Central London CTC blog

Dunwich Dynamo seems a relative newcomer to the calendar. I liked the sound of it and and went so far as to practise for it one year, perhaps even the very first. But it took place on the coldest July night for a century and I gave it a miss. Each successive year I thought I would do it. But it was a shock to find that this year’s edition was the seventeenth.

London Fields was heaving, not just with riders arriving, but with crowds of local people sprawled in the still-hot evening sunshine. The smell of barbecue filled the air. The départ at the Pub on the Park is rather constricted, but I was quickly able to fall in quickly with George, Jon and Richard. At the last moment Snuggsy showed up and we set off promptly at 8…only to be arrested by a text from Rory to tell us to hang on.

Hackney is Jon’s terrain and under his guidance we slither like quicksilver through the crowded streets, avoiding entanglement with the mass departure. Heading up the Lea Bridge Road for Epping Forest, we fall into a familiar pattern: George off the front, pursued by Snuggsy. By the time we reach Epping, both are gone. It is now about the middle of the evening and the party that is A Saturday Night Out In Essex is in full swing. Crowds of young adults, buffed and dressed up in their holiday kit, spill out the door of every pub and club. Laughter and shrieks rent the smoke- and scent-flavoured air.

The Dunwich Dynamo is a unique trip, almost a forensic exploration of Saturday night, from the high spirits and flirtation of early evening, through the comedy and drama of the middle act, to the hysteria and collapse of the finale. We were pointed at, shouted at, cheered, jeered and even mooned by pavement spectators.

Outside the towns, the fields gradually gave up their colour and turned to a monochrome glow as the sun slipped below the horizon. Such breeze as there was, barely perceptible, wafted us along. Our four-man group seemed to freewheel for miles on end: it was as if we had discovered the secret of perpetual motion.

Something past 10 we reached Great Dunmow and picnicked in the gloaming on a broad sward of turf, still dry and dewless. We watched as two riders on recumbents set out nightlights to mark the turn. As we remounted, we were caught by a large bunch of later starters. Among them was a lively group of Dulwich Paragons, Richard’s other club, and for while all was quite hectic on the road.

We crossed the border into Suffolk and, with rather more than 100 km covered, reached the feed station in the village hall at Great Waldingfield. The servers were working flat out but the line for food was growing by the moment. There was George eating water-melon, Charlie, and Gerard too. Text messages from Snuggsy told us he was out of sorts and had packed in Epping Forest, and from Rob saying he had returned home after suffering two punctures en route to the start.

Charlie joined us for the re-start, but where was Gerard? Nowhere to be seen. Now was the darkest middle of the night, with the near-full moon occluded by cloud. While the citizenry slept, we stole like wraiths through their towns and villages. Out in the Suffolk lanes, I started to have queer effects of the light. When I was on the front, the powerful beam of Jon’s fat front lights sent tall silhouettes of cyclists dancing down the highway and hedgerows, making it hard to steer a straight line. Singling out behind him, I found the bright flash of his tail light made all around fall away to blackness. I plunged along on Jon’s wheel at evens-plus, seeing nothing, trusting entirely to him to pick the right line. It was all quite psychedelic.

The ride takes place near midsummer for obvious reasons, and not long after 2, the darkness thinned, and some peripheral vision returned. By 3, there was obviously light in the sky. At 4, you could read a newspaper unassisted. With the return of the light, Richard and I got a big frisky, went off the front, and missed a turn. Backtracking, we rejoined the others who appeared to be enjoying the break. Shortly after we saw a sign for Dunwich: 7 miles. These were assuredly country miles: a finger post, easily missed, announced a Byway and we ascended a small, wooded ridge over a steep, narrow, gravelly lane more like the Chilterns than Suffolk and at this distance a real test for the many on fixed. Then the drawn-out approach over Dunwich Heath to the North Sea coast. Finally we emerge from the sand dunes at 5:10 and see the sea, gleaming dully in the dawn rays.

The Dunwich beachside cafe is doing a roaring trade, its large front terrace already filled with cyclists snurfing beer and fried breakfasts. There is no common reference point for this constituency of cyclists: there is a strong Hackney flava (I even saw a brakeless fixed — whatever are they thinking of?), and a good number of club riders. A typical outfit might be a Rapha Andy Hampsten Giro Souvenir Edition maglia rosa teamed with camo baggies, suggestive of the way this ride unites the different tribes. There was also a sprinkling of leisure cyclists on less sporting equipment, but in the main these were not here yet…

Our posse remounts for the 50-km ride to Ipswich as rain begins. A weary and increasingly bedraggled party takes shelter in an Audax hotel (a brick bus shelter) while Rory fixes a puncture. Large agricultural machinery grinds past. After an hour or so, the rain blows through, leaving everything sparkling in the morning sun. We meet a Suffolk CTC who offers to guide us in to Ipswich the clever way. As we vault the A12 on our scenic back lane, we spot a solitary rider toiling up the long gradient of the dual-carriageway below.

Our guide drops us off at the train station — thank you! — and within 10 minutes we are London-bound. An American girl, wide-eyed, asks Rory about our ride. He recounts, briefly, the story of our night out. “Oh — and you didn’t think of riding back?” she asks. There really is no answer to that.

Gentlemen, thanks — I look forward to more Saturday nights out with you. But not for a while yet.