Merry Christmas from all at RCUK! Over the next 12 days, we’ll be reposting an existing article from this year – one from each month. Here DA kicks off with his first ton of the year.
Following the gluttony of the Christmas and New Year period, minds are now firmly focused on the upcoming sportive or road race season which lies but a few months off. And with that sudden realisation, the motivation to start putting some quality long distance miles under the belt is summoned.
Emerging from the world of sleep to a dark sky beyond the curtains, stumbling about my flat in a daze and waking myself up with a mountain of hot porridge washed down with several black coffees, I kitted up ready for a long day in the saddle. Reckoning on riding close to 200km, I stuffed loads of energy bars and a rain jacket in my jersey pocket, clipped some lights onto the bike and attached a fully charged Garmin to the stem.
A brisk solo ride through the outskirts of south London, the sun enveloping the horizon along with a clear blue sky, the forecast today is for fine weather and it’s certainly started out that way. Gradually, the grimy grey concrete towers and housing estates of Croydon are replaced with hedgerows and trees, large suburban mansions sitting amid rolling green fields.
Rolling into the car park of our meeting point, Rykas Café in the shadow of Box Hill, the eatery typically a regular gathering spot for local motorcycle enthusiasts, showing off their polished chrome exhaust pipes and talking large over plates laden with bacon and eggs, but today is the meeting point for half a dozen cyclists about to go for a very long ride.
And so we begin.
The Coastal Clog, a now somewhat famous event, is an organised ride of Richard Hallett’s invention. It’s been going for nearly two decades, takes place on a Sunday early in January, and acts as the first big ride of the year for those taking part. Following the excess of Christmas, it’s a prime way to jump-start the legs into action for the year ahead. Well, that’s the plan anyway. The route, as tradition dictates, begins in Sutton and wends it way through a careful choice of quiet country lanes, weaving an undulating, and occasionally hilly route towards the coast.
The early stage of the ride passes mostly without incident, save for a meeting of rider and Tarmac for an unlucky Nick Bourne (Tour of Wessex organiser and team manager of the Pendragon race team), who manages to find some ice still remaining from the ‘big freeze’ of last week. Oh, and the cranks literally working their way off Richard’s bike, his ‘new regime’ the suspected culprit here. And lest we forget, most unfortunate of all, CycleSport’s Lionel Birnie, who slipped and crashed on some ice on his way to the rendezvous, damaging his bike beyond repair, forcing an undignified early depart.
Onwards, and through the bustling village of Steyning, quaint tea rooms and craft shops doing a good business on a beautifully sunny day. A right turn takes us towards the highlight of this route, a heart-raising sweat-dripping leg-busting ascent of Steyning Bostal. A horrible, nasty climb, it appears ahead as an impassable vertical wall looming large and within metres forces a rapid clicking down into the lowest gear. Cadence dropping ever lower and heart rate rising even higher, it’s a brutal climb. But it’s worth it for what awaits at the summit.
There are spectacular views up here, the sun bathing the rolling fields in heart-warming sunshine, a welcome sight after so much gloomy weather. Spirits lifted, and heart rates falling back down to less painful levels, we descend along a swooping road, a series of snaking flowing bends as we loop first east, then turn north and begin our return leg home. The lanes are blissfully quiet of motor traffic around here, a stark contrast to the roads of London which just a few hours earlier I was riding through.
Several hours into this 100 mile out-and-back route, legs are beginning to tire, riders are running low on energy, the distance beginning to bite. This isn’t a race, but it’s anything but slow and pootling. The pace has been kept brisk, riding high tempo continuously. But there’s a great camaraderie keeping us together. There’s some competition, the inevitable rush to be the first to the top of the hills, and some fine efforts on the flat, but it’s about staying as a group.
That is until we approach the final run back through Surrey, when the pace quickens, uncomfortably so. The roads around here are of the rolling variety, no steep hills to speak of but each rise requires some time in the hurt locker. This isn’t a race, far too early for that, but it’s more than a mere ‘group ride’. Elastic stretching, gaps opening up and it’s head down and hands on the drops, riding, fighting, to stay in contact when we’re so nearly home. Everyone is working hard, pedalling hard. No space for soft tapping right here, right now.
Once again we regroup. Only this will be the final time, back at Ryka’s Café from which, some five hours earlier, we departed. Hot drinks all round and time for recounting the highs and lows, story telling, the shared satisfaction at having gone the distance. This was a notable ride (and not just because of the crashes, several bonks, a puncture and the disappointment at finding the Little Chef flooded), but because of the shared effort of a long ride in the saddle with some top people.
For all it was a first marker in the sand, the first century notched up, and for some a reminder that there is much work to be done.
