Friday Night Chain Gang

It was with trepidation that I set off for my first Friday night chain gang, ascending Old London Rd and up Fairlight to join the chain. The wind buffeting my ears, the trees' feet still coated in snow, dancing and bending double, squally sheets of rain lashing my reddening face. Perfect English cycling weather.

The swashbuckling, hardened road men I've heard tale of, ready to endure pain and suffering for glory and grace on two wheels, amongst whom I aspire to take a place, would soon be emerging from the darkness. As I rounded the corner and approached my arrivée en altitude, the inky curtain slowly drew to reveal but a single link. Steve Butcher, waiting cold and alone by a weather beaten A-board. Half past the hour came and went, and no further lights appeared, so a chain of two set off into the night.

We took it steady down battery hill, gusting winds manhandling us from side to side. Then, as we turned onto Pett Level it were as if Aeolus himself (Greek god of wind) was rewarding two intrepid spirits and honoured us with a tremendous tail-wind. Light of sock we were riding on air and arrived in Winchelsea in record time (see Strava). I remarked to Steve 'We're going to pay for that. You can't have that much joy on a bike and not pay for it.' And pay for it we would.

Young Coppi-He Would Approve

Avoiding the sea road in favour for staying a little inland, as we turned the corner at Rye and headed for Udimore Hill it seemed that we'd outstayed our welcome in the lap of the gods, as his full fury was unleashed. Sharing the lead, cutting a single lonely echelon against what was now a vicious side wind, Steve peeled off home at Brede. Thanking each other for the ride, our small but defiant chain was broken and alone into the night I headed for home.

With my front light flickering and sporadically plunging me into complete darkness as I rattled the odd pothole, this wasn't what I'd expected of my first Friday night chain-gang. I thought of everyone safely tucked up at home, gently steaming cups of tea in hand, machines nestled warmly in their sheds and garages. I also thought of young Fausto Coppi speaking of stalactites of ice building up on his handlebars as he crossed the mountains in winter on his way to work at the butchers shop, and upon reaching a snow-lined Stonestile lane, both sheltering and punishing, I can honestly say I enjoyed every turn of the pedals. Perfect English cycling weather.

Trevor Deeble