Friday night into Saturday morning saw me taking part in a Friday night ride to the coast: Shoreham-on-Sea. Armed with my trusty Orange Titanium, I set off for the start not far from the London Eye, feeling reasonably optimistic and only mildly aware that I was about to spend the best part of the night pedalling in the direction of a seaside town while most sensible people were either asleep or making poor choices of their own.
My journey there did not take too long, and the weather seemed rather mild. London, however, was doing what London does best: being busy. Near Regent’s Park and later Baker Street, there was the usual parade of taxis, buses, impatient drivers and the occasional cyclist looking as though they had been personally offended by a Brompton overtaking them. By the time I reached Park Lane, I had to be on top form to avoid the truly awful rickshaw bikes, which seemed to be parked wherever their riders fancied or travelling in the most unpredictable of ways. I arrived just as the briefing was taking place and said hello to Geoff, who was on big wheels. Our ride leader, Jim, made a prompt start, and moments after midnight we were off into London at night.
Many parts of the route followed the tried and tested adventure to Brighton, which I have completed many times before. There were a few new riders taking part, along with others who had not done that many long rides. It did make me pause and consider quite how many I have done, and whether I should perhaps question the madness of it all. As you may have read before, these rides are rather addictive. The trouble is, once you have done one, your brain starts telling you that riding through the night for many miles is in some way perfectly reasonable.
By the time we reached Clapham, I spotted the always smiling Natalya, a Brompton owner but on big wheels for this one. It had been ages since we had both been on a ride together, so it was lovely to catch up. One of the nicest things about these events is the way they bring together familiar faces, new faces and the occasional person who looks as if they may have joined purely to see whether anyone can actually enjoy this sort of thing.
As we cycled along, and definitely after Clapham, things started to get quieter. Urban gradually gave way to rural. Traffic thinned out, streetlights became less frequent, and the world narrowed to the beam of my front light and the steady rhythm of the pedals. This is where I usually turn my other light on, because it gets really dark, really quickly. There is something oddly satisfying about moving from the city’s noise into the stillness of the countryside while most of the rest of the country remains tucked up in bed.
The one thing I must report is that fitting a Brooks C17 Carved, brand new but never used before, was a very good move. My posterior end endured no suffering during or after the ride, which in my view counts as a major sporting triumph.
We arrived at the halfway stop at Burstow Scouts at about 03:30, I think. The ever-friendly welcome was there, as were some lovely refreshments. After a sandwich, some crisps and two cups of tea that I seemed to enjoy more than any cup of tea ever before, we headed out into the early morning before dawn. At that point, tea was not merely a drink but a form of moral support.
Normally, I feel like Scott of the Antarctic venturing out of the tent to survey the conditions. This time, I felt okay and not too cold. I simply zipped up my merino jumper, put on my full-length gloves and that was that. A small miracle, really. Either the conditions were kinder than expected or I have become slightly less dramatic with age. I suspect the former, but the latter remains a possibility.
As we cycled along, there were those moments when you are entirely on your own, with nothing but a distant glow of someone else’s rear light way ahead. In those stretches, you can escape into your own thoughts and enjoy the silence. Can you tell I am a Depeche Mode fan? There is something almost meditative about it: the road, the dark, the occasional rustle from the hedgerows and the satisfying knowledge that everyone else is probably in a warm bed, while you are voluntarily climbing another hill.
I could see a partial moon peeking through the clouds. When it emerged, it appeared orange in hue, which only added to the atmosphere. Not long after that, I saw a Barn Owl flying silently from right to left like a ghost. It was all rather magical. Later on, when the sun was up, at least a dozen deer could be seen on my right, standing and watching us break the silence as though we were some mildly eccentric procession of weird deer passing through their territory.
A little before 07:00 we stopped at the rather lovely High Street of Steyning. We had about six miles left to go, but we would be taking our time as the breakfast stop would not open until 08:00. Those of you who have read any of my efforts before may well know what my mind was doing at this point. I did need to get home for some sleep so that I could be somewhere later on in the late afternoon, so I plotted a route to Shoreham-by-Sea station. There was no great drama in this decision, only the practical realisation that even the most enthusiastic Brompton cyclist sometimes has to admit that sleep and life admin exist.
Many thanks to Burstow Scouts for their hospitality and to our ride leader, Jim, who did another excellent job. One day I might actually stay for breakfast at the end, but the draw of getting back to London and home is, it must be said, still too great.
Until next time, stay safe out there people!
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