pretty much the one that got away.
Susie had been bombarding me with germs all week, coughing and sneezing to beat the band. On Thursday her evil plan came to fruition - I collapsed under the sheer weight of microbes and took to my bed, consumed by ague. 'special' hat jammed over my eyes and ears. My plan was to burn up the cold by turning the internal thermostat to max, and to turn up on the night swathed in thermals, accepting a bit of a falling-over afterwards. I had faith in the ride more or less running itself.......
.....which it showed every sign of doing, with Andrij and Adrian making a move for their wayfinding stations and the entire ride following them away from HPC, leaving me behind. Quoi! All of a sudden the man with the mission transformed in to the man who went missing.
We reached the Embankment in good shape, and turned east, the breeze forecast by the Met Office at our backs. There was some messing about and delay caused by the closure of the Blackfriars underpass, and a traffic jam all the way across the City (at quarter past midnight) which we didn't clear until our re-group at Tower Hill Station. From then on it was the good old-fashioned FNRttC groove, through Mile End, Bow, past the Mittal Messup
http://www.minyanville.com/special-...rmittal-wealthiest-person/10/21/2010/id/30619 in and out of Tesco's and then on to Romford where we waited for the Puncture Group to catch up.
There was a bit of an odd moment in Romford. A police Range Rover stopped for a word. I was on the far side of the road. so I've got this second hand, but apparently the police told the fifty or so cyclists gathered by the side of the road that Romford wasn't a nice place. So much for the tourist board marketing campaign.
Off we went to Brentwood, jewel of mid Essex, at 120 metres, the high point of the ride. Another puncture, dealt with efficiently by Team Ians/Teef/Davy, while we slipped down the hill and off toward Mountnessing.
In to the dark. Now, for the first time, the sky came in to its own. Jupiter blazing, a million stars twinkling and the big soft round moon, like some familiar lamp in the corner of the room. We negotiated the ford, Mandy and Claudine coming to grief on the ice (those of you sending texts and e-mails imploring me for updates on the TC ankle should rest assured - I have inspected it and it remains the acme of grace and proportion that it ever was) and the rest of us enjoyed some comedy moments getting away, but get away we did, turing south before climbing Honeypot Lane to Stock.
Stock is a pretty village (and all the prettier for having a bit of DZ architecture taran-tara) with three fine churches and a splendid mill, but the village hall is living testament to the spirit of the place. Warm, accommodating and staffed on Friday night by the Excellent Tully Family, who laid out a spread that we simply couldn't do justice to. The prices were an outrage - roll, cakes and tea set me back £2.30 - so Adrian took it upon himself to pass around the Special Hat to raise an extra few bob for the village football team changing rooms.
Peter W had cycled over from Southend and offered a more southerly, less icy route in to Southend, an offer too good to turn down. We set off southward, along the western edge of the vast Hanningfield Reservoir, Peter sharing nuggets of local and family history with those at the front. Through Wickford (better done by night than by day) and the gap between the DfT's 'motorways by stealth' in to Rayleigh and past the smallest council house in Britain
before re-grouping in Rayleigh town centre (see Wickford, above) and setting off south for Tattershall Gardens.
Here we collected and admired the lights on the Kent shore of the Thames, gazed in wonder at the gas flares from the cracking towers (thankyou Ianrauk) at Corringham, and oohed at the shooting star of all shooting stars heading toward Canvey Island. Then down to Leigh, across the railway line, past the fishing sheds and along the cinder path past a thousand boats resting on the mudflats. By this time dawn was a burnt orange stain on the horizon, the white stucco-ed villas of Westcliff catching the first rays and reflecting them back across the estuary. We rolled in to Southend at 6.45, amid cries of wonder from Sandra, who clearly takes a close interest in contemporary architecture! Poor Chris had been let down by two members of staff not turning up, but he managed the kitchen while his granddaughter did the business with tea and coffee. At this point, having survived the ride I pretty much collapsed in a microbe meltdown. To those of you who had to bear the stream of drivel that passed for conversation, apologies.
In time Helen and Del came by, and, from what I can remember, everybody chatted away about pretty much anything or nothing. Davy, Teef and the two Ians received a well-deserved heroes' welcome, and I tried, but failed to thank those who stood on cold streetcorners, sometimes for quite a while - in no particular order, and knowing full well that I'm going to miss somebody out, Andrij, Adrian, Mick D, Miranda, Claudine, Grahame, Gordon, Ben (on his first ride), Rimas, Andy, Charlie, Alex, the Stuarts, Lee and Werner - a list that, however incomplete demonstrates that this is what cycling clubs should be about.
So, well done to Cate who found the Whitstable ride a bit tough but came back for more, well done to Adrian for going on every FNRttC for the last three years, well done to Mark P whose smile to miles ratio has got to be some kind of record, and thankyou one and all. It was great.
