Gentleman Cyclist

Posted on 8 March 2008

I decided to take the Thorn, with resealed Rohloff hub (no cracks yet…). I set off with Liz. & Charlotte but after a few miles the hills took their toll and I was riding alone. I was quite pleased with my pace, though, and to begin with the wind was not too troublesome.

Somewhere near Gosfield, I spied a buzzard soaring away to the left, and then spotted a lonely cyclist, all in black, mobile phone in her ear. ‘Twas Liz. Where was Charlotte? Apparently the dear gal had suffered a fairy bite, told Liz, who had been under the weather for much of the week and was struggling a little for speed (not surprising really since they rode up from London to the ‘Uts in the traditional style, although without their racing wheels strapped to the front) to carry on and then Charlotte had missed a turning and was half-way to Chelmsford. Liz & I rode together to the Coggeshall café. Just before we got there, we had to execute a tricky right turn from the fast and nasty A120 and as I was signalling and pulling out two motons chose to overtake, using the right-turn lane to do so. My right signal turned elegantly into a two-fingered salute, which the BMW driver acknowledged with a flash of his hazard warning lights. Why are BMWs’ hazard lights fitted with an off switch?

Cake and coffee was had, but still no Charlotte. We had arrived at this control about 35 minutes before it was due to close, and I knew the wind would be more troublesome on the return to the ‘Ut, so I sought Liz’s permission to make a move. Just as I left, Charlotte arrived, not in the sunniest mood I had seen on her. I think her wheel required some more attention.

I carried on, taking a break by the Felsted School cricket ground, where quite a few England cricketers cut their teeth, but where I ate a marmite sandwich, and not long afterwards, somewhere near Lindsell, I detected a presence. On looking over my shoulder, there was Charlotte, closely followed by Liz, having caught me about 20 miles after the coffee stop. From that point we three rode more or less together, although when the hills began again I dropped back. For the last 10 miles the wind was almost entirely unhelpful, and I was really hoping that Charlotte was in agreement with Liz’s suggestion of missing out the last 32 miles and having a pub lunch instead.

It was an excellent decision, and I had just settled down with my pint when I discovered my daughter’s gleeful text message with the result from Croke Park. I was warm, dry and out of the wind, with good company, Wales had won the Triple Crown and the beer was having an analgesic effect on my knees. Bliss!

Posted on 22 July 2007

Oh arse biscuits indeed!

I arrived in Bethersden, put the bits back on the bike which I had taken off it so that I could get it into the car, reported for duty and then I got a text message. It was Charlotte, asking me to report her having packed. The 300ers had a real Ordeal in the night, and having the Blue moon ride fresh in my memory, I understood perfectly. So Billy No Mates set off in the steady rain wondering for how long I could put up with this.

It was not long before Fatbloke’s Prophesy came to be. “It’s tempting providence,” said he, stroking what for the want of trying might be an impressive beard, “to put the words ‘Fairies’ and ‘flat’ into a ride title. No good will come of it! You mark my words!” Well, when I suddenly felt that sickening lurch to the left as the rear tyre flops about on the rim, I did indeed mark his words and gave him 10/10. Go to the Top of the Class, Fatters!

I had been building up quite a nice time cushion as well, but with about 30 minutes wasted replacing the tube (the first few of those were spent wandering along the road looking for somewhere safe to work on the bike), I was not in the best frame of minds, and even a decided lifting of the cloud cover and the sun appearing did not cheer me up as much as you might have expected. For one thing, although I carry two spare tubes, it doesn’t help a lot when one of them is a 700C and my tyres are 26 x 1.5″. A second packet of arse biscuits please.

Mr. Micawber could well have ridden Audaxes. Average speed with stops: 15.5 kph, result: happiness. Average speed with stops: 14.5 kph, result: misery. So I continued to be miserable even though the countryside was beautiful, there wasn’t a hill worthy of the name, and I was being treated to the nicest weather we have had for about 3 weeks.

It really is amazing how long it takes to claw back a time deficit. My average riding speed was well over 18kph, and I knew that this was enough to get me round and allow me to eat in some comfort. But throw a few fairy bites into the equation and suddenly it’s not enough again. Add to that the need to socialise (I don’t do miserable anti-social git) and I’m really up against it. I stopped at the first control for a bacon butty, a cup of tea, a natter with the controller (who lent me a track pump) and to put a patch on the perforated tube; then again by the roadside where a very pleasant couple had given up their Sunday in order to mark cards and feed Audaxeers. So by the time I had completed the first 100k, I was still well behind.

Luckily, being the lanterne rouge came to my rescue as all the other controllers were getting pretty fed up by the time I got there, and were ready to pack their bags and go as soon as I did, so although I arrived a little late at Rye, by the time I got to Hythe I was, remarkably, 15 minutes ahead of where I needed to be. Another quick butty, visit the kharsi and off on the home straight in glorious weather: indeed, the sun was so bright that at times I had trouble seeing the road.

I arrived back at Bethersden at around 9 p.m. feeling really quite pleased with myself, as this is the first 200k that I have completed without some sort of hitch or other. But I could hardly walk. My knees had seized up again. They were no problem when I was pedalling, but they didn’t want to do anything else.

The worst bit came on the M20. “Think” said my imaginary sign, “don’t drive when excruciating knee pain prevents you from transferring your right foot from the accelerator to the brake”.

One hot bath later, in which I washed my hair with a concoction called “Beautiful Brunette”, I’m hoping that the knees won’t give me as much trouble as they did last week after my 100 miler.

Posted on 13 July 2007

I found this on the internet somewhere while trawling about for another poem. I wish I’d made a note of who wrote it. It certainly wasn’t me.

Dr. Death

When Doctor Death’s out visiting
Maybe he’ll call on you today
And leave the neighbours pondering
How suddenly you passed away.
You seemed quite well, and then you died.
The hearses glide down every street
Where people in the town of Hyde
And Doctor Death have chanced to meet.
The first one greets him at her door.
The second doesn’t cry or cringe.
Another pulls her sleeve up for
Kind Doctor Death with his syringe.
A needle pricks the arm she bared
So simply and obediently.
She had no reason to be scared,
And now she’s dead on her settee.
Kind Doctor Death is much admired.
He’s rarely tired or agitated.
He signs the paperwork required
To get the evidence cremated.
The reaper’s scythe goes swinging on,
Swiftly, sharply, no time to rust,
His black cowl hideous upon
The doctor they had come to trust.
For all his arrogant abuse
Of life and hope for healing care
He never offers an excuse.
Not one. Not even to declare:
“My way, their dignity’s ensured.
What would they sooner have instead?
The underfunded general ward?
The geriatric cattle-shed?”
His mind’s a levelled graveyard, where
No human feelings can impinge.
So there is nothing left to scare
Kind Doctor Death with his syringe.

Posted on 2 July 2007

I have just had a new experience – I was a judge in a School’s debating competition.

To make it even better, the teacher organising the competition was my daughter Ellen. And one of the other judges was my younger son Graham. Another was Prof. Richard Norman (any relation, Liz?).

There were three debates in the morning and two in the afternoon. The topics were:-

“Euthanasia should be made legal”

“A law banning Incitement to Hatred has no place in a Liberal Democracy”

“Soap Operas have no artistic merit.”

“If Global Warming is happening, there is no evidence that it is man-made”

“There is no room for ethics in British foreign policy”

I was one of 3 judges in nos 1, 4 & 5.

I think my proudest moment was during debate 2, when Ellen took the Chair, and Prof. Norman and Graham were 2 out of the 3 judges, and Graham’s mate Steve was the other. Watching Ellen chairing the debate as though she had been doing it all her life, and listening to Graham asking really searching questions of the two teams, totally confident in front of an audience, brought a tear to my eye.

Of debate no. 2, after we were at Ellen’s house eating Chinese food, Graham summed things up succinctly: “Quoting John Stuart Mill and Utilitarianism when you are in the Lower Sixth is pretty fucking impressive!”

Probably just as well that he saved that one up for when the Head Teacher was out of earshot!

Posted on 1 July 2007

Why do we do it?

I missed out on a perfectly decent FNRttC the previous evening, even deliberately going to CM without any tools so that I would not be able to ride then. They had reasonably fine weather whilst I knew that the forecast was worse for Saturday.

However, having gone all the way to Liverpool Street by train, met Oscar’s Dad & Annie01 off their train, made our way chez Comet and then enjoyed a wonderful Vietnamese meal at an establishment endorsed, apparently, by Mr. Blair (his judgment isn’t totally lacking, then) the time came for us to go. I was within a whisker of going straight back to Liverpool Street and heading for bed, but the Stubborn Git within me (sometimes I wonder if I have any other qualities) wouldn’t hear of it, so armed with overshoes, rain legs and a spanking new Goretex coat (a birthday present to myself earlier in the week), we headed for London Fields.

Eight of us sat down to eat: Charlotte, Comet, OD, Annie, Mark C, Nutty, Fidgetbuzz (who had ridden down from Norwich and parked his bike inside the restaurant) and myself. We left the Two Cs behind, one of whom had already been zzzing like a top for quite some time before we went to the restaurant. We got to London Fields and were joined by Chris S, Stefan and Adamski.

It rained and it rained and it rained and Piglet said to himself that he had never before seen such rain in all his life and he was …how old? Three? Or was it four? To be honest, I didn’t mind for the most part, because my waterproof gear was working well, but faerie puncturius aquaticus were out in large numbers and several intrepid cyclists were affected. Chris S twice, others (in the cold light of day I can’t remember who) and because the rest of us were getting cold standing around, the consensus was that most of the group should keep moving.

Annie took this advice seriously, and stoked up on e-numbers in the form of jelly babies and wine gums. During one particularly prolonged visitation, she told us that the main reason she cycled was to admire men’s bottoms. Now I’m a pretty broad-minded chap and if that’s what floats your boat, Annie (and indeed a boat would have been much more appropriate last night) then that’s fine by me, but on a night in which June is trying to pretend it’s November, I did cast a weather eye, as it were, at the lycra-clad buttocks there present, and frankly I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, even on Gay Pride day. Pass the jelly babies!

As time passed so Oscar’s Dad and I found ourselves in the most unusual position that we formed a breakaway group. The “fast men” were continually puncturing, the “middle” group also had a visit or two, Annie’s new and expensive-looking lights had packed up but the habitual lanterne rouge in the form of yours truly blazed a turgid trail though the Great Bardfield, Wethersfield, Finchingfield, the Hedinghams and we were eventually overhauled again, but news filtered through that Annie had had a bit of a mishap involving a drain. She hadn’t fallen off, but had been pretty shaken. OD and I continued fairly slowly, but there was no sign of them catching us.

Sometimes the rain almost stopped, and soon after 3 a.m. I thought, but wasn’t sure, that I detected a slight lifting of the darkness and we could definitely see that there were a few breaks in the clouds. We were going to be rewarded with a sparkling dawn and everything would be all right!

All wrong! True, the dawn was welcomed first with dualling songthrushes, then some blackbirds, and last of all the King of the Birds, the Wren, put in an appearance. But some time after Little Waldingfield (what a lovely village that is!) my fatigue was getting the better of me. I wasn’t short of blood sugar but my arse ached and a drowsy numbness pained my sense (no, no nightingales) and Oscar’s Dad was somewhere over the horizon. I started to fall asleep while cycling. It was a very odd experience, mini-absences of consciousness, enough to make me swerve violently as I came to, wondering why the verge was so close. Then I came on Oscar’s Dad, sitting on a bench, head back, eyes shut, mouth open, having a rain-soaked nap. This was the point at which I decided I’d had enough and as if to emphasise the point, so the heavens opened once again and the Japanese Water Torture accompanied me all the way into Stowmarket, to be replaced by another form of torture because the station lavatories were locked and my bowels were responding, as Charlotte had predicted they would, to some sort of exotic mushroom within the curry.

Eventually the station opened, I visited the lavatories, thankfully equipped with copious quantities of hot water in the wash basin, and then wrestled with the bloody ticket machine which for some reason didn’t want to allow me to claim my Network Rail card discount, so I hit the Senior button instead. No-one complained.

I hope the others are all OK. We all should be locked up for such acts of sheer stupidity.

Total miles: 90.26
Max: 30.1
Riding time:8h 40m 18s.
Ave: 10.4 mph

Posted on 23 June 2007

It was a fairly prompt start from Shenfield Station, since Ben, Janet I were the last to arrive. At something like five past 10 we were on the road, a foolhardy band since the Met Office’s website showed the entire country covered in red as severe weather in the form of thunderstorms was forecast. However, our first worry was that we might get to the elevenses stop in Blackmore before it opened. Hall Lane, past Shenfield Church, is a very pleasant long descent, the ideal start to a ride, and one whose corresponding climb is well-concealed, so our speed was quite respectable. Through Doddinghurst we dashed, then Stondon Massey, another easy freewheel down the Nine Ashes Road and there was Blackmore, just as it always was, cake-laden and inviting.

Tea, coffee, cakes were all consumed and then Mike arrived from Cambridge, riding the storm like a very suave valkyrie on his stunning new Ti steed. We hung around for a bit waiting for the rain to subside a little, and then we would have been away other than an unsporting visitation from the pianoforte, or at least, something whose initials were p. f. Jurek was the victim, and it proved to be a bit of a problem, but just as Nutty was beginning to flex his scar tissue ready to enter the fray, the faerie decided that discretion was the better part of valour and the tyre stayed hard.

Those of us who had donned our waterproofs now removed them again as the sun turned the wet roads into swirling vapours. We found our way along Spriggs Lane, noting the presence of the ostriches and llamas, and then crossed the main road at Norton Heath, carefully avoiding the café there as it appeared to be full of cyclists and we didn’t want to be mixing with that sort, now, did we?

These Essex lanes are an absolute delight, unless of course you are a bit short of time at the back end of a 200k audax, and I often wonder why it is that the road which approaches Willingale from the south has quite so many hairpin bends. It’s almost alpine with one very obvious omission, and that being stout red-faced yodelling fellows in Lederhosen. Through Willingale we went, noting Spain and Doe, the two churches in one churchyard, separated by an elegant avenue of lime trees, in full flower at this time of year, and then onwards and northwards through Berners Roding and High Easter before emerging on the B road which heads towards Dunmow.

High Roding was our lunch stop, and the bar staff had done a grand job, providing us with some really tasty fare quite promptly. The beer was also very acceptable, and there was a certain amount of minor silliness involving a Father Christmas hat which Nutty had provided. I suggested singing a few carols but no-one seem interested, so after a brief snooze we wended our way. Mike left us at this point to return to Cambridge.

As we began our southward plod so the weather seemed to want to disrupt proceedings. There were dark clouds, rumbles of thunder, a very menacing looking storm to the south-west and another one to the east. Yet undeterred, the bold and intrepid party sped swiftly on until somewhere near Loves Green large raindrops began to bounce around us. Almost immediately the faerie was back, having sunk her fangs into Fixedwheelnut’s rear tyre. This was looking quite seriously like a water-born sprite which only emerged to do its damage in the rain.

Not long afterwards we found ourselves quite by chance inside a pub, the Viper, and again beer was consumed. Thereafter we sped through a wet Fryerning, not really interested in finding the Hall, even though it was apparently the birthplace of Charles Kortwright, thought by some to have been the fastest bowler in the history of cricket, and coiner of the phrase “Are you going, Doctor? You’ve still got one stump standing!” We decided to give the Buttsbury Ford a miss, on the grounds that it might have swollen to bicycle-consuming proportions, and headed along the old A12 and back via Mountnessing and Arnold’s Farm Lane to Shenfield.

If we had had any doubts beforehand, we knew we were in Essex now: the Mercedes driver who couldn’t safely overtake us spent about 10 seconds leaning on his horn; and when we entered the station we were treated to the Disruption of Service notices as some woebegone unfortunate had ended it all at Romford. The first train to Southend was announced but was on its way before we had had time to board it, and while second was being prepared, I overheard a couple approach the driver, who patiently explained that someone had committed suicide at Romford and that services would not be as per the timetable.

“Really!” exclaimed the youth, “Some people are so shtoopid!”

Posted on 21 June 2007

When bicycles stand by the wall
And tyre-treads leave a tell-tale trail
And flapjack’s in the village hall
And Arrivée’s the Holy Grail

When blood is nipt and ways be foul
Then randonneurs are on the prowl,
A mass of legs all pushing hard:
“Will you please stamp my brevet card?”

When lanes are all awash with skog
And Charlotte finds a garden cane
And Hummers gives Chris S a snog
And Comet’s gears have gone again

Amidst all this mayhem and trauma
We must be on the Willie Warmer!
A mass of legs all pushing hard:
“Will you please stamp my brevet card?”

W. Spokesheer.

Posted on 20 June 2007

It fucks you up, Audax UK,
And sends you to the very brink
Of craziness; but others say
That Audax is their meat and drink.

100k is just a stroll
Or so my friends have said to me;
But when you reach the next control
It leads you straight to PBP.

Addiction is the scourge of Man –
It fills us with unearthly dread
So pack as early as you can
And please do something else instead.

Posted on 17 June 2007

“I once saw Walter Brearley, the fast bowler, hit Fry on the hand; and Fry walked almost to the fence on the square-leg boundary shaking his bruised finger, with not any loss of dignity at all, not to announce his agony to the world; he was simply absorbed, like a student of metaphysics, in the problem of pain.” (Neville Cardus, Manchester Guardian, early 20th century)

Having made my decision, I went back to bed. But there was no sleep, no rest even, to be found there. Just the pain, like a frozen blade inserted into the back of my wrist, and the voice of a chess acquaintance of mine echoing around my head. On his surprise to see me appear to control the Essex Open Championship last year, he greeted me with the cheerful and encouraging “Hello Peter! I thought you were on the scrap-heap.” No, Norman, I’m not!

Even if a 200-mile driven round trip to the Sussex Corker was out of the question, I had to conquer this demon. But if I was going to do so, I’d make sure I was on home territory and that it was a level playing field, not an away match in sloping Sussex where the odds were seriously stacked against me. Even the seemingly simple task of securing the bike onto the carrier would have presented problems for me this morning.

I had to refit my saddlebag. I had taken it off last night in preparation for the Corker, cutting out as much weight as I could. I probably didn’t need it today, but its presence was somehow reassuring and I prefer it to be there. Not logical, but I put a waterproof and a warm top in there, even though the weather forecast deemed them unnecessary. I even put my marmite sandwiches in my front bag.

I didn’t have a route planned as such, and I didn’t take a map, but I headed towards Battlesbridge, the Gateway to Everywhere Else. It was tough going. I was angry at having to change my plans. The legs were working OK but even the slightest unevenness in the road surface twisted the demon’s blade. I found, though, that I could change gear if I wrapped my thumb and forefinger very lightly round the twist-grip and moved my arm from the shoulder. Surprisingly, braking was easier. The first time I applied the front brake I winced, but then felt a fool: it hadn’t hurt nearly as much as I expected.

That’s the curious thing with pain: a great deal of it is in the mind. I am expecting my arthritis to hurt me so it does. When I’m lying awake at 5 a.m., it is my total, my only occupation. Like Charles Burgess Fry, arguably the greatest all-round sportsman the world has ever seen, I was totally preoccupied with the problem of pain. The purpose of being in bed is to sleep, so the demon wins every time. I’m awake and my wrist is all I can feel. To win the battle with the demon, you have to do other things. Today, all the other joints were in order, so why let the right wrist dominate the rest of the body?

By the time I reached the roundabout on the borough boundary, I began to notice my surroundings. There were two baby rabbits playing “chicken”. The first ran out in front of a car, the second waited until I arrived and then ran out in front of me. Both won that time. After the roundabout, though, there was gory pile of hedgehog bits which had lost. I crossed the Roach river bridge and saw a little egret paddling around in the water and of all things, there were three mallards strolling up Rochford High Street. “Good morning m’llard’”, I said in suitable deference, but they didn’t reply.

My computer was making very optimistic work of the 3-mile trip to Rochford and it dawned on me: that was because I had set it to display kilometres last night in preparation for today’s Audax. You can’t switch the Cateye Micro to imperial from metric and vice versa when it’s got a trip in memory, so I was stuck with it. Never mind, thought I, lets ride 100k anyway because that’s what I would have done in Sussex, albeit at about half the speed. I think that was when I made up my mind: I would go to Bradwell and then work my way back to Battlesbridge and on home. That should make a good 100k ride.

There were two beautiful fields of hemp growing near Doggetts Farm and the air smelt like a dodgy party as I rode through, yesterday’s rain still bringing out the morning scents. On my right a whitethroat warbled its sandpapery song and was answered by a chaffinch on my left. The a wren provided the descant from a willow tree on the right. I sailed easily past the llamas’ field in Hyde Wood Road and as I approached a terrace of cottages on the Canewdon Road, I thought “That’s a large swallow”, having seen a bird of the right outline perched on a wire. A closer inspection revealed it to be not a swallow at all something a bit parrotish, perhaps a cockatiel, but without doubt an escapee of some kind. I understand that there is a fairly large parakeet presence in parts of London, but if I remember correctly parakeets are green and this certainly wasn’t.

The swan was still asleep, sitting on her eggs with her head somewhere under her wing, as I crossed the Crouch at Battlesbridge, and after the railway bridge, where I often hit 30mph when coming in the opposite direction, I just stood up on the pedals and had no trouble at all, my speed hardly dipping below 15kph. I used the cycle lanes to negotiate the roundabouts, which even at that time in the morning were busy, and sped towards Woodham Ferrers.

Now my route was in my mind, I was set on getting there. Workhouse Lane led to Edwins Hall Road, up Bushey hill to Edwin’s Hall, where a performance of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” is to take place at the end of the month, tickets £20, and along to Flambird’s Farm. No traffic here, of course, and it was a very surprised hare which loped towards me, not spotting me until I was close to, then, like a middle-distance runner, finding a gear I hadn’t got and disappearing round the bend in the road. I thought I might get another glimpse of him, but no: instead, so surprised to see me that they didn’t take off, a pair of red-legged partridges, no more than three feet away, gorgeous little birds with very distinct colouring and white throats.

After passing the water tower at Cold Norton I came across another cyclist so we rode together for a mile or two. She was riding to Danbury hills so that she could go for a run. That struck me as a bit odd: why ride a bike so that you can go for a run? But I didn’t express my opinion out loud. I told her that I ought to have been in Sussex and she had heard of Audax but had never got involved. I mentioned the Three Coasts 600 going on as we rode, and she became very interested “That sounds exactly like my kind of thing!” I just had time to tell her about the Audax website and then our routes diverged, as she headed north to Danbury and I took the easterly road out towards the Dengie and Bradwell-on-Sea.

I was still going well, and when St. Lawrence Hill appeared in front of me, still smarting from its demotion and lost chevron, I couldn’t resist and up I went. “I am climbing well today!” I said to myself, and although I did eventually engage bottom gear, my legs were spinning like Catherine Wheels until I finally ran out of steam and ground my way up the last few metres. After that there was a lovely long descent where I almost came a cropper: a car had the temerity to come in the opposite direction just as I was leaning over to take a sharp bend. A quick wiggle and I was OK, but it was a slightly unnerving moment for both the driver and me.

As I reached the Bradwell road, I could see a cyclist in the distance. My levels of fitness must be picking up, because at one time if I saw someone in the distance it wasn’t for long as they had disappeared over the horizon. This time I gained on them, for tandemists they were, and eventually caught them. They were riding a beautiful blue Mercian of a late 1980s vintage but without a mark on it. The Wolber Champion rims shone as though freshly forged and it was a veritable jewel of a bike. They had recently bought it second hand from a couple in North Yorkshire, who were the original owners and had had it purpose built for their retirement and then had not used it much. “There are lots of good tandems like that: this one was kept in their front room under a cloth cover and it’s hardly been ridden!” the pilot told me proudly.

We chatted amiably about this and that: LEJOG (“I quite fancy that” said the Stoker); WNBR; Audax, and of course anothercyclingforum.com. Then we went our separate ways. I headed south through Bradwell Village, where I noted that the village shop has ceased trading, and then Tillingham, where one of the pubs has opened a very small coffee shop. One Beans on toast and coffee later, and I felt as though I could phone Jan to let her know where I was. “You’ve left your helmet and gloves behind,” she said reproachfully, but I reassured her that I was wearing my Tilley hat and my Pearl Izumi gloves. I’d already done 67k so I should be home about 1 o’clock.

Once again off I went but avoided Southminster by taking Green Lane. Latchingdon, Cold Norton, Stow Maries and then into Woodham Ferrers by the “over 40s” route and back onto the Battlesbridge road. Just over 50kph going down the hill towards the railway and then the irksome pest of motorists overtaking me  – I was still doing over 30kph – just so that they could stop in a queue for the single-lane bridge. I didn’t bother to waste my breath on them but just slipped round the outside and over the bridge. I took Coventry Hill (I wonder why they call it that?) by storm and kept up a very respectable speed all the way to Ashingdon. Back past the llamas, through Doggetts where Dan Squier himself was riding the lawn mower. He appears to be a dying breed – a gentleman farmer – and he gave me a very cheerful smile as I whizzed past. Then it was through Rochford, without mallards, up Sutton road and home. The demon had been exorcised – this time.
Distance: 116.51k
Riding time:5h 31m 43s
Average: 21 kph
Max speed: 50.4 kph

Posted on 9 June 2007

What a surreal, embarrassing, terrifying, amazing and ultimately exhilarating day!

I set off from Liverpool Street to Hyde Park in much lighter London traffic than I have ever before encountered – not a lot seems to happen on Saturday afternoons in the City – and made my way to Hyde Park Corner, arriving a little before 2.30. I couldn’t believe the sight that met my eyes. The place was absolutely awash with Orangemen – bowler-hatted, dark-suited, sash-wearing, craggy-featured unsmiling Orangemen from a plethora of Loyal Orange Lodges, complete with pipe-bands, drums, mock weddings of William and Mary and banners, one of which bore the coat of arms of the Ulster Special Constables, 1920 – 1970. Weren’t they the infamous “B Specials”, whose violence perpetrated against Civil Rights marchers sparked the “Troubles”? And somewhere in the middle of all this anachronistic sinister sectarian nonsense someone was trying to organise a bike ride. Welcome to multicultural Britain!

Gradually the Ulstermen filtered out across Park Lane to the deafening sound of drums, fifes, skirling bagpipes and twirling batons and shortly Charlotte appeared. She was riding her Thorn, her hair even more of a beacon than usual. We nattered coyly about this & that, not daring to mention the other, when Liz and her friend Greg joined us and also Mercury (aka Phil). We were being ushered close to the official start of the ride, where more and more cyclists, mostly male, were donning their birthday suits. None of us took the plunge to begin with, but a few minutes before the off, I summoned up the courage to remove my top & shorts, knocking my glasses off as I did so. There I am in cycling shoes, socks, Pearl Izumi gloves, spectacles and Tilley hat, reliving a regular nightmare of mine in which, starkers, I run a gauntlet of jeering textiles. I can’t remember the order in which the rest of it happened, but shortly, there in solidarity were Charlotte, Liz, Greg & Phil, wearing even less than I was (remember, I had a hat and spectacles). Oh thank you, thank you!

We were all quite bowled over by the numbers. Forget the BBC’s 700: this was bigger than any Critical Mass I have ever been to. At one point the whole of Piccadilly from Park Lane to the Ritz was full of naked or near-naked cyclists, 2000 at least, all stationary, unable to move because of some log-jam or other. We were, of course, very slow and this added to the embarrassment factor. Ordinary tourists, shoppers and other passers-by were lining the streets to try to get a view of us and out came the camera phones. The police took charge fairly well, stopping up side roads to keep the cycling traffic moving, and by the time we reached Whitehall we were able to give it a bit of a blast, moving in excess of 20 mph. This was the exhilarating bit: who needs wicking tops when you have the cool breeze caressing naked skin? There was a short delay at Downing Street as a few of us turned our bare buttocks in Mr. Blair’s general direction, and then we were off again. South of the river, by Waterloo, back over Waterloo bridge and then not that far from Jermyn Street (“We’d all like to buy a shirt please”). Tottenham Court Road, Oxford Street and I remarked to Charlotte that I was suddenly reminded of one of the more repeatable couplets from Eskimo Nel:

“Eighty tits is a gladsome sight
To a man with a raging stand.
It may be rare in Berkeley Square
But not in the Rio Grande”

Well, today was one of those rare occasions.

By now the ride had spread a little, and Oxford Street came and went and we were in Park Lane. Now we really got some speed on and we were heading back under the arch into Hyde Park. By this time, of course, we were inhibition-free and were actually enjoying being nude and perfectly relaxed in each other’s company and we were as reluctant to put our clothes back on as we had been to take them off in the first place. However, beer and food wait for no naturist so we donned a layer of lycra and hied us to Mayfair where we enjoyed an ice-cream and I had a pint of Lancaster Bomber. Then it was another exhilarating ride, led by Liz & Charlotte, as we dodged the bendy buses all the way to Islington where the barbecue awaited us.

Simon, be warned: you might have more than you bargained for on your next Friday Night Ride to the Coast.

Bums away!

This little beauty turned up on Flickr. It’s also in “Caption It”.

We had been held up at some lights and Charlotte suggested racing along Whitehall. Liz took her at her word. This is the pursuit.  

I’ve called it “Chasing Comet’s tail”.