FNRttC Friday Night Ride to the Coast - Whitstable June 1st

[ianrauk]

It wasn't very shiny by that point, but I was reminded by Ian as I left the Waterfront to clean it when I got home. It's sure a whole new experience to ride, though.
Thank you for the compliments.

It was a lovely shiny looking bike Charlie.. I hope that it is lovely and shiny again?
I think your 'bursting with pride' face at riding such a lovely beast meant that your brain forgot to tell you that.. it was a little cold and wet at times..

 

[clarion]

The Strood team really were tremendous. From the warmth of the welcome, the flashing light (nice touch!) and the ever-smiling attitude, even when faced with a huge queue of soggy cyclists, right through to the unexpected but most appreciated send off. Just brilliant. Thank you.

Because of time constraints, we weren't able to get all the way to Whitstable, but we didn't want to miss this ride for anything, so we came as far as Rochester, and it was well worth it. We still managed to clock up 100km by the time we got home.

Butterfly was inspired by the idea of getting to Whitstable for the long weekend, so, on Sunday, we rode out over the North Downs and followed the Pilgrims Way, crossing the various motorways, trunk roads and rivers as we could. It was a beautifully quiet and pastoral route, though not one which could be safely done by a large group at night, given the poor road surfaces. After a 50km circuit near Canterbury based on the Crab & Winkle way on Monday, we returned home yesterday in conditions which started well, but ended soaked. So we never got to see the views from Botley Hill, which we worked so hard to achieve, but at least we managed to ride to Whitstable & back. 125km each way.

 

[Davywalnuts]

Well, its great to be back, I've missed you all.

Whitstable, no matter what it chucks at us, which, tends to be what ever Mother Nature fancies, on every ride, it is still my favorite.

I'll be brief, as I am still not compus mentus.. but, hey, when ever am I!

Great ride and so thank you one and all. Its always great fun and is always great to see first timers buzzing as what I still do. The excitement never fades.

The new start is good. But I must do my own reccies so I am aware of possible diversions to save being late.. ahem...

The half way stop was FANTASTIC!!! Great idea and great food. I hope they raise lots more, great cause. Well done and a massive thank you.

The end, the Waterfront, I can never complain, always fab, I love that place. Who else lets you have a beverage with brekkie at that time of the morning... And, I think weve found a shortcut to the Station. Groupsaves here are a defo.

In between we had, I think, 14 punctures, what worked out at about one every 510 miles covered, so not too bad given the conditions.This was more than what our dear leader knows, but, I took the executive decision on a few, that where I rolled up to find the situation was dealt with and we were only a couple of mins away from rolling again, ie, tyre being re-inflated/wheel being put back on, not to cause more delays at the front, as I very very conscious of the delays and not wanting to add to them. On my head so be it. I may need a cattle prod for the 'hang-a-bout'ers' however...

The TEC's & Waymarkers are a fab bunch, dedicated all the way. I do hope you hear and see me okay.

And, Bontrager wired hardcases are the spawn of the Devil..

And and, Sittingduck, wow!!! Well done matey. Although, I fear you have become a lightweight in the drinking department.. hehehe.

 

[ceepeebee]

I noticed that there were some big cherry pickers and floodlights at the end of Deptford high street as we passed he other night. Apparently they were filming this: http://crossfields.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/filming-tonight-on-deptford-high-street.html

What made me look it up though was the absolutely marvelous BBC2 programme on Deptford High Street just now - the sort of programme that makes paying a license fee worth it on it's own.

 

[Aperitif]

Here's another journey related to this thread; Whitstable to Whitstable via Dunwich and St Pauls...how about that?
Anthony did the Dynamo and I remember the aching feet, the night getting longer, and wetter, the first 100 miles being 'cracked' and a big achievement.

Then, it only seemed right to have a few beers and lounge around in a sun-drenched Whitstable (The sun, remember that?)

But Anthony had become cautious as the day wore on - previous adventures at the end of my camera notwithstanding...

And the partying continued. Christmas 2010 at some place with cheap beer - "Let's Party!" But Anthony was flagging...

And now, fast forward to 2012 and we have a fit and healthy athlete on the team. Apart from the usual chat at the bar, it was great to see the Sittingduck standing to spin up the slopes and generally get a move on - lovely to see someone in 'full bloom' and dishing out punishment to his pedals. Quote of the day? "That little bowl of chips is probably about 300 calories." Now that's where we started to diverge...Well done Anthony - a 'big' effort!

 

[deptfordmarmoset]

I noticed that there were some big cherry pickers and floodlights at the end of Deptford high street as we passed he other night. Apparently they were filming this: http://crossfields.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/filming-tonight-on-deptford-high-street.html

What made me look it up though was the absolutely marvelous BBC2 programme on Deptford High Street just now - the sort of programme that makes paying a license fee worth it on it's own.

I had a look to see what was going on in the high street before the ride but apart from lots of film hardware, masses of security guards and bystanders waiting for something to happen, there wasn't much activity. A bit like waiting for the Olympics....

On the Secret History of Our Streets, I know a lot of the people and places featured in that programme. And there now seems to be a lot of blogosphere anger that the programme focused so much on the decline of the high street that the positive stuff didn't feature at all. Good TV though, very well researched, and Deptford can survive a few knockbacks - that's what makes it Deptford!

 

[ceepeebee]

I had a look to see what was going on in the high street before the ride but apart from lots of film hardware, masses of security guards and bystanders waiting for something to happen, there wasn't much activity. A bit like waiting for the Olympics....

On the Secret History of Our Streets, I know a lot of the people and places featured in that programme. And there now seems to be a lot of blogosphere anger that the programme focused so much on the decline of the high street that the positive stuff didn't feature at all. Good TV though, very well researched, and Deptford can survive a few knockbacks - that's what makes it Deptford!

My wife was grumbling at a few bits of it - the "lost in the archives" thing in particular - as an archivist herself. Far more likely is that the incriminating documents were buried and mis-filed on purpose. There's something about Deptford I've always liked, it always seems like "proper" london, the sort that my Dad used to tell me about (he was a Brixton/Tulse Hill native).

 

[GrumpyGregry]

My wife was grumbling at a few bits of it - the "lost in the archives" thing in particular - as an archivist herself. Far more likely is that the incriminating documents were buried and mis-filed on purpose. There's something about Deptford I've always liked, it always seems like "proper" london, the sort that my Dad used to tell me about (he was a Brixton/Tulse Hill native).

once upon a time, when files were being purged to save face after a spot of archetypal local authority high-handedness, I may have indulged in a spot of deliberate misfiling myself. For posterity.

 

[dellzeqq]

Deptford is seen as something of a success. The new high-rise high density stuff grouped around the High Street has brought new customers and provided a bit of social housing. It's had a lot of sprucing up thanks to S106 agreements.

 

[StuartG]

Deptford is seen as something of a success.

Yes. But due to a lot more than S106 agreements. Lewisham, and others, have put a major investment into that part of the borough at a cost to other parts. So while Deptford goes up, other bits go down. I suppose if you believe in equality that's OK. 'Cept this country is currently voting to go the other way ...

 

[dellzeqq]

I take your point, although to be fair to Lewisham, they've taken a pragmatic approach to town centres, and probably saved Lewisham from desuetude. Surrey Quays, which I helped to screw up, remains a bit of a mess, though, in large part because of TfL's crazy one way system.

Good to see Nicholas Taylor on the video. A really intelligent man, and fantastically hard working. He turned up at our offices once at about half past seven to look at a proposal - you average chair of planning never ever goes to see the architects, preferring to rely on the filtering by officers.

Not a great bit of reporting, though. I don't think that the demolition footage was of Deptford

 

[Aperitif]

"Deptffordable Housing"
Actually, I liked the blue streak of Greenwich Meridian - as helpfully indicated by Adrian, thank you.
Probably another thing that BigMart missed. His list that I know of:
A Road Sign
A Castle
A Submarine
A Camel
A Balcony full of Bear essentials
A Laser

There's only one eye in Nelson!

 

[dellzeqq]

oooh!

 

[StuartG]

Did anyone watch that BBC4 programme last night about how they had to move the British Space Programme to Woomera because there was nowhere in England they could launch a rocket without disturbing country villages?

 

[theclaud]

I liked the South Bank start. I'm glad that Crockers was wrong about the start point. Not because I like Crockers to be wrong, but because I've always found the passageway under the arches at Waterloo a bit squalid. Having grown up in Boringsuburberley, the Southbank Centre via Waterloo seemed in my youth to be the gateway to London, and I really really like the National Theatre. I still say that slightly nervously as such a confession in my hometown would be enough to mark one out as a dangerous aesthetic subversive or a one-woman architectural awkward-squad. We began the ride with a pint of Polish beer and a kabanos, amongst a litterscape, eavesdropping on what can only be described as a complete parcel of self-gratification artists. An utter shower.

I might write more in a minute. I have been deputed to ascertain the value of a Burberry purse. Any ideas?

I said this, and then I didn’t exactly forget, but the moment passed. It often happens that way. We value immediacy when it comes to ride reports, cold beers and hot baths. Being cold and wet does something for a hot bath that the memory or the idea of being cold and wet can never do. Cold and wet again yesterday evening on the way home from work, I recalled the oversight and wondered whether I would ever make good on my intention. The trick, I figured, is not one of memory at all – it is to let go of whatever you might have written then, and write something else instead, from where you are now. Yesterday’s very particular cold-and-wetness took two forms: the morning’s exhilarating dash through the waves breaking over the sea wall; and the evening’s drubbing by a 40mph crosswind-turned-headwind that has clearly been designed by a malicious God to remind the cyclists of the Mumbles how little they deserve their smug seaside commute.Such ill-natured deities should not be appeased, or gratified with submission. It would be easy to hurl one’s bicycle into the waves, careen into The Woodman Inn and shelter in a pint or seven of something undistinguished. The thing to do instead is to surrender to the absurdity of the ride, change down to a gear that would amuse tandemists on Ditchling Beacon, and sing songs of improbable cheeriness with great gusto, un-self-conscious in the knowledge that every word and every note will be dashed to pieces on the wind. Choose something like this:

It helps to have a whole repertoire of this stuff. Sticking with Irving Berlin, I recall a slightly prosaic adaptation that once came to mind to celebrate the right choice of winter apparel in a particularly vicious north-easterly:

I can’t remember a worse December
Just watch those icicles form!
What do I care if icicles form?
I’ve got my gloves to keep me warm.

Unromantic, undeniably, but pleasure (like everything else) is inseparable from context. And “context”, lately, seems mostly to mean “rain”. The thing with the rain on the Whitstable ride is that it wasn’t supposed to be there. In this it was unlike the rain on Sunday. When we awoke to Sunday’s rain we were so ready for it that it would almost have been disappointing if the sun had come out. Notionally, Susie, Simon and I had planned to follow the Whitstable jaunt (and, for them, segue into the Morecambe one) by cycling from London to Swansea in three stages over the bank holiday. In fact, having spent a pleasant Saturday afternoon simultaneously drying out and getting sauced, we were in no mood to undo all our hard work, so we went Pretend Cycling with great ceremony and seriousness, taking great care to select the right lycra-cladding and long-distance cycling accoutrements with which to skip multiple sections of the ride by train, pausing at sundry stations to eat pasties and frown at the weather before shirking the next stage in like manner. We made up for all this by doing some Actual Cycling over Swindon’s Magic Roundabout, laughing like maniacs, just as the road planners must have laughed. More Wiltshire witchcraft followed, in the shape of uphills disguised as downhills. Exhausted by all this trickery, we retired with 17 miles under our belts. Simon had to cuddle a fluffy kitten to get over it all.

Monday went to plan. 88 miles to Cardiff, via the old Severn Bridge. An unseasonably cold morning and some textbook English scenery, spoilt now and again by Wiltshire drivers, who quite simply go too fast. At least twelve Mummers mumming, but we got out of Chippenham unscathed, and were only slightly disgruntled by Yate.

On reflection, it was probably a mistake to pronounce gradient a thing of the past as soon as we were past Chepstow. Bored of the main road and the buzz of traffic at our elbows, the ‘Zeqq spectacles were lofted to the forehead and a confident diversionary loop to the south was traced on the map. I nodded approvingly. Susie’s shoulders and eyebrows shifted briefly upwards in an eloquent, economical gesture that contained a mixture of trust, indifference, exhaustion and veiled threat. We picked a likely-looking left turn. The tarmac became alarmingly rustic. Simon flagged down an approaching Land Rover for reassurance.

“This is a through road, right? To Newport via Llanwern?”
“Oh yes. You could’ve just kept to the A48.”
“We fancied the scenic route. So we’re on the right road?”
“Yep. Just keep going. Right at the T-junction. Left at the next one. Up the hill, down the hill [some wincing occurs at this point, and the miscreants avoid turning to meet Susie’s eye], through the village, left up the steep hill [further wincing; Simon toys nervously with the third finger of his left hand] and down again to the main road.”​

We thank the driver and set off. There’s an “Ahem” from behind me. “Not far to Newport,” I offer weakly. The driver’s descriptions were spot-on. At the top of the steep hill I recognise that we are close to re-joining the flat route. “That really is the last hill!” I say desperately. It’s the truth, but it’s too late. The reply contains no anger; merely the sadness and resignation of the betrayed:

“I just don’t believe you any more.”
​

A tailwind on The Wentloog Levels delivered us in tired but agreeable form to Cardiff Bay in warm sunshine, where Susie bought us a lovely dinner. I felt forgiven. We drank a bit, but not enough to stop us getting up early and putting on serious faces for the recce leg to Swansea, which featured some improved tarmac, a makeshift breakfast, Quite A Lot of Rain, A Big Townie Fuss About Cattle Grids, The Laleston variation, a 12-metre-deep hole, and a bit more Pretend Cycling to finish. Drinking restrictions were lifted, happily, at Chateau Claud, finally bringing about the postponed ending to the Whitstable Weekend. We’d had to duck out earlier than usual on the Saturday morning to attend to a street party and the aftermath of a theft, which made Whitstable feel a little less Whitstabley. Arriving at Whitstable station sober was something of a revelation of simplicity, even though I did nearly take out Stu for missing the unprepossessing left turn from the main road. It’s difficult to believe that Origamist and I once got lost for about twenty minutes, searching for Davy, who turned out not to be lost at all. The Waterfront Café is, for me, the FNRttC destination par excellence: the location and the pleasure of the company there two of the many things that had me hooked on the ride from the start. Proper seaside, with proper beer, proper chips and proper lovely folk to share it all with. I’m pleased that the birthday boys’ celebrations went swimmingly. By way of atonement for my failure to participate, I am nursing the incipient LonJoG Beer Fund.

As for the bit in the middle, the ride itself, most of the stories I might have told have been told already. I belonged to the cohort of wayfinders that waited on lonely stations for The Big Sweep, the “All-Up!” from Mister Walnuts, the “FFS!” from Adrian. My longest wait was an uneventful one on the quieter end of Bannockburn Road. I could see Big Gee’s light at the top of the road, and kept an eye on it for reassurance. Homeward-bound revellers were looking at me curiously, but not as curiously as they might have been, given that it doubtless seemed to them that two cyclists had come out at silly o’clock merely to stand 300 yards apart in Plumstead and exchange Morse code signals.

Enough has been said about the catch-up. I sort of enjoyed the urgency of it, and the way it seemed fuelled entirely by Adrian’s exasperation, but it was the last spurt of energy I had left that day and night, and it left me doing what I can now only think of as lollygagging on hills later in the ride. The word came back to haunt me on every sluggish ascent, as an Enigmatic figure in blue rose to the top of every hill like a bubble. It seemed like the night belonged to the singlespeeders until Simon and User10571 threw some of them a googly with the special Safety Hill. As a sometime lollygagger, I’m now looking for a parallel term to describe the behaviour of those who spurn the gift of gravity and wear away their brakes and mine with unwarranted caution on the descents. Suggestions invited. And where’s Lee when you need him?

I’m very glad I came. But I’m also quietly relieved I’m not going to Morecambe tonight...