Last weekend was the opening of the Art Cities Landscape project in Amiens. As my friend Will Nash has work in this years show, and as he could carry my tent and sleeping bag in his campervan, it seemed daft not to dig out the panniers I’ve had since I was 16 and book a ferry ticket.
It’s 3.30 on Sunday afternoon and I’m driving east on the M4. Jo is asleep in the passenger seat and I’m hoping there are some services soon. I really really need a can of red bull. The last time I slept properly was Friday night…
A few weeks before chance conversations with Jo Burt and Rory Hitchens somehow sees me invited to be official photographer with the Pivot-Boompods racing team at Mountain Mayhem, the 24 hour mountain bike race in Gatcombe Park in Gloucestershire. After setting up camp late Friday afternoon I am surrounded by riders fiddling with bikes and sorting out kit for the race. Seeing as I know all my camera batteries are charged I crack open a beer. A few hours later stories and beer flow long into the night as the more sensible riders drift off one by one to tents and vans for well needed slumber. The rest of us drink and chat until the early hours.
On Saturday morning we all wake to clear blue skies. Apparently this is unusual for Mayhem. Bikes are fettled some more, warm ups ridden, lap orders are worked out. I’m meandering around with a camera trying not to get in the way whilst simultaneously getting in the way. As midday nears I head for the main arena. I watch the mad dash at the start and stroll off into the woods to find some good spots to watch and snap. After a few hours of hours of wandering around the woods I head back to basecamp under the beating sun. It’s really very hot once out of the shade of the woodland. The riders must be suffering. Sitting in the shade for a bit I try to work out a plan for alternating photographing and getting some rest during the next 20 or so hours. A plan I don’t stick to.
Early evening I head back into the main arena to see how the race is panning out for the teams. It’s going well, both teams are in the top 5 and solo rider Matt is going good too. The Pivot-Boompods Allstars are swapping the lead with Salsa Factory Racing, the lead fluctuating back and forth, never more than a few minutes either way. I head back into the woods with a tripod and a beer and wait for darkness to fall. Slowly bright flashes of coloured jerseys give way to the tracings of high lumen lights twisting through the trees. Around 1 a.m. I pop back to the arena to find out what is going on. Euan Boompod twisted his chain on a lap so the Salsa team have taken a 10 minute advantage. It’s very quiet. All but the most serious teams have retired to sleeping bags and won’t be back out until light comes again. I decide to get some kip.
A little before 4.30 a.m. I’m back at the transition zone. It’s quiet still. The light is pale and weak, the sun still below the horizon. Whilst I was dozing the Boompods have clawed back five minutes. I grab a cup of tea with Jo after he returns from an early morning lap. As he heads for a nap I traipse of back into the woods. Golden beams of sunlight stream through the trees. I follow the course further into the woods, beyond the parts of the course I found on Saturday. Every now and again a Boompod or a Salsa screams past, there’s definitely a race on. The tracks are getting fuller and fuller as the sun climbs higher above the trees and riders awake and get back out on the course.
I find a section where the course pinches together and I can catch riders on two separate corners, one where they are climbing up from a lake, another a fast sweeping right hander. I shuffle back and forth every time I see a rider I know. Jo attempts to crash into me. I’ve noticed the Boompods are starting to do double laps. I’m snapping away whilst shouting encouragement. They must be closing the gap. By mid-morning I arrive back at camp as Matt rolls in with a thousand yard stare. He announces they are now 3 minutes ahead and disappears into the dark of his van. Rory and team riders are huddled over a sheet of paper working out timings and how to snatch the win. I really need a nap but there is no time. I stuff a biscuit in my mouth and stagger back to the transition zone.
The team are turning themselves inside out on every lap, barely able to stand after each handover. I feel bad shoving a camera in their faces but these are the pictures that will complete the story. After 24 hours the race is going to come down to a matter of minutes, possibly seconds. There is an air of excitement all around the arena, everyone know there is a race on. The big electronic clock is counting down, “One minute left” crackles through the tannoy. If Euan can get back within the next 60 seconds then Matt can get out for one final lap. If the Salsa team don’t get back within the next 60 seconds then the Pivot-Boompods Allstars win. If they both come into the arena together then it could come down to a sprint.
A huge cheer ripples through the crowd that deeply lines the barriers as Euan appears. There’s no sign of the Salsa rider yet. Euan crosses the line and hands over to Matt with 20 seconds to spare. Matt heads out into the field not knowing whether his final lap will be a lap of honour or if it’ll be a sprint chased by a Salsa rider. The Salsa team don’t make it back in time, by seconds. On paper the Boompods win by a lap, in reality they win by little more than a minute. The race between the Pivot-Boompods Allstars and Salsa Factory Racing has been immense. This isn’t to forget that the other Pivot-Boompods team had their own battle for third place which they only just missed out on.
It was fantastic to watch the racing and emotions play out at a slight distance, collating a set of images to share with the team to see what it looked like from the outside. Having one set of riders to focus on meant there was a structure to what I was capturing, a story unfolding through the lens. I had the privilege of seeing the race from many angles; riders preparing and relaxing back at camp, tensely waiting in the handover zone, hacking it around the course, exhausted and empty after each and every lap.
Next year I want to go back and race it solo. There’s plenty of time to come to my senses…
There a full sets of photos at
https://www.flickr.com/photos/themanfromicon/sets/72157645513425521/
Many thanks to Jo, Rory, Paul, Euan, Frazer, Rich, Matt, James, the other Matt, Jono, Shaggy, Lea, Phil and the other Frazer.
When I unload my bike out of the back of my mate Paul’s car outside the Windmill Cafe there are already a lot of cyclist milling about. As I thank Paul for the lift and saving me the long uphill drag from Hampton I spot Pete from Milltag. After a quick “Good morning” I grab my brevet card and Jaffa Cake. Breakfast of champions! Dead on 8 we’re off and a large clump of riders heads south. It’s early on a Sunday so there’s little traffic about and we are shifting through the streets of south London at quite a pace. There’s not a cloud in the sky and it’s already warm. The group splits into smaller and smaller groups. I recognise the route from when I did the annual London to Brighton charity ride a couple of years ago. We’re in a fast group that seems to be mainly made up of Kingston Wheelers.
As we hit the first of the climbs at Carshalton I drift out the back but catch up again on the descent, but with each of the next couple of climbs around Chipstead and Hooley I drop back a little bit more each time, requiring more effort to close the gaps. I can see Pete ahead but I decide to ease off a bit as there’s a long way to go yet. I’m not the only one falling off the back of the fast group and slowly sole riders coalesce over the next few kilometres, a few Wheelers, a couple of Dulwich Paragon, we’re picking riders up as they get caught at junctions. Soon there is small gang of us working together. Not long after passing under the M23 we pick up Pete who dropped his chain somewhere along the way. More riders join us as we hit Turners Hill and head towards the first control at Highbrook, 55km in.I lean my bike against a wall and head for the village hall. As I near the smell of bacon sarnies wafts out of the door. I’m starting to like this audax malarkey. Inside I get my brevet stamped, grab some food and fill my bidons. A few minutes latter we’re back on the road, and lanes I know well; Hammingden, Plummerdon, Slugwash, Hundred Acre, Streat. I’ve ridden these lanes week in week out all spring, I know every turn and undulation, where I can carry speed into a corner to get over the next lump. Along the way we pick up Mike (@23mmuk) and form a working party of three that sticks together for the next 100km.There’s much chatting as we head further south, the South Downs looming larger and larger ahead of us. On Streat Lane we pass the Brighton Velo Cafe Sunday ride and Lois (@claudandi) shouts hello as we whizz past. We’re nearing Ditchling Beacon. I drop down a few gears in anticipation. As I turn onto the Beacon I drop through all the gears. It’s now very warm, it’s less than half distance, and it’s not a day for racing up the Beacon. I forget to check the info control as I top out over the climb as I’m just concentrating on breathing and pedalling. Fortunately Pete and Mike did remember to check the info control.
Once over the top it’s down into Patcham, past the Withdean Stadium, and up to Dyke Road. If I turn left here it’s a 2km descent home. I turn right. We’re heading back over the downs, up the slow drag to Devil’s Dyke for the next info control. From here it’s the fast descent into Fulking and along the bottom of the downs to the lunch control in Upper Beeding. Parking the bikes up outside a house we walk around to the back garden to be confronted by gazebos, parasols, tables and chairs, big bowls of food and a massive earn of chilled water. We get our brevets checked, sit in the shade, and tuck in to some much needed lunch, pasta followed by rice pudding and peaches. I’m definitely liking this audax stuff. Many thanks to Bob from Brighton Excelsior and his wife for their hospitality.I’ve ridden the next stretch as far as Plaistow a few times so knowing it is pretty flat so we crack on through Steyning, Ashington, and Adversane. As we pass by Billingshurst I start to feel lethargy in my legs and yo-yo off the back a little bit. I catch back up and whilst Pete and Mike have a nice chat I draft them, just pushing the pedals around as I stare at their rear hubs. I pass a corner at Plaistow where I once marshalled a race so I know the next feed station must be soon. I just need to get there. I’m sure they’ll be cake and tea. Arriving in Chiddingfold we’re presented with a bucolic vision of English village life, a village farye on the green, brightly coloured bunting and stalls contrasting with the green grass and bright blue sky. The checkpoint is the village cricket pavilion and indeed there are many cakes laid out. A cup of tea is ordered and I pile in a couple of teaspoons of sugar.
After this final brief stop we just need to get back over the North Downs and back into London. I’m really feeling the distance now but manage to keep up with the pace again. We’re riding those distinctive Surrey lanes that are worn deep into the North Downs, all exposed tree routes and the smell of warm earth. Pinpricks of sunlight piercing the green canopy flicker across my retinas. Descending towards Bramley I see a flash of red in front on me and realise Pete has dropped his brevet card. I ask a rider behind me to let Pete know as I turn back for it. When I get back to Pete he’s not with Mike but we assume we’ll catch him at the next junction.However we miss a turning and checking the route notes delays us enough that we don’t catch Mike again. We descend through Surrey villages towards the A25 and the final climb of the day up Coombe Lane. Pete rides alongside me as I grind my way up but I’m quickly dropped (again). The climb seems longer and more relentless than the last time I rode it, but that’s probably because we’re 160km in to the ride. Pete is waiting for me at the top and we start the descent towards the outskirts of London.I can feel faint twinges of cramp in my calf muscles so I use the descent to stand on my pedals and stretch my legs. As we hit the rolling roads towards Cobham I sit on Pete’s wheel making the most of the drafting possibilities. Somewhere after Cobham I fall off Pete’s wheel on the gentlest of inclines and I just don’t have the energy to jump back on over the top. The gap slowly drifts wider and wider between us until I lose sight of him into Esher. I get caught at all the lights through Esher so have no chance of catching him again. It doesn’t matter now though as the finish line isn’t far and I know where I’m going.A little while later I roll up to the final checkpoint in Richmond Park and find Pete and Mike sat with a beer. I get my brevet stamped. I’ve ridden 208km in 9 hours and 18 minutes. I stagger into the cafe to find myself a beer.
(There’s a nice piece over at Cyclisme Spandelles about distance, time and the loss of bearings. I’m yet to ride a 600km audax but I have a 300km ride lined up for July. There’ll be a report soon after. First up is a short weekend tour over to Normandy and Picardie at the end of June.)
We wait. There are bikes leant against road signs and telegraph poles. The sun is low and shadows long. On the inside of the corner I’m fiddling with ISO and aperture settings. Across the corner a huddle of men in club jerseys and hi-vis clutch red flags and chat. There’s a handful of spectators, probably family and club mates. Maybe someone has gone for an evening stroll and is curious. The growl of an accelerating motorcycle rumbles in the distance. The chatting stops and the club riders step into the road with flags unfurled. I crouch on the verge and guess my focusing distance. A motorcycle outrider speeds around the corner and down the road, then a second appears, and a third. One blocks traffic whilst the other rides through. The lead car, orange lights flashing on the roof, takes the corner faster than I’d dare. I hear the faint thrum of tyres and whirr of drivechains. It gets louder. A rider appears, leant over at an impossible angle. Then another, then a whole load, two or three riders abreast, bright flashing colours and grimacing faces. The motorcycle outrider shouts “Keep tight!”, a rider shouts “Keep your line!” There are knees and elbows close to my head. I feel a breeze and hear spokes cutting the warm evening air. The shutter clicks and clunks, the sounds mixed with the creaks and clunks of carbon frames and deep section wheels on rough tarmac. The final riders corner wider, more upright than the others. Standing out of the saddle they chase back on. Another car with orange flashing lights brings up the rear. Red flags are lowered, passing motorists are waved a thank you. Conversations are resumed. I go back to pressing buttons on the camera. We wait.
Lewes Crits, 5th June 2014 https://www.flickr.com/photos/themanfromicon/sets/72157644624460387/
Lewes Crits, 12th June 2014 https://www.flickr.com/photos/themanfromicon/sets/72157645094698076/
Hove Park Crits, 13th June 2014 https://www.flickr.com/photos/themanfromicon/sets/72157644762094427/
Lewes Crits, 19th June 2014 https://www.flickr.com/photos/themanfromicon/sets/72157644846085717/
Tour of Sussex, 6th July 2014 https://www.flickr.com/photos/themanfromicon/albums/72157645533964992
I have places names and road numbers scribbled on bits of paper in my pocket. Today is going to be the longest ride of the year so far. Looking at the forecast it’s probably the warmest too. Gilet and arm warmers are stripped off by the time I get to Lewes. It’s a long steady climb from here all the way to Blackboys, at first barely noticeable but steepening as I cross the A22 and into the woodland of the High Weald.
I turn into a dark tunnel of trees, a narrow lane that cuts across to Mayfield. After a mile of so of dropping and twisting through woodland I sharply round a tight corner and I’m climbing again, between hedges and fields out of the woods. Popping out on to the main road I’m soon in the medieval village of Mayfield sitting atop the High Weald. From here I plummet into the weald on sunken lanes only to have to clamber back out again. Then I have to do it all over again only this time climbing higher. Then I’m freewheeling down again. I’ve ridden across the whole of East Sussex. The six martlets on village signs are replaced by a single white horse, the White Horse Rampant of Kent.
A gentle flowing downhill section lasts a good few miles and I find myself on a flat grasslands nestling between the High Weald and the North Downs. I know I’ve still got one more hill to go but for now though I relish the level landscape and the ease with which I can push the pedals around. Turning onto Hunton Hill it’s like the bostal climbs near home; twisting, short, hard. I click through the gears, get out of the saddle, breath heavily. Over the top I push the chain back onto the big ring for a long, long winding downhill section into Maidstone sitting in the valley of the Medway. Sat in the park with family I hungrily munch on a pork pie. And then another.
A few hours later I clip back in to follow the sun back towards the Sussex coast. After fighting traffic around the one way system I’m glad to be back on the road over Hunton Hill. After an initial steep couple of hundred metres it turns into a long shallow big ring climb. Across the top I drop fast back to the flat lands on my way to the High Weald and county border. The smell of barbecues and bonfires drift across my path every now and then, sunbeams made visible in smoke. It’s warm and still and humid. I’ve emptied a bidon before I’ve hit the border again. I stop at a village shop and fill the empty bidon with a cold bottle of coke. It’s flat and warm within a couple of miles.
As I cross the border back into Sussex I sense riders behind me. Glancing over my shoulder I see a couple of riders. I recognise Lewes Wanderer jerseys as they pass me. The response to “You’ve been a long way today” is that they started out in Norfolk that morning. That’s five counties and a ferry ride away!* They are thumping out a hard rhythm in a big gear. They dangle ahead of me for a couple of miles slowly extending the gap between us. Then they are gone.
Back at the highest point of the day I miss a turning. By the time I realise I have sped down a steep hill. I look at the map** and back up the hill. I decide not to turn around. If I continue to Bells Yew Green and Frant I can pick up at the main road back to Mayfield. Everyone must be in their gardens drinking beer and burning sausages over coal because the A267 is empty, barely any traffic. Unlike the steep rise and fall of badly surfaced lanes I should be on the road is smooth and gently undulates along a ridge across the High Weald. Despite adding a good few miles to the route home I can push a big gear for the next few miles. Kent spreads out to my left and the dark hills of the weald to my right. I feel the mild heat of the evening sun on my legs.
Out of Mayfield I pick up the right route again picking up a shaded lane. Hedge tops and tips of branches catch early evening sunshine as birdsong accompanies the whirr of chain on block. Rejoining the Blackboys road I click down a couple of gogs and tuck in for the long swoop down from the weald. I crest a little lump out of Halland and I can see the silhouette of hills I know so well ahead of me. I’m nearly home. The Broyle undulates gently downwards to Ringmer where I pull in to a petrol station for a bag of Jelly Babies. I check my phone, I’ve ridden 103 miles. There are about 13 left to go. My legs feel good for another 20 miles but I can feel the parcours of the day in my lower back and arms. I need to replace my cheap aluminum frame with something more forgiving.
The sun drops behind the downs as I leave Lewes. Pink and orange light leaks over the hills. Nearly home. Just the last little rise to get to Falmer then it’s flat all the way back into Brighton. I’ve not quite timed it right to get home before sundown. The city is bathed in the blue grey hue of dusk. At the lights at Elm Grove I rummage in my bag and clip my lights in for the last mile or so home. On the sea front the hot smell of salt & vinegar on chips hits me. I’ve decided what’s for dinner.
*I discover later that they were training for the National 24hr timetrial.
**I always carry a map. A proper paper OS map. Just in case.
Well then, it was turning out to be a pretty rubbish start to the year of randonneuring. I failed to make the start line of a local audax in February, and then in April due to various reasons I didn’t even manage to get to the same county as my next planned audax. However I have now managed to complete my first randonnee! It wasn’t the longest ride I’ve ever done but at a 100km the Isle of Wight Randonnee was a pleasant stepping stone to the 200 and 300km rides I have lined up for June and July.
The IoW Randonnee is an annual event alternating each year between clockwise and anticlockwise laps of the island. This year was a clockwise year and the details are simple: Turn up at any one of the six checkpoints to sign on & collect your check card, then follow the blue & white Round The Island cycle route signs around the island, stopping off at each of the remaining checkpoints to get your card stamped, before arriving back at your starting point for the final stamp. The route was similar to my Tourist Trophy ride last year except I went anticlockwise and used roads that stuck as close to the coast as possible. I really, really, hoped the wind on the Military Road would be kinder than last year!
Of the six checkpoints Wootton was nearest to the ferry port at Ryde so I had a few kilometres to ride before I officially started. Signing on at a gazebo in a campsite I collected my check card plus route notes & a map. As you will have noticed I’ve already mentioned road signs & a map so again a gentle introduction to the world of audax. No coded route sheet to decipher or checkpoint questions this time.
This is a big event with upwards of a couple of thousand riders in total, and a real mix from clubs to families and assorted bikes; modern road bikes, retro steel racers, fixies, recumbents, hybrids, mountain bikes, tandems, and kids’ bikes. A lot of riders seemed to be regulars, and whilst there seemed to be a few club riders drilling round through and off to beat last year’s time the general atmosphere was that of just a (big) bunch of people out for a leisurely ride, stopping off for tea and lunch on the way. The weather was almost perfect, sunny but with a bit of a stiff chilly breeze from the south.
The great thing about having multiple starting point was despite the large numbers of riders we were all relatively spread out, and only on a couple of occasions did I find myself in big clumps or riders. The initial section took me from Wootton round to Bembridge on the east coast for the first stamp of the day, before undulating on to Alverstone where the route splits into 100 and 55 kilometre rides. I headed south for the 100km ride on narrow shaded hedge lined lanes towards the coast at Ventnor. Rather than dropping to the seafront at Ventnor I turned along a ridge with a view of the English Channel down to my left.
After a brief stop at Whitwell to collect my third stamp it was on to Niton and the big climb of the day over Blackgang Chine. Blasting down the long fast descent I had sudden flashbacks of grinding along the entire south west coast into a headwind last year. Fortunately 1) the southerly wind was offering more of an assist this time, and 2) the route cut slightly inland on to sheltered quiet lanes through farmland and small villages, before re-joining the military road just before the climb over the cliffs into Freshwater Bay. As I rolled towards the cliffs I could see the road snaking around the edge of the island with tiny riders on the climb ahead.
Passing through Freshwater we turned onto a short bridleway to the north coast and my fourth checkpoint at Yarmouth Primary School. As well as a stamp I grabbed a sandwich and cup of tea from the school canteen, which I contentedly consumed in the shade of a tree. Setting off again I was into the final third of the ride through bright yellow fields of rape and flickering green tunnels of woodland. I recognised parts of this rolling section from last year but in reverse. Usually the route would pass through Gurnard and around the headland into Cowes. Unfortunately the chain ferry across the River Medina at Cowes was out of action so there was a detour via Newport before picking up the Wootton road.
Turning into the campsite for the second time of the day I could feel every hilly kilometre I’d ridden since leaving a few hours earlier. After claiming my last stamp and a rock cake I turned for home. As I descended to Ryde promenade I could see a ferry at the pier head so I sprinted the last few hundred metres just in time to be the last to board. In total I’d ridden 120km and climbed 1280m. Back on the mainland I collapsed into a hungry heap on the slow train home.
Sometime last year a guy called Justin commented on a photo I’d posted to Instagram. Something along the lines of “You ride so much! You need to contribute something to the website.” That statement is partially true. I do ride a fair bit but really I just take an inordinate amount of photographs. The website in question is nowherefast.cc (NWFCC), an interesting collection of stories, images and films from cyclists around the world. Go and have a look, it’s a nice thing. Anyway I did start to do some stuff for NWFCC.
I thought about a photo diary showing the varied landscape and changing seasons in Sussex. This would re-activate a photographic project I’d started but simply couldn’t find enough time for. After a bit more thought I came up with the idea to tie whatever I did to an actual piece of tarmac, choosing journeys I regularly rode, and write about and around that specific place; equal part memoir, local geography and history. I knew I’d be able to delve into an archive of images that would show these locations throughout the year. And so ‘The Lanes’ series came into being.
A few people started to comment on these via the website and twitter, and slowly an idea to organise a NWFCC ride taking in all of these lanes evolved. I soon realised the lanes are spread quite far so to fit them all in would end up in a 300km audax-style endurance fest, or a weekend stage race! After a bit of jiggling and tweaking I figured out a 100 mile ride that includes a variety of landscapes and lanes from the NWFCC series. A looping ride from Lewes that takes in the South Downs, parts of the low and high wealds, the marshlands of Pevensey Levels, with views of the North Downs to the, er, north, and the English Channel in the south. I also discovered that June 16th is official Sussex Day so that decided the date. Except it’s a Monday this year so the ride is planned for Sunday 15th June. The loop cuts back near Lewes around half distance so there will be a 50(ish) mile option.
This week I decided I should at least test the route, join the dots, make sure it all linked up nicely. Whilst I know most of the route like the back of my hand, there are bits I know less well. Due to Southern Rail’s far-sighted policy of banning bikes on trains out of Brighton before 9am I decided to adjust the loop to start & finish in Brighton. My friend Lois was going to come along as riding an imperial century is one of her 12 New Things for 2014, but unfortunately was unable to make it at the last moment. This was a shame but another friend Mark said he’d meet me for a few miles across the downs around Jevington and Litlington.
Setting out early I climbed over the downs under a clear blue sky out towards Twineham Lane when I would pick up the “official” route on the lanes that form the latest piece for NWFCC – http://nowherefast.cc/lanes-no-6-spronketts-lane-sussex-southern-england/ – that took me up to Warninglid.
At Warninglid I turned left for a fast, flat(ish) section that took me along a ridge towards Haywards Heath, with views of the North Downs on the horizon. Passing under the London-Brighton rail line I headed for Lindfield, then Sheffield Park and skirting the edge of the Ashdown Forest ultimately a tea stop at Fletching.
Whilst stopped for tea I texted Mark to give an estimate of when I’d hit Pevensey Levels. Which was remarkably accurate given this was the bit of the route I was less sure of and didn’t even really know how far it was. Passing Piltdown Pond, source of the “greatest hoax in the history of science?” it was then down to the Lavender Line at Isfield. This isn’t the most direct way to Pevensey Levels but it’s pretty and avoids Uckfield. Nothing against Uckfield but the best rides are never the most direct way to anywhere. From Isfield the route wiggles around a bit up onto the edge of the High Weald to Horam via some really nice quiet lanes that are yet to be written about. From Horam there’s a long downhill stretch before turning for Herstmonceux and Pevensey Levels beyond.
I met Mark at the Rickney end of New Bridge lane – http://nowherefast.cc/the-lanes-no-3-new-bridge-lane/ – and we set off towards Polegate. I knew Mark had limited time available so the next few miles would probably be a bit faster than the previous 50 odd. Yep. Mark gave me a nice tow up through Jevington to the top of downs at Friston Forest before the fast descent overlooking the Cuckmere Meander. In the valley we turned onto the Litlington Road – http://nowherefast.cc/the-lanes-no-4-along-the-cuckmere-valley/ – past the Long Man Brewery and up Chapel Hill to my favourite view in Sussex.
Down past the Long Man we crossed the A27 towards Arlington where Mark turned right for home and I turned left for home. Across the railway lines at Berwick I entered the flatlands around Ripe and Laughton (the next piece for NWFCC). After the lumps of the High Weald and the South Downs it was good to get some flat miles in. I even had a tail wind. That doesn’t happen around here.
After a detour up the last hill of the proper Sussex Day 100 past Glyndebourne, to avoid the main road through Ringmer, I dropped into Lewes to grab some food and sit by the river for 20 minutes. The last few miles home are a regular commute over Telscombe Tye and along the coastal cliff top cycle path to Brighton. 107 miles after setting off I was home and cracked open a well earned bottle of Long Man Pale Ale.
In the next few weeks I will go out again and ride the proper loop from Lewes so I can calculate the correct mileage and climbing, figure out where tea and lunch stops could be, and make proper route notes. Once all this is figured out Justin will post details at nowherefast.cc with map and top tube notes that can be downloaded. There might even be some audax style route instructions so that anyone could ride it anytime. However there will be an organised ride on Sunday 15th June if you’re interested. Leave a comment on this post or tweet me @themanfromicon and I’ll make sure you get the details later.
Route ridden: http://www.strava.com/activities/123610759
It didn’t go so well…
The first audax planned for the year was the “Mad Jack’s – John Seviour Memorial”, a 125km audax with roughly 2500m of climbing in mid February. The ride is in “Mad Jack” country in the High Weald of Sussex around Brightling and Battle. Even though in my home county this part of Sussex is a bit far from Brighton to be regular riding country. I’ve ridden around here, not often, but enough to know that all this climbing would be accumulated by simply riding up and down nasty short climbs pretty much relentlessly. It would be tough.
John “Mad Jack” Fuller (1757 – 1834) was Squire of Brightling, High Sheriff of Sussex, a Member of Parliament, and a captain in the Sussex Yeomanry Cavalry. There’s also an unfortunate support of slavery that seems to be counter to his otherwise philanthropic nature as a sponsor of the Royal Institution, and Humphrey Davey in particular, endowing Sussex with it’s first lifeboat, paying for the original Belle Tout lighthouse at Beachy Head, and saving Bodiam Castle from demolition. However he’s probably best known for the man who built all those follies around Brightling and buried in the pyramid mausoleum in the churchyard or St. Thomas a Becket in Brightling.
There would be five of us riding so there at least would be lots of support, or in all honesty continuous heckling and banter. Unfortunately it fell on the weekend when the worst storms of the year were forecast. By the preceding Friday afternoon two of our party Andy and Tim had decided to give it a miss. We put this down to the fact they are from West Sussex and they are a bit scared of East Sussex…or the Dark Side as they refer to it. The remaining three of us, Mark, Jo, and I had a quick chat and decided to at least make an start and see what happened. Mark lives just around the corner from the audax meeting point so we arranged to meet at his at 8 for tea and crumpets prior to the start. Then we spent Friday night listening to the wind howling across Sussex and wondered what the hell we were thinking.
Nevertheless Jo arrived outside my house at 7am the next morning. Damn, he was still thinking of riding it. We drove through stong blustery winds (I think the correct meteorological word is gales) and sharp showers whilst chatting the usual nonsense about bicycles. Arriving at Mark’s front door he opened it in full kit. Damn, he was still thinking of riding it too. Consuming crumpets and coffee and tea we peered out of the window at the sky. Despite the strong wind there was sufficient blueness for us to feel confident it wouldn’t be an absolutely revolting day. One of the benefits of the Mad Jack ride is it returns through the same control point in Battle three times so we could bail out at the end of the first or second loop if it all got too much.
Despite the fact we’re stubborn belligerent sods when it comes to riding our bicycles we knew we were wavering in our dedication to the cause, it would only take one of us to say “Ahem, guys, erm, we sure about this?” and the whole thing would crash down like a house of cards. Of course, there was also no way any of us was going to back down in front of the others now despite the air of relunctance hanging over us. However all this faff eating crumpets and discussing the weather meant we rolled to the start line in the local leisure centre car park 15 minutes late. Well, more like 20 minutes. The car park was empty. Oh yeah, this isn’t a sportive is it, it’s a discipline based on self-reliance and er, what’s that other thing about audax, oh yeah, time-keeping! Hmm, this was not an auspicious start to a year of audaxing.
We did go for a ride around Mad Jack country anyway, chucking in Pevensey Levels at the end. It was very, very windy, it hailed pretty hard for a bit, the sun shone, and there was a well needed cake stop. We managed 70km on roads covered in gravel and potholes and bits of tree and running water. It hurt like hell but it was fun. I think.
Let’s hope the next attempt, a 200km ride in East Anglia in April, is more successful. Getting to the sign-on in time would be a start.
Day 6
Another (slow) century, a proper one, not a metric one. Not the ideal recovery spin after yesterday’s ultracross adventures. However completing 100 miles is in the head more than the legs I think. So here goes…
Day 5
When I was a kid there were days when I’d go out on my bike all day, bombing around the streets collecting friends, then head up the woods to simply hack about for hours until we got hungry and went home. Jumping over tree roots, skidding round corners, flying down hills ever so slightly out of control, getting off half way up a hill to push it the rest of the way to the top, falling off, trying not to crash into trees. White Chalk Hills Ultracross if kind of like that, but more so. With a bit of orienteering thrown in.
It’s an idea dreamt up by Velomorphé (www.velomorpha.com) with a route designed by Mark Tearle and Sam Winter. The course fits on the bottom half of OS Explorer 123 – Eastbourne & Beachy Head, the orange one – but it feels like riding to the end of the earth. And back again. Twice. Oh, and to make it more interesting it is run on the very last Saturday of the year, in deepest midwinter. Like all great ideas it’s pretty simple. Turn up at The Tri-Store in Eastbourne, pick a number and sign on – it’s not a race but it is really – then ride across the South Downs to where you overlook the Ouse Valley and Lewes, turn around and ride back across the downs to The Belgian Cafe in Eastbourne. It sounds easy, however at 45 predominantly off road miles with 5000 plus feet of climbing up and down 11 hills, it is far from it. I mentioned it’s done in the depths of winter didn’t I? No wonder the tag line is “VAINGLORIOUS | FUTILE”.
Those that take it seriously do it non-stop. Those that take it really seriously stop at the Ram in Firle at half distance for chips and ale. We’re the ones that finish in the dark. The inaugural event in 2012 was my first ever cyclocross ride. The 2013 edition is only my third cyclocross ride. I’m on a borrowed bike (thanks Matt) and wearing road cleats. And I’m making it part of my Rapha Festive 500 attempt. Vainglorious, remember.
There about twenty of us assembled at The Tri-Store, some faces from last year – Jo, John, Biff, Jim, Kris, Mark – and some new ones – Simon, Tom, Paul, Scott (like me last year, it’s his first off road ride). There are two Davids, one who has come from Devon, and the other from America via Belgium. There are others I don’t know and I don’t see them again all day. They must be the ones that take it seriously. There are cyclocross bikes, mountain bikes (cheats1), and single speeds (idiots2). There’s chatting, smiles and laughter, numbers being pinned on, perusal of maps, inner tubes and emergency gels being purchased. Stamp cards are handed out3 and then someone shouts “GO!” Nothing. “Go on then. GO!!” We all pedal like mad up the street towards the first hill of the day. Nothing like a gentle warm up or pacing yourself.
It’s straight on to Warren Hill and the field stretches out into a long line on the slippery grass as the gradient bites. I immediately regret the 170 miles I’ve ridden in the previous three days. Over the top of this it’s towards Beachy Head and some very ominous looking dark clouds rolling over Birling Gap, which is where we head next along the gentle descent of Long Down. As I head up over Went Hill it starts to rain, then it starts to hail. Then it hails really hard. And sideways. Ice is bouncing off my helmet and top tube; it’s stinging my face, being driven into my left ear by the wind. My feet are cold and wet as are my gloves. This is mile five, we’ve barely started. There is some brightness and blue sky to the west but on a ‘cross bike over undulating chalk and grass it’s going to take a while to get to it.
Into Friston Forest next, bouncing down a smashed concrete and potholed lane until you turn onto the lane of mud and gravel. I catch up with a small bunch of riders, last years companions Jo, John & Biff amongst others. After collecting the first stamp from a sandwich bag taped to a gatepost we head on. Next it’s up a sharp slippery climb of chalk and clay before a downward slope towards the Cuckmere Valley. No one is sure if the valley road is still flooded so some scarper up the steps back into the forest to cut through to the car park. As I’m in road cleats and my feet are already wet I decide this is not the option for me. Fortunately the floodwaters have retreated so the road turns out to be the easy option, as Scott and Paul both crash in the woods I later discover.
Out of the valley we head up the hill towards Seaford and blue sky before darting up a track behind the houses that takes us over the Alfriston Road, and up Camp Hill along The Comp to Norton Top and the Five Lords Burgh. Our little group has strung out again, as the stronger riders crack on ahead. John acts like a beacon further the ridge, his bright pink Rapha gilet shining in the sun against the green hillside. Rattling myself to pieces down Heighton and Gardeners hills I catch the rest of our little group. All day we’re like an amorphous blob that stretches and contracts across the downs, sometimes strung out over a mile or more, sometimes clumped together. It makes me think of the ebb and flow of a starling murmuration, but not as graceful.
Across a ploughed field of chalk and clay, full of chunks of flint, we reach the summit of Snap Hill. I can see the radio masts atop Beddingham Hill. I can also see the relentless up and down and up and down of the grass track to get there and I can see John’s pink gilet shining on the next ridge. There are dog walkers and sheep that look at us like we’re fools. They are probably right. Over the cattle grid at Beddingham Hill we join the South Downs Way (SDW) west to Red Lion Pond. Looking out over the Ouse river twisting towards Lewes I know we’re effectively half way and it’s nearly time for lunch. First of all we need to drop down the scarp edge of the downs and loop back up to the radio station. I pass (Devon) David coming up the hill as he had a Garmin malfunction and he’s doing a backwards loop. As I’m lifting my bike over a gate a well to do looking chap appears at a fence informing me that the path isn’t a public right of way and there’s a shoot about to start. This information is reinforced further down when I pass first a beater and then a fella with a cocked shotgun. Ultracross indeed.
Back at the radio station after grinding up a lane of smashed tarmac, rubble and bricks I rejoin the SDW but east this time to the top of Firle Bostal. Half a mile of freewheeling on smooth tarmac and I arrive at Ram. There are a lot of dirty bikes leaning against walls and dirty riders supping pints and eating chips. All of our little group are here plus Mark and Kris. They must have been here a while as I’ve not seen them since we left Eastbourne.
After the most refreshing pint of Harvey’s I’ve had in a long time, probably since the one here last year, it’s along the bottom of the downs on Comp Lane. We scramble through trees and gloopy mud to pick up a ridiculously revolting climb, a steep grass track that cuts across the steep contour of the escarpment back to the SDW. It’s really rather hard walking up wet grass slopes in road cleats. I can see John’s pink gilet glowing near the top. Looking east I see Windover Hill, which is part of our route. Unfortunately I also know that we go up and down the scarp another couple of times before we get there. No wonder FUTILE is half the tagline.
A few hundred yards along the top of the downs and it’s straight back down to Comp Lane again via Bo Peep Bostal. Then another few hundred yards further along Comp Lane we turn straight back up the escarpment. Another steep slippery grass track up to the SDW. Futile remember. After another puncture is repaired it’s straight back down again towards a place marked as Sanctuary on the map. If only. We immediately turn back on ourselves up the flint laden chalk path to Long Burgh and then straight down a gravel track into Alfriston. I’ve noticed that the light is fading, a mix of cloud and lowering sun. Hmmm.
The road out of Alfriston is closed as the village has been submerged under Cuckmere floodwaters for a few days now. Some of us hop up onto the raised path around the flood, others jump straight in including Jim who appears to be up to his knees in water at one point. He doesn’t care, it’s washed all the clay, mud and grass off his bike, and it feels twice as light. Heading back across the Cuckmere River we’re on the final stretch home. Well sort of, as you’ve probably gathered the UCX course doesn’t exactly follow the shortest path between points on the map. Crossing Milton Street we start the long, long slog up and over Windover Hill but (America via Belgium) David punctures a tub. It then turns out that the tub has been slashed by a piece of flint. The last we see of him he is walking over the side of the downs towards Wilmington with his bike over his shoulder. People shout various options of how to get back to Eastbourne. We’re not sure we’ll see him again4.
As we ride the ridge of Jevington Holt it starts to rain again, then it hails again. We cower amongst trees waiting for the worst to pass – to be fair there was yet another puncture being fixed – and decide that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to miss out that last dog leg bit through Willingdon Hill to East Dean and the last (unnecessary) climb along Ringwood Bottom. We could just drop into Jevington and then up and over into Eastbourne via the Weald Way and SDW. I say ‘just’ but this is still a good few miles and it’s cold and wet and getting darker.
The descent into Jevington is interesting at the best of times – tree roots, chalk, flint, clay, leaf mulch – but in the wet it’s super slimy and sludgy. There’s a lot of squealing brakes and blinking of rear lights. Then all of a sudden Mark and Kris are lying on the ground. We check they are both OK and then laugh. I missed the first crash but apparently this is the second time today Mark has taken out Kris. Across the Jevington road we start up the rubble strewn track over Bourne Hill. It’s now raining really hard and getting properly dark. I can no longer see John’s pink gilet as 1) he’s covered it with a waterproof, and 2) he’s long gone. It’s become every man for himself back to Eastbourne…
In the warm and dry of The Belgian Cafe riders are drinking strong dark beer, dipping fries in mayonnaise, and regaling each other with stories of epic derring-do and stupidity, whilst Mark hands out prizes for best crash (himself obviously) and most futile ride (David and his slashed tub, he made it back). I love this ride. Don’t get me wrong it is as hard as hell, and worse than that when it rains. However it’s ridden by a great bunch of people in exceptional good humour – gang mentality sets in, that perfect mix of support and laughing at each other. This more than makes up for everything the weather and South Downs can throw at you in December. At least I didn’t fall off this year.
1 Meant in jest
2 Partially meant in jest. Again vainglorious, remember.
3 There are stamps to collect en route to prove you get all the way round. Unless you forget some like me.
4 We do.
http://www.strava.com/activities/102405321
