If you are a cyclist, or perhaps you work outdoors and get your hands wet, Wednesday was horrible. There are those, such as Nigel T and JV, that relish such days ('It's all part of it Neil, all part of the experience,' JV said to me once. Yes JV, and so is the drill at the dentist's - who would enjoy that?'). I had already been out twice during the day and been blown backwards or drenched for my trouble. I was really looking forward to the Chain Gang, not.
But then the 'Wednesday Magic' comes into play - the excitement of getting the bike and myself ready for a strong midweek ride. The cold and wet, at least to start with, are not much of a problem. The thought is truly worse than the deed, and I was pleased to get the fresh air in my lungs and the wind flowing over my body. Cutting through the traffic to the beach shelter on wet roads, I felt the layers of stress and the weight of petty work problems fall away. I'd spent the day sitting on my arse in front of a laptop, so this was a blessed relief from the numbing stillness of pecking a keyboard for a living.
Nine other riders riders obviously agreed with me that this was a fine night for a ride. Barney (Yellow Leader) and Alex (Pink Leader) were cowering from the cold, deep in the shelter. We should have a coal brazier on the go, but in lieu of external heat we rather reluctantly rolled out as one group in the hope that we could generate some heat of our own. Very kindly, Yellow and Pink Leader led us out and provided some shelter from the nasty wind. Peter Baker and I tucked in behind them, providing moral and tactical support as we rolled along Bexhill front.
"Barney, could you sit up a bit please, it's a bit drafty here."
"I say, Alex old bean, would you be a sweety and pedal a bit harder? There's a good fellow!"
"Why don't you chaps stretch a coat between you - that would provide us with a bit more cover."
Strangely, the more helpful suggestions we made, the quieter they got. I thought Peter was particularly helpful, making encouraging comments about Pink Leader's overshoes, which are (can you guess?) pink. I told Peter to shut up and be more respectful; he said something unrepeatable. And he an educated man.
Once on Cooden Drive, Pink Leader pulled around Yellow Leader and we began the rotation, sweeping along the road at a pace that allowed talking. As per usual, I found myself on the front as we made the tight right-hander at the Cooden Beach Hotel, cornering carefully on the slick tarmac, before turning even more tightly on to Herbrand Walk. The pace picked up as we hauled ourselves into the strengthening wind. Stones were scattered over the road; a car was parked with its lights on, half off the road, confusing the view ahead. On we pressed and gradually the group whittled down to six, then five, then four riders, before it was just me and the two Leaders.
I did one turn on the front and then waved them through, their superior power and speed taking them steadily away as I struggled up Spooky Hill into a headwind. From there on, it was a solo slog into that cutting north-westerly - ugh! Head down, plough on... again. Lights flicked back and forth behind me; I was being caught by some of the others. Vanity dictated that I make it to the roundabout before them, so I dug deep and increased my speed, hoping that those behind me were not working well together.
It worked for a bit and I managed to pull away, their lights receding for a couple of minutes. But then I was caught by the wind and I tired, my speed dropping off. Nick was the first to reach me, then Gareth and Peter Baker (strangely attired in a stripey burka). Gareth was in strong form and pulled away from all of us, apparently as a result of 'finding his legs'. We were all mightily relieved to hear this as a legless cyclist it not much use, although I think I prefer it when his legs are missing.
Just behind us a cycling drama of epic proportions was being played out. Peter Buss was in fine form last night, hauling the group across the marsh at great speed. He reminded me of a bison from the great plains of America - shaggy mane, hugely muscled front quarters and chest, tapering down through powerful thighs and surprisingly elegant ankles to his hooves. Anyway, he was the embodiment of power and strength last night - an adonis with herculean strength, an exotic mix of Hoy, Boardman and Wiggins unleashed on the Pevensey Marshes, a jar of horseradish sauce freshly opened. What chance did any of us have? Lambs to slaughter...
There was little delay in turning back to Bexhill, although Yellow and Pink Leader were somewhat reluctant to start, so we went without them. We knew it wouldn't be long before they caught us. I found myself out front with Nick, but no-one came through to take a turn on the front, not that we needed it as we had a nice following wind. I think then that Gareth shot off the front, no doubt having 'found his legs' again. 'Oi!' I shouted, 'wait up!' but he was pulling ahead, soon to be joined by Peter 'Burka' Baker. Nick, Simon G and I knuckled down to reel them back in and we were close to catching them at the foot of Spooky Hill. From nowhere, Yellow and Pink Leader turbo'd past us, arriving like the US cavalry. We cheered and whooped, encouraging them to run those pesky varmints into the dust. Yeehar!! They duly obliged, breaking Gareth and Peter's spirit, and we all poured past them like they were standing still, laughing harshly as we blew past them. Cruel, but fair, given their selfish riding.
Nick put in a spurt to reach the top of the hill in the wake of the Leaders, but soon regretted it. I pulled past him and then we formed a group with Simon G and Peter 'Bison' Buss, quickly forgiving 'Burka Boy' and Gareth 'The Legs' Purves. We rode well as a group, despite some dissent and plain speaking in the ranks, all the way to the lights. Some were keener than others to prove their virility or fertility or something else ending in 'ility'; I was content to survey the scene and glide to a stop with style and elan. Nick must've joined the group at some point, because there he was, coughing and sweating like an asthmatic horse, having sprinted towards the end.
As ever on a cold and / or wet night, no-one dilly-dallied. 'The Bison' and I rode back whence we had come to Normans Bay, I did my usual spin to the roundabout and rode back, glad to reach the comfort and warmth of home. Looks like winter has arrived, at least for a while. Roll on spring and some warmer weather!
Safe riding Neil
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