Wednesday Chain Gang - Pevensey Pirates at the Star Inn

Having made many sacrifices and burnt offerings on Monday and Tuesday, the cycling gods favoured us with a weather window of relatively calm, dry and warm tarmac-tearing conditions. A good turnout included riders such as Darren, Peter 'Burka' Baker, Nick S, Ivan the 'Supertanker', Stewart 'Poshington' Buckland, Gareth 'Red Beard' Purves, Dan 'Selmo' Selmes (I do listen) and Kie Smith. It's always good to ride with another Smith or two. In all, including Shirley 'Headstart' York and Simon 'Gorgeous' Grogan, we were 18 riders. I will resist hereafter the urge to give everyone a daft nickname, but I can't promise, and apologies for those whose names I can remember but not necessarily from last night. Shall we get on?

You could tell that it was going to be a fast night - everyone was lined up for the start a good five minutes beforehand, chatting happily, but all staring down the road for what we knew would be a swift outward leg. What wind there was came from the east. A quick time check revealed we were 14 seconds late starting, so the 'gun' was fired and out rolled the ultras. For reasons unknown, I rolled out with them.

'Feeling strong tonight Neil?' asked the incomparable Stuart H.

'Yes, I always feel strong with a following wind', I replied.

'Who doesn't Neil, who doesn't?' There's no arguing with that, but did I detect a faint hint of menace in his voice? No, my overactive imagination was at work again.

I felt slightly giddy to be riding in such elevated company with Stuart, Barney, Shaun, Trevor, Michael and Ivan. We rattled along Bexhill front at a steadily increasing rate, rotating the front in style. Ivan, it has to be said, was prone to going off the front. Shaun sensibly said 'let him go' and before long we wound him back in, only for him to fly off the front again on his turn. Meanwhile, the speed increased ever higher, as we attempted to catch the 'ultra-ultra' that is Shirley York (so christened by Stuart H). I believe she started after everyone else, but passed us all, visible only as a fleeting flash of bright light as her metal helmet super-heats in the night air.

Now, it seems to me that you hear plenty about the middle and the back of the pack in these blog entries, but not much about the front end. Tonight we will (mostly) put that right and, in the process, reveal shocking truths about life in the ultra fast group. Truths you would never have guessed, truths so shocking that you will be truly, er, shocked.

We rode onto the marshes and I noticed Michael pull over and fiddle in the bushes, before jumping back on his bike and rejoining us. Barney rode alongside him and asked 'did you set it?'

'Yes Barney, it's set' said Michael, mysteriously.

We rode on as far as the Star Inn, when Stuart at the front shouted 'slowing, slowing, single-up!' I thought a car must be coming, but no - the ultras slowed, stopped and dismounted, heading straight for the Inn.

'What about him?' growled Ivan, nodding in my direction.

'Bring him - it's time' said Stuart.

I was just about to protest when Ivan grabbed me none too gently, his rough workman's hands chaffing my thighs as he slung me over his shoulder. I struggled - 'let me go you beast!' - but Ivan tightened his grip and I felt quite faint. The others laughed in low, guttural tones. Trevor produced a paper bag and put it over my head. Immobilised and blind, I was carried inside the Inn. A voice - the innkeeper? - welcomed the gang, seemingly familiar with this odd ritual. I heard the scraping of a stone slab as they slid it to one side, uncovering an echoing stairwell that smelt of damp and old rum. The smell was somehow familiar...

Ivan carried me down into the cool air of a cellar, where he dumped me carelessly in a wooden chair. Trevor removed the paper bag but a bright light was now shining in my face. All I could see was the silhouettes of the group, arranged in a ring around a high-backed chair that stood on a low platform in front of me. I became aware of a man sitting in the chair. That smell was stronger than ever, joined now by the reek of a cheap cigar. Somehow repellant but even more familiar. Could it be... but how? The smell was unmistakable and at last I placed it - Peter Buss!

I must've said his name out loud, because he shouted 'shut it, mush, that's Lord Buss to you!' I trembled and giggled with nerves. A slap came from nowhere to the side of my head. 'My your manners when you're in the Lair of the Lord!' snarled Shaun. 'What the...'. Smack! Another blow. I buttoned my lip.

'How long have we got?' asked the Lord.

'15, maybe 20 minutes at most' said Stuart.

'The alarm is set?'

'Yes, the bell will ring when the group enters the marsh' said Barney.

'Ok, that's enough time, just enough time...' The Lord's voice trailed off as if contemplating some terrible torture, but I recognised this as one of his mental 'absences'. A polite cough from one of the group brought him back to the present - 'right, prepare him, and not too gently - he needs to learn a lesson'.

Rough hands again grabbed me, lifting and then pinning me to the floor. 'Bring the machine'. I was dumbstruck with terror. A whirring, clattering sound filled the cellar as my face was pressed into the wet, stinking floor.

'Which side, your Lordship?'

'Hmm, the left I think'. He suddenly kicked out with his silver-tipped Castelli cycling slippers, grazing my left buttock. 'Yes, that's the spot - har, har, har'! The group paused for a moment, then laughed as well, loud and hard. Then a knife cut open my shorts and I felt the sharp sting of the tattoo needle pierce my flesh.

'If you want to ride with us, you must bear the Lord's mark, and pledge allegiance to him, you dog'! The needle quickly traced it's cruel outline on in my skin, but I could not make out the design - some sort of spider, but with seven legs? A star perhaps? Yes, that must be it - a seven point star, the number of riders in the ultra group tonight, if you included me.

'What colour?'

'No colour, he hasn't earned that yet - just rub some dirt in - har, Har, HARRR!'

I heard a hand scrabble in the filthy dirt and felt it smack into the raw tattoo, then rub the muck into the bloody mark. My vision clouded over, I groaned, lost consciousness. Just before I went under, I heard the ringing of a bell and felt myself being picked up...

I awoke at the side of the road, Trevor standing over me with an empty bucket of water. 'Get on your bike and ride, dog!' I staggered to the cannonball, slung my leg over and was quickly reminded of the ordeal in the cellar - I could not sit properly on the saddle, so raw was my hindquarter.

'Come on, they'll be here in a minute!' shouted Stuart, and with that the group accelerated towards Normans Bay. Riders either side of me pushed me up to speed and with adrenaline bursting through my veins, I span my legs, flying up Spooky Hill and, as usual, getting dropped at the summit. But this had the appearance of normality - how clever the group had been, and how terrible.

The rest of the ride was a blur. On the return leg, I rode hard and fast to stay with the ultras, feeling a strange loyalty despite my degrading treatment. Yes, I had needed that lesson in humility and a part of me was grateful, but I needed to know more, but who did I think I was, to ride unbidden with the truly fast and strong riders. But how does Lord Buss fit into that category? Anyway, I stayed with them as far as Herbrand Walk, but for once stayed away from the chasing pack. Perhaps more than one threshold had been crossed tonight?

'No-one will ever believe you, mush, so don't go shooting your marf off, right? You'll look a proper Charlie and then you might, well, have an accident. Capiche?' I looked sideways at Peter as we rode back across the march - he was no longer the bumbling geriatric millionaire from Normans Bay, but a troubling and vicious hard man from 'Sarf Lundan'. I keep quiet, I can bide my time - I have connections, people who know people - I'd find out more in due course.

'And don't get clever, matey, don't do too much thinkin' and don't think your 'friends' in Lundan can 'elp you, because you're an ultra now, mush, and your loyalties lie with us, and with me - got it.., GOT IT?' He leaned into my face, that smell again - rum, cigars, musty dampness... For good measure, he slapped my left buttock hard with the flat of his hand.

'Yes, I've got it your Lordship, I've got it.' We rode on in silence; I turned at Normans Bay and rode my second lap, each pedal stroke providing a reminder of the night's violence as my backside pressed on the hard saddle. I also felt some pride at having ridden hard and stayed with the ultras for most of the chain, even if other doubted this.

That ceremony aside, it had been a good ride - a few degrees warmer makes a difference to everyone, as last week's freezing cold had numbed the muscles of some of us, making the ride truly hard work. I hope next week is warmer still and free of 'incident'.

Safe riding, Neil