A Gentlemanly Pace
What a joy it was to have the ACME Anvil Winter Brevet Series back in full swing at the weekend.
I already knew I was unfit so the offer of a lift to the start was too much to resist. I did feel a bit guilty about not trudging round my 70k ECE pre-ride route and I did make sure I was dropped off out of sight of eagle-eyed Tomsk but the extra couple of hours in bed was a real bonus.
The thing that really sets the Winter Series apart is the pub start and finish. We often see each other before we set off on a ride but the finish is usually something of an anti-climax with the faster riders long gone and the Essex Strangler dawdling back on the route somewhere. Even with a staggered start, there are plenty of people to catch up with before you leave and even more when you arrive.
Huggy had managed to organise a young and glamorous line up (and himself) as a start team so it was all smiles and efficiency as we took our cards before another cup of tea for the road. This was in stark contrast to the more familiar looking line up of old curmudgeons waiting for us at the finish
- Tomsk even sent one poor, shivering rider back out to the beer garden to fetch the correct receipt for the Stock control.
As ever, it was something of a struggle to leave a warm pub for the cold road but Bikepacking Bobb and the Hustler were raring to start what Bobb referred to as a "micro adventure". The first few miles were helped with a somewhat misleading tailwind and we were soon at the first control. By this time I was already struggling and a pattern was starting to develop where I just about managed to keep up on the flat and then slogged up any incline to find my ever-patient companions waiting for me and looking slightly smug. Fandango and Fandango jr were waiting for us at the info point but I knew I had no time to stop (not even for the junction) so left the dynamic duo to do the small talk while I set off into the headwind.
You know it's going to be a long day when you are pedalling hard downhill and so it proved as we inched towards Latchingdon. The Hustler and I avoided Market Hill which had a long and not very fixed-friendly queue of traffic that reached back down to the river. The other pattern starting to develop was regular overtakes by a group of Maillot Noir riders. They would swish by in a whirl of carbon and chatter only to overtake us again, somewhat mysteriously, a few miles later. Latchingdon was the usual garage forecourt stop with me eating my homemade sandwiches and Rockefeller and Getty consuming all manner of shop-bought goodies. Somewhat inevitably, the Maillot Noir posse arrived just as we were about to leave. My companions also managed some more small talk, this time with Jem, Tandemaniac and Deano. It took a sharp reminder from me that they were supposed to be shepherding me round the course, not enjoying themselves, to drag them back onto the road.
Lockdown has had a profound effect on all sorts of aspects of our life and it also seems to have turned Stock into an Alpine village. There is no way we rode all those hills on previous editions and certainly not into a biting headwind. In an effort to keep our group together, the other two put me at the front so we were travelling at my pace. This worked up until the long and dizzying climb up to Stock. Eventually they had to pull past me with the Hustler explaining that his Garmin had gone into pause mode as we were going so slowly. Remarkably, there was a rider still on my wheel (sorry I didn't catch your name) as I winched my way ever upwards to the haven that is Budgens.
The remainder of the ride was fairly unremarkable apart from the Hustler upbraiding young Bobb on his luggage choices and use of gears.
After a slight diversion up the A12 (my idea naturally), we arrived back at 'Spoons pretty much on schedule to be welcomed by the BFC looking at his watch and telling us he had lost track of time he had been back so long. Halfway through our first Essex Energy Drink the headwinds, hills and hurt were all forgotten and we were making grand plans for longer rides.
As we did so, there was an almost constant stream of returning riders increasing our merry throng. It was at this point I realised I needed the team car for the last leg.
As if I wasn't feeling bad enough about my fitness, it was really brought home when a smiling and seemingly still fresh 8 year old strode in and handed over his card for validation.
