'Wednesday Chain Gang - Warmer, Wetter, Slower'

It had to happen. The last two chain gangs have dodged heavy morning downpours, with enough wind and sun in the afternoon to dry the roads, but last night we were not so lucky. So, not surprisingly, numbers were down on previous weeks, with just 11 riders making the start.

"It's the hard-core tonight" said Stuart, and he was right, although I suspect that as autumn becomes winter there will be rides that are rather more hard-core than last night. It was warm enough for the wet not to bother me and the rain could have been heavier. Gathered in and around the shelter, we didn't look or sound that enthusiastic, truth be told, but we rolled out as one group at 19:27 in reasonable spirits - it is always better to be moving than standing in the rain (discuss). As is now traditional for chain gang rides, there are again roadworks and traffic lights at the De La Warr. Goodness knows what they are doing now or how long they will be at it.

On we rolled with Barney and Stuart up-front, with me and Lord B making the second row; he wanted me to hold his champagne glass as we rode but I told him I wasn't his bloody valet. He looked a little shocked but he soon recovered his composure. We rolled in a tight formation all the way to South Cliff, but still did not get the 'twirly finger' signal from the front two that tells us it is time to rotate the front. "Shall we rotate Stuart?" I asked, shouting through a curtain of rain and wind. "No" was his reply. I'm not sure where we did start (perhaps on Herbrand Walk), where the wind and rain were at their worst. We seemed to be holding together well as a group, although in those conditions I was not looking behind me.

The absence of mudguards on all but one bike meant we were all liberally splattered with water and grit as we splashed through plenty of standing water on the marsh lanes. The pace seemed reasonable as we cycled past the Star Inn and Normans Bay, and I found myself at the front of the group as we hit the foot of Spooky Hill. Let's face it, it's not much of a hill, is it? It's a reasonably sharp but short rise but, as usual, it did for me. I went backwards as the group went forwards, and within a minute I was cycling alone to the Pevensey roundabout. At least I am consistently crap at getting quickly up that hill.

At the layby, we were magically a group of 15, as late riders joined us, including Tom N and John V. Having listened to Michael M thoroughly disrespect his elders, 'heaviers' and 'slowers', we set off as one group again. All was good until Spooky, when again I went into reverse as everyone else found their turbo boost button. Bastards. Another solo ride back to the traffic lights... At least I now had the wind with me and I whipped along at a merry speed. The solo-slogs are so much harder into a cold easterly, so I am grateful for that small mercy.

On I span through Cooden and along the Drive, arriving at the lights and to a sarcy comment from Tom N, something along the lines of 'where have you been Grandad?'. "I'm not responding to that" was my sniffy, grumpy reply. Peter B and Steve 'gadget' Ferguson arrived presently, the latter bedecked with a dazzling array of lights, cameras and other equipment. I was gazing in puzzlement, trying to assess both the weight and drag coefficient, when Peter piped up with 'two secs'. Before I could reply, he said it again. "Yes Peter, fine" I replied, but he said it a third time - 'two secs'. How annoying is that? I think he caught my irritated look, because he said it a fourth time. At this point, I threatened violence, perhaps even murder, should he say it again. 'Two secs'... Steve  Gadget stepped between us to prevent a nasty scene. Meanwhile, Tom 'broken gadgets' Norris has set off for Eastbourne.

Steve 'Gadget' Ferguson

Suddenly, Peter B was ready. I explained to Steve  Gadget that I have to escort him back his nursing home. "Who escorts you then?" he said, with a wry grin. More disrespect, but he tagged along anyway as we pushed on to catch Tom before Collington Station. We rolled along, chatting and joking, giving out abuse (a necessary part of male bonding activities, I find) and enjoying a drier ride along Herbrand than we had the first time. Tom's front light died, so he rode behind me. Tom's rear light died. I couldn't be both in front and behind him, so when we stopped at Normans Bay for Tom to change the batteries for his front light, Peter fiddled about with his rear. Oh sorry, I meant 'rear light' - Peter is a master-fiddler.

It was an interesting juxtaposition - Tom's high-mileage, 'Bianchi-Bomber' low/no tech bike and lights, next to Steve's gadget-smothered ride. A bit like putting a donkey cart alongside the Starship Enterprise. Steve 'the gadget' Ferguson
 had some sort of flight-deck arrangement on his handlebars, including lights, a computer (yes, a small laptop) and a camera. On his helmet, he had a flashing-thingy ('my wife makes me wear it') and a vase of flowers. The rear of the bike had so many lights that they actually gave off heat.

Tom's broken rear Cateye has lost its reflector and is held on with cable ties. For goodness sake, bin it Tom and get a new one! Peter and I thought about organising a whip-round to do just that, but then we remembered that he's from Yorkshire. There's brass there but it's buried deep, deep in his pockets...

Having handed Peter back to Matron, Fergie Gadget and I took Tom to Pevensey, before surfing the breeze all the way to Galley Hill, where I bade Steve/Dave farewell and pootled home, the wind picking up again, blowing in light rain as a prelude to a heavier downpour. Time to go home, sang Andy-Pandy, time to go home.

Regards, Neil