Central London CTC blog

A Brrrrrrill ride

Shamed the previous week, a respectable crowd showed up shivering at Marylebone, to get as far as we could before the next tornado. The view from the train windows of heavily frosted fields was not promising, and High Wycombe was an obvious exception to the threatened global warming. Cold enough to make breathing painful, the first hill was a cruel but effective way to warm up stiff legs. While some applied the rule ‘keep moving = keep warm’, my kangaroo hopping tactic at the halts failed to save the feeling in my feet. We took the 2nd easiest way up the hill at Brill (thanks Mr S) and did not stop to admire the murky view from the windmill. The Pheasant was not just warm but welcoming, efficient, and fed us extra chips.

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Sunday 17th December – an Ugley ride with Phil Cordingley (**)

I’ve got lulled into a false season, so although I and a few others felt chill on arrival at Broxbourne, the fact that I was still exposing flesh in mid-December was more surprising – nor, as it turned out, was I particularly cold all day. Some of us had ridden out to meet the train, making 14 all told. Train problems had already diverted the ride from Bishops Stortford, so Phil was planning the route as we rode. Just as well, as this was a day punctuated by deflations. First in Bayford, then another before the Hertingfordbury turn. On through Hertford and Bengeo, then a quick discussion and on to Bennington for lunch, via a rather nasty bit of A road. Except we didn’t all get to Bennington together, Phil having to do his border collie imitation to find the flock. The Bell was very welcoming – a good, no-nonsense pub, to be recommended. Outside to another puncture, a mile later yet another. As 3 of the 4 punctures were on one wheel, and another on a partner wheel, said pair retired, somewhat hurt, to Watton for a train home. The rest pressed on, through Buntingford and Furneaux to Manuden and, in failing light, to Stortford.

The above might sound somewhat a catalogue of despair, but somehow it wasn’t. It was a very nice cycle ride, the sun shone, the company was good.

To quote the BBC, ‘It’s what we do’.

Two reports on truncated rides – one cut short due to illness and gross moral turpitude, the other due to mechanicals and lighting issues.

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On December 3rd, Charlie Keep led his first ride for us:

Sunday was a day on which one might have pulled back the curtain at seven AM and thought, “Hmm, its blowing a squally force nine south-westerly out there. I could stay in bed, drink cups of tea and read the paper, or I could go cycling on a particularly windy part of the Essex coast.” Four of us made the obvious choice and went out for a ride.

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Global warming has well and truly kicked in, which meant the start of autumn delayed by four weeks to coincide with Mark’s spectacularly pretty trip through the North Downs. The weather was sunny, if chilly, and the trees were putting on a show of leaf colour of New Hampshire proportions.Seventeen riders was the eventual tally, and there were plenty of the promised hills, although none too long. Mark led the ride perfectly, with David Kurtz a very patient whipper-in, despite most of us having some very long waits (in the cold) at junctions.

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Well, a magnificent sunny November day brought the “Magnificent 7” to Boxhill Station. It would have been the magnificent 8 but Marion missed the train, we did try to link up latter but it did not work out. Marion did let me know later that she had quite a good if lonely morning anyway.Our ride today was a sort of figure of 8 based around Boxhill. Paul, Kerryn (first timer, welcome Kerryn) Marieanne. Tim, Mark and Ailan from across the river, (thanks for joining us gents) and I, made up the magnificent 7. “Ah” a grand site as we first headed off to the toilets at the nearby car park!

Then up to the North Downs ridge, but this time by an easier more scenic route than on my last ride, through Denbies vineyards which looks out over the valley, Dorking to our left and on the other side of the valley to the right Leith Hill Tower could just be seen by the naked eye if you know it is there, the autumn leaves giving a magnificent array of colour in the bright sunshine.

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Ride south young man I thought today as I set off for Victoria from the top of north London. Victoria Station was busy but I was able to spot the knot of cyclists by the timetable boards on the concourse and spotted some of the usual suspects, namely, Camille, John and Nick but they were eager to inform me that they were doing the 2* ride led by Mark Knox. Mark was in evidence as were other familiar faces and several unfamiliar ones but as I was doing the 3* ride the temptation to hit the roads in Kent was not that great and as I expect to be in Kent next week when John will be doing more bits of The Pilgrims Way. I had to look round a bit before I spotted another candidate for the long ride into West Sussex.Eventually the two groups took shape and the dozen or so for Mark’s ride definitely outnumbered those that we of the same mind as myself and were waiting for Nick Dean to arrive to organise our departure. Eventually six set off for the train to Sutton and the long ride over the North Downs through Surrey. At Sutton we became seven as Roger Cline had cycled out to meet the train.

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Dinkily numbered and purpled-up, the mob converge (trains not withstanding) to start the End of Summertime 100k. Those organised or unconfident had blagged early start times but we built in some nifty handicapping. Put the etapers and esteemed on fixed, get mile-eaters riding 50k to the start, and give Inez builder-itis. Finally set Simon to hare ahead with the racing clubs to prove that purple can pace-set, until he gets tired of their showing off.

The route was straightforward, a litany of familiar names, and rolling enough (flat – pah) to be interesting but not enough to swear (pardon, Nick?). The weather could not be bettered, with only a splash of autumnal mud, and the controls were just that (those dinky little numbers weren’t solely for effect). The Hare Street halt saw us beginning to congregate, and at the Saffron Walden turn a plan was hatched. Then, at Reed, the pre-arranged signal (‘Hurry up and finish that cake’), a wagon train formed and the 11-strong purple peloton set sail in full glory.

So it wasn’t a perfect echelon, and a couple of overshot turnings testify to the slowness of our democratic decision-making… But a solid swathe of purple black and white, complete with fixed outriders, sweeping past ancient churchyards was a suitably awe-inspiring if gothic sight. Admiring, nay envious, comments were many – it was obvious that that diverse pack in pretty purple have more fun.

And thanks to little green riding, we were piloted safely back into Stevenage (then we got lost in the park) just as the sun was sinking. Indeed, the sole down-side to the day was the end of summertime. Roll on spring.