Sometimes you wonder whether it is a wise idea to listen to that little voice inside your head. You know the one that whispers: 'You need to get that last big ride in'.
With two weeks to go before Ride London, I had only done one big ride to Henley. That in itself didn’t worry me too much. I ride 18 miles a day climbing about 700ft and that adds up over the weeks and months – especially during the dark months where conditions add to the workout. In addition, my average weekend rideout is between 30 and 50 miles depending on how free my time is.
No, the issue that bugged me was time in the saddle. Or to be precise, having one time in the saddle. Sitting for six to seven hours at a stretch soon numbs you down so getting that sense of grit into the psyche was vital, as well as working out how your legs are going to behave.
So, two weeks before Ride London, I needed a good trip. But where? I’d done Brighton as a kid and to be honest, I didn’t fancy the Ditchling Beacon with that traffic. But the coast did seem like an ideal aiming point.
As usual, my preparation was immaculate. A boozy dinner with my father and a late night to bed, I left my home at around 10.30 – precisely four hours later than I had planned.
Down through Chessington, I managed to miss the Theme Park traffic, round Leatherhead, up past Box Hill School and over to Newdigate. The sun was beginning to shine, my legs didn’t even mind we had already climbed up 400 feet as it was a gentle ascent, barely noticeable as I wended my way through the Surrey Hills. Most cyclists were heading the other way to Box and Leigh Hill but I was heading south.
And that was my general planning, keep off major roads and head in a generally southwards direction.
It was all going so well then I came across a sign warning of a low gear steep hill. Oh bollo…Gritting my teeth, I surprisingly made short work of the hill and was soon enjoying a nice descent, unware of what my lack of orienteering planning would lead me into next.
Stopping for a quick bite, two grumpy cyclists came past, the lady more grumpy looking than her partner. Perhaps they had had a row. He certainly dropped her I noticed as I overtook her a quarter of a mile down the road - the cad.
I hit Steyning and saw some gorgeous dray horses which were being admired by a group of cyclists who did not warn me what I was going to get into next. I turned left at the pub and headed up what I now know as Steyning Borstal.
Now overall, the rise is 7%. But that is the height/length. Let me tell you something, when your legs feels like jelly, it is not 7%.
It began as it was to continue with a sharp ramp, not helped by having to let a car pass as I much preferred it ahead of me than behind. That initial kick in the teeth at 17% leads to a small flat to catch what little breath remains then Newton reminds you not to take apples lightly as it ramps up to 20% and as high as 26%.
At a mighty 1mph at some points, I sat, I stood, I grunted and swore, I very nearly turned round and it was only the thought that I would have to get over the South Downs somewhere kept me going - that and there was no-one else to witness this pitiable struggle.
But I made it. Eventually. What year is this?
And was greeted with an absolutely stunnig view. Behind me were the rolling hills of Sussex and Surrey, below and ahead of me, Lancing and the English Channel, sun glinting off the waves. I was nearly there.
On an insanely fast descent, with the mantra ‘I don’t know this road, I don’t know this road’, I soon made my way into Lancing where I sat down for five minutes, feeling very pleased with myself. But then the dawning realisation, I had to get back.
I meandered down the coast towards Brighton, no real idea of which route I was going to go.
Distractedly I cycled to Shoreham Fort which meant a quarter mile turnaround to get back to the bike bridge and a newsagents, a particular funky shop which was blasting out some 70s tunes, heavy on the bass.
Drink bottles refreshed, I headed in a east by north east direction only to come back south when I somehow crossed the A27 twice.
Heading away from Portslade, I somehow managed to find myself on the A27 – an experience I would not recommend. Cars and trucks hurtling down at speed, the only sanctuary the white line, one side lovely tarmac (and homicidal drivers) the other absolutely ridden with flint, stone and glass.
Thankfully this hell only lasted a brief while as the turn off to Hove appeared.
Seeing the signpost to the Devil’s Dyke, I headed away from major A-Roads onto minor A-roads. Wrongfully thinking the Dyke was a T-junction, I stayed on the Saddlecoombe road. What a lovely road. Undulating with a few bit climbs but quiet with the few drivers that were attentive and patient and kind. Gorgeous views and a suicidal down into the drops to get the heart pumping again.
As I headed towards Horsham, the climbs began to hit my legs. I decided that the next shop I’d see would be my fuel stop.
Legs feeling wobbly, bottom feeling, numb neck feeling sore, I was grateful after a few misturns on the Horsham ring road, to find a CoOp where I bought some water and a sports drink, a can of Coke and a bag of salted crisps.
I made short work of the Coke and crisps and munched down on a banana much to the approval of a group of German cycle tourists obviously wondering what sort of madman I was – or perhaps just a normal Englishman in their view?
Not one to hang around, I was soon on the bike. The pitstop refreshing me as I zoomed up the A29 to Dorking then into Leatherhead.
Now the end was near, my legs found more energy to the extent I got a personal best on the Bear Climb at Oxshott.
Swooping into Esher then down past Sanddown I was soon home.
I had done it. My last big ride. 107 miles, 5,400 ft of climbs.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Still, very bracing.
Training ride: 20
108 miles
Average speed: 14.6 mph
Elevation: 5,412 ft
Total mileage: 811.4 miles
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