“How did I get here, only I think I’d like to come again.”
We were recovering from a soaking at Littlington garden centre and cafe, a rather eccentric place, lost in a Victorian time bubble. We’d sheltered at Wilmington, but the rain was so torrential that the large oak we hid under could not keep us dry. The aim had been to ride the Eastbourne Sportive long route, missing out Bo Peep for the sake of time and our legs. The poor weather meant that we also missed out the Alfriston to Seaford loop and were heading direct to the foot of Exceat.
“That’s a lovely idea Peter” I said patronisingly.
“So, how did I get here, I mean, how WOULD I get here if I wasn’t already here?”
I hesitated, feeling slightly confused. “Well, you’d drive here the same way you cycled.”
There had been three of us, but Tom had gone directly back to Eastbourne from Wessons cafe in Horam. We’d chatted briefly to some riders from Tonbridge Wells who were impressed with the cafe and the prices, compared to their Velo Cafe. The chap sitting next to us was tucking into the ‘Big Daddy’ which had, I think, a piece of steak as well as chips, sausage, mushrooms and all the trimmings. He rolled a fag afterwards and sipped from a mug of tea, a contented man.
We started the ride at Normans Bay, as is traditional for any pre-BBR ride, heading up to Rushlike Green via Wartling, Tilley Lane and Bodle Street Green, against a blustery headwind. Tom was on his zero-hydration strategy as carrying liquid slows you down, apparently. I used to think he regularly forgot to fill a bottle, but this is a deliberate ploy to reduce energy expenditure and increase speed. Tom, your secret is out!
The route dives south-west from Rusklake to Amberstone, via Cowbeech and across the top of Herstmonceux. Having headed ‘down’, we turned north-west and headed ‘up’ the south slope of Grove Hill. But first, a puncture.
"Which hole do I put it in?"
Tom and I resisted the temptation to make puerile jokes (you know, of the 'Bishop said to the Actress' variety), and did our best to help. To be fair, the pump had three possible places into which the CO2 cylinder could fit."The one with the spike, to pierce the cylinder", said Tom. This did not help much as neither Peter or I had our glasses on. There was some writing around one of the holes but it might have been written in Elvish for all the good it did us. Peter tried the cylinder in all three ports - no joy. I tried - no joy. Peter tried again. At this point, watching and listening to two bumbling old farts, Tom’s patience wore thin.
“Have you EVER done this before?”
Eventually, the cylinder was mated with the right hole and the gas, somehow, made its way into the inner tube. Job done, we rode on as a loose and rather un-coordinated trio, freewheeling into Wessons at 09:30 (BBR ‘Di Paulo’ time). Breakfast was in full-swing, the tables groaning under the weight of full-english’s and the patrons’ fleshy forearms. I noticed that we were somewhat lacking in the tattoo department (sorry, I’m displaying the prejudices of my upbringing - my mother said that people with tattoos… Well, never mind what my mother said).
We waved off Tom and headed toward Golden Cross via Gun Hill, on a truly shocking piece of East Sussex tarmac. That said, it’s a lovely area and the weather was still bright at this stage. We rolled along at a pleasant wind-assisted speed, the route committed to my memory rather than the Garmin. This is because I can’t work out how to add a gpx file and because the memory on my Edge 200 is always brimming over, but it’s also more fun to ride without staring at a piddly screen.
We safely negotiated the A22 and enjoyed the fast, mainly downhill lanes, powering along with the wind at our backs. We turned left at Selmeston to avoid Bo Peep and that’s when I first saw it. Up ahead, looming dark and heavy, a mass of black cloud sat across the back of the Downs, a thick curtain of rain dragging along below. It was not heading towards us, but we were heading towards it!
The rain started in earnest as we crossed into Wilmington. I pulled over to wait for Peter on a patch of dry road under the oak tree. He arrived as the rain came on full-bore. Our island of dry tarmac shrank ever smaller as water ran from the road towards the gutter, joining the flow from the fields ahead. The drips from the tree became heavier and more frequent, falling like water bombs onto our helmets, shoulders and legs. It was miserable, the only consolation was that we were drier than if we’d carried on cycling.
Having waited out the deluge, we decided to dry off at the cafe in Littlington, the steady climb out of Wilmington rewarded with the long and fast descent down Chapel Hill, which is where we rejoin our story…
“Peter, you would drive here the same way as you rode here.”
“I would? But what about the turnings?”
“There were no turnings, only bends - you’ve just cycled straight here!”
“Ok, so run it past me - how WOULD I drive here?”
“Head towards Polegate…”
“Polegate? Oh yes…”
“…and then use the bypass…”
“The bypass..?”
I talked over him, raising my voice: “then turn left at the roundabout and head towards Lewes.”
“I don’t want to go to Lewes…”
“AND THEN, turn left at Wilmington and keep driving - it’s simple.”
I should at this point explain ‘Geolexia’, a newly identified condition whereby the sufferer has no idea where they are, how they got there and how to get back to wherever it was they started from. Peter is a sufferer and so are Steve Curtiss and Mal C. They deserve our support and our help. Every day is a navigational challenge, starting with getting out of bed without climbing out of a window, finding the bathroom without pissing on Grandma, and making breakfast in your own and not the neighbour’s kitchen.
I think I have Hypergeodesia - the ability to find my way without much trouble at all and generally to know where the hell I am at any given moment. I don't know how lucky I am. Peter thinks I have ‘Severiorum Spuria’ (that’s ‘Grumpy Bastard Syndrome’ in English), an accurate diagnosis to which can be added ‘Impatiens Asinum’ (Impatient Arse). But my new bike was by this time plastered in muddy water - I mean, come on! We had Exceat and Beachy Head to climb, and by now we were two hours behind schedule. This was clearly his fault as the whole ride was his idea.
Somehow, we moved on from grumpiness and bewilderment to restart the ride. Exceat is a good stiff climb hindered by a narrow road and heavy traffic. I got nervous as flatbed trucks scraped past me and short-tempered with an Audi driver who tried to give me a lift to the top on his wing mirror. We rode on and stopped in Pevensey for some photos, and Peter for a fry-up before parting ways.“So, you’d be home earlier than usual, would you?” The clock was nudging 14:00.
“Er, well, it was Peter, he, er, had some problems.”
“Oh yes, of course, it couldn't be YOUR fault, could it? You have to blame poor Peter. You know full well that he’s Geolexic, he’s relying on you and this is how you treat him, behind his back, I expect you’ll be cruel in the blog as well, won’t you, eh? That poor man, really, I don’t know why he bothers…”
“Well, I did have a puncture on Cooden Drive…” I stuttered.
“That’s all well and good, but you know how to fix them, don't you? Did you help Peter? No? I thought not, just stood there laughing I shouldn't wonder, instead of helping out.”
I recalled Peter’s parting words: “I do enjoy our little adventures”. I paused, smiled to myself and thought ‘“what a load of b******s.”
Safe riding, Neil
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