Pre-BBR to beachy Head and BBR to Rushlake Green - Siberian Sussex Safari

The 'Cannonball' in all its alloy alure

No doubt you've heard weather forecasters and others spouting the old saying that 'when the wind is out of the east, tis neither good for man or beast'. Yesterday partly proved the adage true as the east wind was strong and cold; great for the run to Beachy Head, not so good for the return leg to Bexhill.

I tried not to think about the return leg, but focused instead on reaching the Peoples' Republic of Normans Bay on time. I prepared the night before: tyres inflated, chain oiled, 'racing' wheels in place, brakes checked, water bottles filled and (the final, vital flourish) a wipe over with a damp rag (Oooh Matron)! I set the alarm for 06:20, had a cooked breakfast and made tea. Fully kitted up, I rolled off the drive in good time to make the crossing before anyone else - I would wait for THEM this time. The following wind was marvellous, making for effortless riding and good speed. I passed Stuart Hodd coming toward me, head into the 'brutal easterly'. He still averaged nearly 30kph.

Waiting for me were Duncan and Ricky 'new boy' McCain. How did they do that? Moreover, why? It was perishing cold, just 1 degree above freezing, the wind whipping across the fields and burning exposed flesh. Mal C turned up and welcomed Rick to the club with a few ribald comments about blouses and assorted filth, but Rick seemed to take this in his stride. Good man Rick.

Friends united against a cold wind

Even though others have waited generously for me on past Saturdays, I was not keen to wait any longer; it was just too cold. Duncan was circling to keep warm and so we rolled off at 07:46. That's a whole minute of delay! Off we flew and I briefed Rick on the signals we use when riding as a group. Mal C told him that I used too many signals and too often, whereas he provides bugger all. I admit that I also like to out things of interest along the way, after all 'what is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?' Well, we don't have time to stand, but you can see plenty from a bike and that for me is one of the huge pleasures of riding, especially in beautiful Sussex. Do the locals know how good they've got it here?

We made good wind-assisted progress, with Rick hanging a little off the back. Perhaps he was a little unlucky to be with this strong pre-BBR crew, but he is clearly a fit rider who will get faster as he comes on more rides with the club - chapeau Rick! We hung together well, for the most part, starting our ascent of Beachy with a nice helping-hand from the Russian steppes. The sun came out and lit patches of the sea with pale gold light. It was a beautiful morning and I could imagine riding the route in warmer weather before too long.

The cannonball was trucking along nicely, flattening all in its path and mashing small animals between the rear wheel and the seat tube. When I ride with the 'tractor wheels' on, it rips stones out of the tarmac, a bit like a rally car on a forest track. Pedestrians turn to see what is coming as the tyres thrum on the road, small children cower behind their mother's' skirts, old ladies scream. To reassure them, I snarl and howl like a wolf (some of this paragraph might be made up).

Having negotiated the cross-wind on the Beachy top road, we assembled for the obligatory photos and got rolling Bexhill-ward as soon as we could. OMG... Not only was the wind cold, it was very strong, yanking our wheels to the left as if with invisible hands. It was blowing uncomfortably up my right nostril, chilling my sinuses and making my eyes water. Head down, plough on, make the T-junction and head down the zig-zags, with some shelter from the trees. But I was nervous - the road looked like it had frost on it, or was it salt? I didn't want to find out the hard way, so I eased off a little on the corners. Rounding the final turn at St Bedes Prep School, I was hit by the full force of the wind. I would normally tank down this stretch (literally, on the cannonball) at 50 kph, but averaged just 34 kph to the Grand Hotel.

Duncan's wind cheater was little help against the cold

We had picked up Tom N on the descent, making a group of five now as he rode his recently-restored Bianchi Bomber (a rare model exported only to South America). He had finally tracked down the 'main-thrust-bolt-thingy' that holds the frame together, asking the factory in Treviglio, Italy to search its dusty corners for the vital part. The bike did sound smooth and Tom seems pleased with the work done at Phoenix Cycles. In contrast, Mal C's bike sounded distinctly ratty, with all sorts of creaks and clicks. We had thought that it was Mal's marvellous mechanical knees, perhaps needing a spot of oil, but no - his doughty Boardman needs some TLC.

On we slogged into the grim wind, the ride increasingly becoming a feat of bloody-minded endurance. We were grateful for any respite that tall buildings, clumps of trees or passing vans could provide. The grind from Eastbourne to Pevensey was particularly unpleasant and the cold was finding its way into my gloves and overshoes. Still, only another 12 km to go... Head down, plough on - just think of the training effect. Or just think about a warm cafe, hot coffee and tasty cake, or wonder why I left a warm bed so early.

Malc and Duncan welcome newbie Ricky to the Pre BBR

Rick dropped off the back of our small group somewhere on the marshes. We weren't paying proper attention, so absorbed were we with our personal and collective battle with the wind. Tom and I pulled ahead from the others, watching the choppy sea on Herbrand Walk, making the calm lee of the flats at Cooden to wait for the others. No Rick in sight, so I sent the others on and went back, thankfully finding him a couple of hundred metres up the road. His left leg was knackered - seems he had also ridden the Friday Night Special with Steve C and others, before we had dragged him up Beachy just 12 hours later. I suggested he ride only with his right leg, but this didn't seem to help. We limped on to the traffic lights in town and I waved him off, now rather anxious that I wouldn't have time for coffee and sustenance, and also desperate for a wee.

Another good sized crowd of riders was assembling at Di Paulos and I think we had 18 or so ready to try their luck on the Rushlake Green variation. Service is always quick and good at Di Paulos, so I was soon at a table with double-shot americano and chocolate-dipped flapjack, as they had run out of fruit salad and rice cakes. What is a hungry man to do?

Riders new and old set off for the ride to Rushlake Green. Alec joined us for the first and proved a fit rider. Terry rides more strongly with each session, improving his pace and increasing his stamina as he gets back to full fitness. He and I swapped the lead with Tom and young Finlay as we rode up Peartree Lane and through Whydown - I probably had the best of it on the descents, whereas the others are stronger on the hills.

We reached the Hooe turn at which we reassemble as a group, pulling up in a long line. There is a side road just off the turn and, as Sod's Law would have it, every car from miles around chose that moment to turn down the lane, right through the middle of the group. Perhaps we should meet opposite, in the entrance to the closed fruit farm. One chap in particular drove up with trailer. He looked for all the world like Father Jack and about as happy. He nudged his car into the group, scowling, curled lip, manic eyes. We moved out of the way as quick as we could, but he really was not happy - he wouldn't make eye contact, smile, wave in acknowledgement or in anyway acknowledge our existence. That does get my goat.

Consciously or otherwise, Duncan chose this moment to lie down in the road, perhaps forgetting he was still clipped in. I prefer to think of it as a protest against charmless motorists. The driver's expression intensified - if looks could kill, or could be made into laser beams, his was a lethal stare. Duncan untangled himself from his bike and moved out of the way; again, not a flicker of recognition from the driver. I can only assume that he was having a particularly bad day, but I suspect that people like him tend to have a particularly bad and miserable life, because that's how the see things.

The descent from Ninfield to the Ashburnham Road turn was fantastic, with help from the wind and the mass of the bike pushing me along, averaging nearly 52kph on this section. Tom caught me on Boreham Hill, my long sprint not giving me enough of a lead to lose him. We were, he tells me, in a race, but this was news to me. Had I beat him up the hill, then of course I too would have been in a race, but I didn't so I wasn't. Frankly, it's childish to race everywhere and it's beneath me (I'll get you when you're not looking, Norris...).

Traffic seemed heavier than usual yesterday as we chopped our way towards Herstmonceux and the turn for Tilley Lane. This stretch can be a bit rough and wet, with stones and leaf mulch across the road, but the main obstacle was horses, horse trucks and trailers, horse riders and more horses. We rode with care and came up behind a young woman on a frisky grey mare. This horse was clearly unnerved by our appearance, the horse rearing, snorting and stamping, unhappy with the arrival of nearly 20 huffing, puffing lycra-types. I feared for the rider - she had no back protector on and horse-riders are common visitors to spinal injury units - but she calmed the horse and rode to one side. We inched past carefully and made our way up the sharp, steep and mucky incline in the woods here. At the top, more horses awaited us, so carefully we rode on, meeting a mess of range-rovers, trailers, horses and walkers on the stretch to Bodle Street Green.

And a herd of deer; five fallow deer I think, trapped in amongst all this traffic on the narrow lane, panicking and leaping into the hedges, getting tangled in the fences, leaping out again, panicking some more. Quite exhausting to watch, but also alarming. I didn't fancy getting hit by one, for sure. We edged forward with care until the last doe had found her way into the fields, before negotiating the next hurdle of a road more pothole than actual riding surface. Whatever next?

Not a lot really. The road winds on north westwards from Bodle Street Green to Rushlake Green, where we pause again to regroup, before heading south through Cowbeech to the turn for Herstmonceux. The main road then carries us back to Wartling Road and a trek across the marshes. The group stopped at Starbucks for refreshments, whilst Tom and I rode on to Eastbourne - he to have a cuppa and me to attend a family lunch. Not sure what the patrons of the Rodmill thought of me taking most of my lycra off in the car park, but who cares? I would happily have sat there in my Castelli top, but daughter no4 forbade me - oh, the shame of having a cycling parent!

Pleasant as the family interlude was, I now had to slog home again from Eastbourne into that damn wind, this time carrying a vegetable burrito and a large piece of cake in my stomach. 25 km later and I was back in time for a shower before the rugby - a perfect Saturday!

Safe riding, Neil