and phone calls. We agreed that the chain gang provides a brilliant mid-week tonic to the pressures of work.

Meanwhile, back with the plebs and peasants, we pressed on along Herbrand for the second time that night, the rain spitting gently but steadily into our faces. Neil Shier and the nameless guy from Eastbourne were looking strong as we crossed the railway line onto the marshes. I swear that at this point the rain doubled in amount and the roads were properly wet and with puddles, whereas Herbrand had been just damp. I've written before about how the temperature drops at this point, further evidence that the marshes are the remnants of a long-forgotten magical kingdom, doomed by a grumpy witch to have slightly crapper weather than the surrounding area...

Neil Shier and friend pulled away, so Tom N and I rode on together from Spooky Hill into the now heavy rain shower. Given my serious medical condition I did question the wisdom of doing a second chain gang lap, but there was nothing for it other than to continue spinning the pedals. Tom N and I bid each other farewell at Pevensey and I turned to ride back across the weirdly-wet, dark and mysterious marshes to Bexhill. Unwelcome memories of another night and of a ghostly encounter floated into my mind. I pushed the memory aside, bunched my shoulders over the handlebars and span on, a bubble of flashing red and white light travelling alone and unseen, keen to get off the marshes and home to dry clothes and hot food.

Neil S