It is
04.55 and my bedside clock is emitting an urgent series of bleeps that will
crescendo into a sonic frenzy if I fail to intervene. If that doesn’t wake me,
then my mobile phone has been instructed to contribute its marginally less
tumultuous tone a minute or so later.
There is no need. I’ve had about six and half hours
sleep, but of an acceptable standard, it isn’t cold and I feel remarkably spry.
This is contrary to how I would normally expect to feel at this hour. It’s not
that I struggle with rising early – during my intermittent periods of
unemployment that have characterised these last nine months, I’ve been
habitually up by 08.00 and on the road for 09.30 – but any earlier than, say, 06.00
and I can find it all a bit menacing.
Not today, though. For breakfast I have pitta bread
stuffed with a whole tin of tuna, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee.
This is in no way an exceptional start to my day, although I’d usually hold off
for an hour or so before making coffee.
I listen out for my neighbour and think I hear him.
When I’ve finished in the shower I can definitely hear him. I get dressed and
alert Mommersteeg of my near readiness. We are a little behind our agreed
schedule but I’ve only got to fill my bidon with EPO and H2O, and I’m primed.
Mommersteeg isn’t primed: his rear brake has
jammed. He tinkers with it and improvises a solution. We leave our respective
flats at 06.05, 20 minutes later than planned.
It’s
Sunday and an exiguous collection of vehicles stalk West London’s roads,
although there’s more traffic than one might expect for the time of day. As we
near Putney other cyclists begin to emerge from many directions, united in
purpose. By the time we’re descending Battersea Rise, they’re everywhere.
Team Carlos-Weltschmerz is supposed
congregate around Clapham Common Bandstand anywhere between 06.15 and 06.30. By
the time Mommersteeg and I pull up it is 06.40. The rest of the team are ready
and waiting and I respect their punctuality. Apologies are offered for our
tardiness, although we do point out the mechanical cause of our delay.
My team’s jerseys are looking good, but it’s a
little fresh and some of us are wearing outer garments and base layers. Only
Mommersteeg’s St. Raphael and Wenborn’s Château
D'ax Gatorade tops are actually perceivable, although Evans (S) is wearing a
long sleeve retro-styled Peugeot jersey over his short sleeved Café de Colombia
one, so really it’s only me and Gowland who aren’t visibly paying homage to
cycling’s past. We momentarily remedy this for an improvised team photograph.
Our allotted start time is 07.00 and it says so on
the rectangular pieces of paper the British Heat Foundation posted to us, along
with the edict that we attach them to our clothes. They are even coloured in a
peremptory coding, designed, I presume, to deter queue jumping. Our plan is to
join the event a little ahead of the starting line anyway, at the roundabout
where Nightingale Walk joins Nightingale Lane, to avert getting caught up in
the bunch. This strategy ensures that we are on the road for 07.00, eluding a
multitude of cyclists and delaying us no further.
It’s a token gesture. By the time we’ve hit
Bellevue Road we’ve lost sight of Mommersteeg and Gowland, who’ve been sheared
off ahead of the group via the medium of traffic lights and marshals holding placards
commanding us to pause. These signalling devices proliferate all the way along
Burntwood Lane, Garratt Lane, through Tooting and along London Road, and our
progress is mulishly slow.
After about 15 minutes or so, Gowland materialises
out of nowhere, smoking by the side of the road. He extinguishes his cigarette
and re-joins the group, but can’t enlighten us as to the whereabouts of Mommersteeg.
Now I’m torn between riding with Gowland and Evans (S) or catching up with
Wenborn, who’s slowly pulling away from the rest of us. I do my best to
fluctuate between the two, and collisions are only narrowly avoided. It is apparent
that I need to commit one way or the other, and my appetite for progress determines
the outcome.
It’s not really until we’ve reached Carshalton that
I’m able to settle into anything resembling a rhythm. Mommersteeg is still out
of sight, Wenborn looks like he might be going that way, and I can only assume
that Evans (S) and Gowland are somewhere behind me. As I turn right onto Pound
Street, with ponds to both sides, I can feel the tempo rising. The field is
starting to spread out a bit, and I push on unimpeded.
Suburban
now, and with about 11 miles covered I hit the first discernible climb. It’s
not a steep or long climb but the path is bloated with cyclists and everybody toils
to keep out of each other’s way. I think this is Woodmansterne Road and past
its humble peak the field begins to thin out again. I’m conscious of the fact
that I’m now averaging a fair speed (whatever that means) and the short descent
down the B278/Rectory Lane excites. I have little idea of how far I’ve travelled
or where everybody else is. I’m not particularly concerned; the sense of occasion
has me in its thrall.
Then there’s another short climb (up How Lane)
which is even more congested, although my legs feel fine – indeed, I’m churning
a relatively big gear to maintain the momentum and dodge the dawdlers. It
occurs to me that the allotted starting times bear no relation to a rider’s
capability or intent. Either that or I’m selling people short, for there are a
lot of well-worn bikes and inappropriate-looking cyclists keeping up a
respectable cadence, pinned with a colour coding corresponding to my own.
The
weather’s holding up nicely. Conditions are still cool and overcast but I don’t
think it will rain. There’s a complimentary stillness to the peloton, although
really it’s no peloton at all: just a mass of bikes steadily moving forward. It’s
a singular experience, this: people’s heads are down, nobody’s communicating. Dare
I say the atmosphere borders on the funereal? There are spectators gathered
here and there to cheer us on, but this is no London Marathon. These are transient
moments and the speed of travel spares us reciprocation.
Miles 14 through to 17 are uneventful, passing
through fields, pop-up barbeques and through small villages, and then breaching
the M25. I do, however, find Wenborn pausing at the top of Rocky Lane, waiting
for the rest of Team Carlos-Weltschmerz to catch up. He asks if we should wait
for the others, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen them so I advise we press
on. Still no sign of Mommersteeg.
There’s another climb at about 20 miles – Church Hill
– taking our elevation up to 430 feet (although we reached 577 feet earlier),
but it’s no great strain. On the other side of Church Hill is the descent down
Cooper’s Hill Road. It is fast and exhilarating, the tree lined banks of this
country lane creating a tubular effect, and the vicarious pleasure of the event
– in lieu of genuine Tour conditions – is gaining momentum. I’m surprised at
how fast most people are tackling these descents and the marshals admonish us
for our velocity. Some of the hairier corners are backed up with bales of hay
as a precaution.
I’m still just about keeping up with Wenborn. Along
the flatter sections – through Smallfield and along Redhill and Effingham Road
– I’m with him most of the way, and we talk of our progress, the distance left to
Turners Hill, and hotdogs. I’m absolutely ravenous and it’s very tempting to
stop for something to eat, perhaps at Burstow Scout Hut and to hell with the
schedule. Wenborn reassures me that there’s not long to go until Turners Hill. Then
he drops me and I’m all alone again.
Turners
Hill Road is the first climb deserving of our effort, and at the top is Turners
Hill. It’s taken us 30 miles (neglecting the distance any of us had to travel
to reach Clapham Common) and over 2 hours to get here. It has cost Wenborn 2
hours and 6 minutes, to be precise, or so says his Garmin computer. From that
we can deduce that it’s taken Mommersteeg – who, under the impression that he
was behind us all, sped on ahead – about 2 hours and 5 minutes, and myself about
2 hours and 7 minutes. Evans (S) and Gowland follow approximately 10 minutes
after that (or however long it takes us to lock our bikes, take a leak and buy
a cup of coffee). Using the Tour de France system to determine a Points
Classification, and assuming that we’ve completed a “medium mountain stage” (because I’ve now suddenly decided that this is how
I’d like to quantify our teams’s progress) the standings after Stage 1
are thus:
Points Classification after Stage
1
Mommersteeg: 30
Wenborn: 25
Evans (J): 22
Evans (S): 19
Gowland: 17
I hadn’t realised how long it would take to get out of London. I didn’t appreciate that, although the route to London to Brighton is closed to traffic, open roads would recurrently interrupt our forge to leave the capital. I assumed that our scheduled stop in Turners Hill marked the halfway point, but it is three miles more than that, and feels like it. The back of the route is firmly broken, then, and we reward ourselves with a light lunch.
Evans (S) and Gowland acquire themselves a pint of
ale to accompany their burgers made of beef. I had been resolutely anti-alcohol
but Evans (S) deliberately exploits my fondness for cycling’s heritage to point
out that alcohol was used to aid many a cyclist’s fortune back in the day. I compromise
and buy half a lager to accompany my sausage filled bap and think of Jacques
Anquetil some more.
There’s a church fete kind of
atmosphere all about us. Refreshments and sustenance abound, and a brass band
strikes up a tune. There’s no sense of competition amongst the massed, although
I wouldn’t say we’re overwhelmed with camaraderie either. People are friendly
enough but nobody’s checking out each other’s bikes, or admiring Team
Carlos-Weltschmerz’s sartorial elegance.
I identify a nice Chas Roberts road bike which I swear I saw on Gumtree a few months
back; it is coloured racing green with yellow bar-tape, so quite distinctive.
Why is nobody looking at my bike?
After about an hour we’re ready for Stage 2 of the…
race! I suppose that Stage 1 hasn’t turned out quite as I anticipated. There
has been no discernible peloton – just a chaotic conglomeration of riders
riding at varying speeds – and Team Carlos-Weltschmerz has struggled to keep together.
Consider our bicycles: Wenborn and
Mommersteeg have the lightest, most expensive bikes, and that’s paid off for
them. Conversely, Evans (S) is riding an aluminium hybrid with treaded tyres
and two panniers strapped to either side of the back wheel – with this in mind,
to be only 12 minutes down in the general classification is actually quite
respectable. Gowland’s bike is also made from aluminium but it has road
specific tyres and he’s not attached panniers. I fancy my steel bike to be more
congruous still, and that I’ve spent much of time stuck in the middle implies
that this could very well be the case. We resolve to try to stick together for
a while. Maybe we can start to help each other out?
It’s also decided that we’ll
reconvene at the top of Ditchling Beacon no matter how the next “stage” pans
out. I’ve come around to the idea of this two-stop strategy, not so much
because I like it but as a result of wanting to establish a rough general
classification. For this to work we need to follow the same schedule, which
means beginning the descent into Brighton as one.
Turners Hill debriefing
Team
Carlos-Weltschmerz climb back upon their bikes and within about a mile they’re
spread out again, along the same lines as before. I suppose if one’s riding a
Condor Squadra or a Specialized Roubaix it must be hard to resist the
temptation to see what it can do.
And then, somewhere on the approach
into Ardingly, just 4 miles on from Turners Hill, I pass Wenborn and
Mommersteeg fiddling at the side of the road. It doesn’t look like a puncture
is the problem because they appear to be playing with something in and around
the pedal area of Wenborn’s Roubaix. This is on a slight descent and I’m
travelling along the opposite side of the road, making good time. I would like to stop and help but can’t
fathom how to safely go about it. It occurs to me that Stage 2 must be a High
Mountain Stage, so whoever’s first up Ditchling Beacon would have to be King of
the Mountains. Like Javier Chacón sensing his opportunity, I decide to move up
gear – literally and figuratively – and see if I can put a bit of distance
between me and the rest of the bunch. I do not expect my breakaway to succeed.
A group
of riders in full British Airways regalia are vexing me. They look serious and
they sound serious. It appears they’ve made it their mission to take every
descent as recklessly fast as they possibly can, aggressively overtaking down
the right hand side of the road. Then, when the course starts to straighten out,
they slacken off, contradicting a physical mien that leads me to believe that
they could push harder if they so desired. This is frustrating because after
overtaking them on the flats I’ve then got to repeatedly deal with their
blustering antics whenever the road decides to take another tumble.
The next nine miles are all whirlwind, heat and
flash. I pass through Lindfield and Haywards Heath, and still no sign of either
Wenborn or Mommersteeg; the Roubaix or the Squadra. I’m riding “full gas” (I’ve
been dying to write that), taking on liquids regularly, and I look to have
freed myself from the British Airways mob. I feel champion. For a few miles I
make it my mission to follow in the path of an androgynous figure speeding
along on a Charge Plug fixed-gear
bicycle. When the road slings upwards, and my gears give me the edge, I find
someone else to hang to. I’m not looking for any assistance – just incentives
to drive me continually forward, like Javier Chacón.
It’s on exiting Haywards Heath – or
soon after – and riding up Fox Hill/Lunce Hill, that one catches the first
glimpse of The Beacon. It’s an
intimidating presence, although still some way off: about four miles. It looks
so sheer one cannot comprehend cycling up it. I start easing up in preparation,
although I’m very conscious of the possibility that Wenborn or Mommersteeg, or
both, may not be far behind.
Through Wivelsfield and the nearer I get the harder
it is to see how close The Beacon really is, for it is now obscured by trees
and buildings. Passing through Ditchling itself, and then along Beacon Road,
I’m incapable of discerning the precise moment the climb is supposed to kick
in. And then Ditchling Bostall – the road that ascends the beacon – is suddenly
there. So abrupt is its emergence that it takes me a few moments to decide it
is what it really is.
What I fear most is the presence of
other cyclists, and particularly those who will struggle to stay true. If I
come off my bike I know I won’t be able to get back on, for the road is too steep
and congested to allow for it. It is a serpentine trail, which is probably a
good thing for it obscures its length and therefore its potential duration. A
swerve to the right, a sharp swing to the left, and general windingness
thereafter. My cadence is steady and I’m happy with how the Romani is
responding. A tortured woman almost veers into me and apologises profusely, but
I manage to hold my course. The profusion of her confession means I don’t hate
her for it.
I pass a sign informing me that I have 800 metres to
go and cannot decide if this is a good thing or bad. When I reach the next sign
and it tells me that there’s still another 400 metres remaining I conclude that
it was probably bad.
A man is pushing his bike up on the right side of
the road, which is forbidden, or at least audibly discouraged via the medium of
megaphones. It’s a terrible effort to circumnavigate this dozy article, and I
have just enough breath spare to make him aware of this. He offers nothing in
reply, which means I absolutely loath him for it.
Sat out of the saddle, I reach the
top and pull into the maelstrom foaming at the side of the road. Approximately
1 minute later, so does Wenborn. I AM KING OF THE MOUNTAINS, but wouldn’t be
had Wenborn not suffered unspecified technical difficulties on the run into
Ardingly.
A few more minutes elapse and then Mommersteeg
emerges. The three of us have made it up Ditchling Beacon without dismounting. Another
5 minutes and Gowland shows his face, and Evans (S) soon after. They had to
alight about halfway up, and there’s no shame in that.
Points Classification after Stage
2
Mommersteeg: 30 + 15 = 45
Wenborn: 25 + 17 = 42
Evans (J): 22 + 20 = 42
Evans (S): 19 + 11 = 30
Gowland: 17 + 13 = 30
The
weather, which on Friday had been forecast in a very negative light, but by
Saturday had been revised to say it would be largely rainless, has very much
behaved itself today: light winds, overcast but dry, approximately 15°C. Now,
though, the wind and the rain have tuned up unannounced, and our sojourn atop
Ditchling Beacon is but a brief one. Plans to approach the final descent with
my jersey on display – for I’ve been wearing my Mavic technical jacket all the
way – are abandoned. What’s more, this act of meteorological sabotage decimates
the efficacy of my brakes. The flat ride over the top of Ditchling Beacon is
not as aggressive as it could, or should, be, and I spend much of it riding at
the back of the group alongside Evans (S) and Gowland. Wenborn and Mommersteeg
repeat their disappearing act and form yet another breakaway.
My brakes have recovered their
purchase in time for the descent down Coldean Lane, but the standing water
discourages me from freewheeling down this monstrously steep declivity.
Along the A270/Lewes Road, and the
terrain has levelled out. I pedal accordingly. I have since overtaken Evans (S)
and make it my mission to finish before, or with, Gowland. I pass as many
people as I possibly can and nobody gets past me. By the time Lewes Road has
morphed into Richmond Terrace and reached Grand Parade, we’ve all been siphoned
into designated bike lanes, demarked by railings and regulated by traffic
lights. There’ll be no sprint finish here.
Actually, as Madeira Drive widens,
there’s just enough time for a final turn of speed, and I’ve plenty left in the
proverbial tank. I collect my “medal”, find the Carlos-Weltschmerz support team
of one, wander about looking for the rest, and then remember that we’d agreed
to reconvene at the Concordia, where will I find my fellow riders in the
process of acquiring celebratory alcoholic beverages.
The final flourish into Brighton has been more akin
to an intermediate sprint or a time trial (this is all relative), which leaves
the Points Classification as thus:
Points Classification after Stage
3 – Final Classification
Mommersteeg: 45 +17 = 62
Wenborn: 42 + 20 = 62
Evans (J): 42 +15 = 57
Gowland: 30 + 13 = 43
Evans (S): 30 + 11 = 41
Turns out I overtook Gowland somewhere along the
A270 without even realising it.
Team Carlos-Weltschmerz
In terms
of General Classification, we deduce that Wenborn must have recorded the
fastest time. With regard to the Points Classification, it’s a draw between the
breakaway boys. As for who’s King of the Mountains there was only one
‘mountain’ (don’t laugh: Ditchling Beacon is as steep as Mount Ventoux, albeit
a tenth of the distance) and I was first up that – thanks to Wenborn’s technical
hitch – so that will be me. But there’s only room for one winner in the
five-man Carlos-Weltschmerz, and on balance that has to be Mr Wenborn. Well
done, Mr Wenborn – here’s your bottle of champagne, a furry ape holding a
banana, and some bizarre ceramic ornament, collectively worth a little over
£10.
We
then proceed to get quite drunk.
Wenborn receives accolades
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