Wow!
And twice wow!
So – we left the house at about ten, me with my spare wheel, not being sure of the re-built 16 spoke jobby. Got to Victoria, and went upstairs to the car park to meet Robert and the Martlets Transport Crew who were unloading 25 bikes from a van. Went downstairs and met some Martleteers. Up and down the escalators, collecting riders from the van, while downstairs more and more started to arrive. Bringing the last of them down to a sea of bikes – some of a distinctly clunky nature and one of a distinctly tall nature, with Greg C signing them in.
Getting to HPC wasn’t the usual hardcore dash. More Simon standing in the middle of the road, holding the traffic at bay while sixty or so flashing rear lights made stately progress across some pretty formidable junctions.
At HPC more flashing lights. Hellos said while Janie and Greg did the signing in bit, and then yet another embarrassing safety talk. After a delay occasioned by police cars whizzing about in this and that direction, Daniel P and I did the traffic hold-up thing again, both feeling just a little insignificant, while a stream, a waterfall of lights slipped on to the road, made their way around to Grosvenor Crescent (more traffic holding up) and south in to the soft underbelly of Belgravia.
We didn’t just ride down roads. We took them over. This was a big deal. Every few hundred yards a yellow jacket pointed straight ahead. I held up the traffic on the south circular while rider after rider after rider after rider emerged from the bushes and bumped down the kerb. What could the chap driving the car in the front of the queue do, other than to goggle at a man on a bike seven foot high, a woman on a penny farthing, a couple of recumbents (one about as low as tea tray) and any type of bike you like with any type of person you like popped in to view. It took three or four minutes for them to roll on by, making the A205/A3 junction their very own.
Down, down, down through Balham and Tooting. I got to the front, which probably wasn’t as much fun as being at the back. People leant out of pubs, pointing, and you had to think ‘you’ve seen nothing yet. Wait till the tea tray with six superbright front lights goes past’. We had our first van-ee, reluctantly taking the view that one of our number just wasn’t going to get the trip.
There’s a moment in these rides when you know the job is done, and that moment is the roundabout at the northern side of Mitcham Common. That’s when you start to hear the hum of tyres. The ride spreads out. We’re on our own. People get in to the FNRttC groove, and it has to be said that the groove looked pretty darn efficient. For all the shortcomings in the hardware, the Martlets riders lacked neither resolve nor energy. A double puncture was fixed lickety-spit, gasguns working in relay. The minibus and the van appeared out of the gloom from time to time, and parked up behind us. Portnalls Road was climbed without great fuss, and the peloton lit up the High Road over the Downs, lights winding away in to the distance. Small conversations broke out and then subsided. And down Reigate Hill, all in good shape...
Lonesome Lane, with a rider marking the mother of all potholes, and the speedsters clipping the apex on User10571’s bend, and on once more, through Horley to the Scout Hut, leaving a trail of wayfinders on dark corners. The pennyfarthing’s cranks went hors de combat, phoned reports whizzing around Surrey skies, as the beams of front lights snaked between hedgerows. And then, brightness, friendly faces and a spread, the best spread a cyclist could wish for at half past three in the morning. Piles of cake, urns of tea, bananas by the bucketload. Faces put to bikes. Antonia, the Queen of Cakes and a sizeable Martlets Cafe Crew were the living spit of sweet solicitude.
The second half is a different thing entirely. An air of confidence spreads through the peloton, and speeds pick up a little. The stops are less about roadside strings, and more about village green get-togethers. And, last night, the skies cleared, giving us the ghost of view from the top of Turners Hill, and clear air down to Ardingly. My ride went all Ernesto, the bike doing its thing up and down gradients without apparent assistance from yrs truly. We skipped through Lindfield, swished through Wivelsfield and swooped down through Ditchling.
The Beacon isn’t the set piece it used to be. People make the own way up, ILB rising like a soap bubble, the rest of us hacking or walking, and then wander down to the seafront in small groups. We got word that the frontrunners had reached the Madeira as the last of us arrived at the summit. Which means, the more astute of you will have deduced, no queues. The Martlets Chair was there to say hello, to say a gracious thankyou, and to state the obvious – the FNRttCers are a fine bunch. We thanked him for the opportunity and for the cake. Folk said their goodbyes, the cafe cleared, and Susie, Bridget and I wandered off to the station and home, thinking ourselves very lucky indeed.
This was a great night out. Good weather, clear roads, wonderful company. I’ll let you know what it contributed to the care of the dying when the numbers go through, but it won't be inconsiderable. We did well, very well. Thankyous might be merited, but they’re superfluous – this ride has developed a will of its own, and we’re all doing our bit to make it the best way to breakfast. Southend-on-Sea beckons. And my inbox is starting to glow....
