Well, that was a day and no mistake!
The first people I encountered whilst cycling down what I thought would be a deserted Southend High Street was a young man in conversation with some tough looking individuals in fluorescent jackets, who were in evidence at 1 a.m. Saturday when I went to meet my daughter from whichever gin palace she frequents when not in Cambridge. Whatever the status of these characters, the young man was very soon in a fisticuffs situation and it was not long before he was prone. More fluorescent-jacketed toughies came rumbling up the high street, pistons pumping, bells ringing and whistles blowing, reminding me of nothing more than the American detective "Cannon", who, although 23 stone and 45 years of age, in every programme would set off in hot pursuit of a lithe young ne'er-do-well who had at least a 100 yard start and he would catch him every time!
The morning bore more evidence of the night before when I reached the station platform. There was a young lady with a long black dress and long black rivulets of mascara down each cheek (well, two of them anyway) busily texting, when suddenly, about two minutes before the trains was due, she exploded "Ow fack i', I'm goin' ter fackin' wowk 'owme!" and off she set. 'enry 'iggins heat yer 'eart aht!
There had been some evidence of showers on the way to Fenchurch Street, but when I cycled across London the weather was OK. For the first time in my life I found Southwark Bridge, which was not as deserted as I was expecting, and was also not so convenient for the Thames Path and Upper Ground, but soon I was in Waterloo Station and wrestling with the ticket machine. It won, and armed with the single I had inadvertently purchased, I then had to queue for about 20 minutes in order to pay the extra 10p necessary in order to convert it into a return.
I arrived in Dorking before the others, who were on a train from Victoria and had been delayed, and then a text message form Sergeant Pluck showed that they had outwitted me and had got off the train at Box Hill & Westhumble, so in a short while I was there to witness the last knockings of their breakfast, which didn't matter because I had had coffee & flapjack while waiting in Dorking.
Soon we were away and the hills were just as vicious as I had remembered them. The difference was the weather: in February it was calm, sunny and as nice a day as one could wish for but today there was a different demon in charge. Before we reached Ranmore Common for the first time, the heavens opened, the waterproofs were on and they stayed on for the entire ride. Dave had a visitation, was insistent that he would catch us up and, as others have reported, communications breakdowns meant that we hung around for a fair while, in the style of the Blue Moon ride, while Sgt. Pluck's mobile phoned was not inconsiderably banjaxed.
The next visitation was to Sgt. Pluck himself, a result of riding the rocky roadsteads of several parishes, and off we went again. Then it was my turn, and the air seemed to be escaping from several places at once. I found a piece of flint and changed the tube, and once again we resumed, the rain as relentless as ever.
When we reached the A25 for the last time, White Down lay ahead, and this was new ground for me. On my previous attempt at this ride, I was cursed with a disintegrating rear wheel and took the A road to Dorking. This time, there was no excuse and the toughest climb of the ride lay ahead, the hills trying to lose themselves in a sky so leaden that it was a wonder it could stay aloft. In fact it couldn't, and a great precipitation engulfed us.
That is a serious climb. Landranger maps give it two separate chevrons, which indicate a prolonged hill steeper than 1 in 7. The road sign states "18%" which is scarcely less steep than 1 in 5. It goes on and on, and frankly makes Ditchling Beacon look benign. To make matters worse from my point of view, I had a "double" at the front, ergo no granny ring.
There was no point in honking. I had done so on a few occasions earlier, somewhere near Friday Street, and at one point my rear wheel started to spin, so I sat down again. I did actually have to walk about the last 10 yards or so of that particular hill as I simply lost my balance and could not start again. However, this White Down git had to be put in its place and I have to say that by the time I reached the summit I had broken into a fair old sweat which was maturing nicely inside a Gore-tex and two other layers. I was also puffing away like Thomas the Tank Engine and bike and jacket were almost the same colour.
That, to be fair, was the end of the ride's challenges, and we only had Box Hill to do. That is long, but nowhere is it steep, and we just simply twiddled away until we got to the top. I took a few photographs and then the Fellowship of Dorking was divided as some hardy souls decided to ride back to London whilst others of us consumed greasy calories at the Rykas Café before finding our respective trains.
I became very aware of a certain atmosphere about my person as we pulled out of Fenchurch Street: very sweaty lycra which had been confined within a waterproof all day and was now beginning to dry reminded me of raw steak. I wondered how the dog would react when I arrived home and he was indeed very interested in the smell. However, Wife & Daughter both had very different opinions on the attractiveness or otherwise of the aura that followed me into the house and I was despatched to the shower before I could even utter the words London Pride.
It was an excellent day's riding, and thanks to Sgt. Pluck for having the idea of riding it again, the excellent company of the other riders, and of course to Simon L3 and the Cheam and Morden, who hold the copyright.
