Tell us about your weekend ride

Being naturally exercise-shy and hardly fleet of foot, and having read the calls for more description of rides in this thread, which I agree with, I’d just like to say that my brief exposition above into the delights of my our first ride to b/right/on was written on the train on the way home, on an iphone with their daft useless keypad things, hands trembling, beer inviting, eyes of red. It was all I could muster. I was kaput. Finished, in anyone’s money. So now, having come through the other side, the unedited version.

It was arranged on a whim that we cycle down, as Yas was to visit her dad and sister who both live in b/right/on, as it was her birthday this weekend. We planned to take the train and our bikes along, to have a little jolly once there. But with the best of British and half-Turkish we declared ‘Sod it’, and looked up bike routes online. The one I favoured for some reason wouldn’t print out, or something, so we found another more meandering (I think) route spread across 4 pages of a map, beginning in Sutton. Yas successfully printed this out and turned up at mine on Sunday morning at a time when in a previous life I’d normally be rolling home, eyes bulging. We set off a little behind schedule, 8.10, bound for Sutton, with an empty LMNH drinks bottle, some Laduree macaroons, Minstrels, Mars bars and optimism for company. And tobacco.

Never been to Sutton before, nothing to recommend it so far as I could see. We took a little rest there, poured Ribena into the drinks-bottle and smoked a couple of roll-ups. Ate some sugary bits. We were still keen. We set off again, along a dire road it must be said, where we both found the rest had not allowed us to recuperate at all – in fact, it had done the opposite. The first struggle then, so soon as to be entirely unexpected. The weather closed in too. A man on a crappy old mountain bike, on his lowest gear and with a rear tyre submerged into the road, maybe at 20 psi if he was lucky, rode past us as if we weren’t moving. Perhaps we weren’t; stationery, like a stubborn dog which refuses to move further on its walk. How was he doing this, this riding a bike thing? Why did I feel tired? I ride a long way each week; wasn’t I getting fitter? Anyway, bugger him, we eventually caught up with him, only for him to take us back when we took maybe the 10th of what seemed like thousands of map consulting sessions. It must be said, Yas was superb with navigating, while I was superb with looking pretty. I got us to Sutton, which is South of the river after all and I live in West London, so I was satisfied enough with that.

Anyway, time for the first bit of fun – Dorking Road I think it was, which made us feel like we’d finally slipped the grip of The Big Smoke and were Somewhere Else. Great descents and corners, sweeping away, bags of fun, point the bike in a direction and let it go; damn it felt fine. Things were looking up. The next hour or so was spent marvelling at the delights of the Great British Countryside, rolling fields and animal noises, gulping in clean, refreshing air, sat atop a bicycle. This is what we’d signed-up for, this feeling of powering yourself to a different place, in all senses of the expression. While the first page of our map had been mostly busy crap, the second page had us pass through places with 1 bus a week and no public telephones. Nice to visit, couldn’t possibly lay my hat there though. On another stretch of lanes a farmer was busying himself with what farmers do, whatever that may be, while his dog looked on. What a scene it was. As we passed though the dog took a great dislike to our first intrepid traveller, me, and ran at me growling and barking. I laughed, sure he’d soon tire of it. He ran alongside me however for longer than I’d have liked, and I began to fear for my ankles. This dog meant business. I could hear the faint farmer’s cry of ‘Lucky, Lucky’, as he tried in vain to summon his dog home and prevent his attack on me. Stupid bloody terrier. Anyway, Lucky gave up after a while and ran back to his home, passing Yas without so much as a look in her direction. His problem was entirely with me. I did not feel like Nature Boy. I felt alien out here, wherever it was.

Time ticked on, while our progress seemingly didn’t. Yes we were moving, we were certainly on the go, but time seemed to race ahead, mocking us. ‘Keep pedalling though, just keep pedalling’, through this bloody quicksand that engulfed us, I thought. Pretty pubs cropped up here and there, and I longed to go in and sample too much local brew, smoke and listen to men with pork-chop sideburns put the world to rights. I’d have joined them, whether they’d like it or not. But there was no time, we needed to arrive in b/right/on at a reasonable hour so as to do the family birthday thing. My Ribena offered not much by way of consolation. We took a rest come the end of each page of our route, which for the first 2 pages had both been at a railway crossing. At the end of page 2 we broke out the macaroons and guzzled a can of coke between us. It was a refreshing pit-stop thankfully. We didn’t know what was in store for us though on page 3. It started well enough, in fact it began with another memorable road, whose name I forget, but it was high up, long and flat, with stunning views. We acknowledged passing cyclists, wondering where they were headed. Then the weather took a serious turn for the worst. It hammered it down. Our height didn’t help, and off in the distance we could see brighter skies, but for 20 minutes or so we got thoroughly kippered. Bravely, or foolishly, we just carried on, refusing shelter. We were driven. Perhaps crazed. My new Rapha cap was soaked. So was the rest of me. Water dripped from the end of my nose, and my glasses were steamed up and covered in rain-smears. I couldn’t see much, but I could feel plenty, and I didn’t much like what I felt. The first mutterings of whether we should get the train surfaced, but we were both certain that would be a cop-out we’d later regret. We stuck it out, and eventually the rain passed. We were sodden though, right through.

Hours had now passed, and we had a full page of our route to get through. I had dropped into a puny gear I never use, but it felt so stiff. Yas, riding fixed, didn’t have the luxury of my gears, but I couldn’t fathom how even on a flat road cycling had become such hard work. My regular gear was simply out of the question. It was beyond me. We made a wrong turn, our first mistake. We stopped by the side of the road, and a motorist pulled alongside to enquire whether we were OK. Lying, we told him we were. This pain-cave, it’s real. We were submerged in it. He drove off. Damn him, damn him to hell, in his quick, motorised vehicle. It was tough. I rode back to look at the road-sign, and saw that we were heading for the A23, right into b/right/on. Screw the map, it had served us well, but this road ended up where we wanted to be. That was all we needed to know, so off we went again. Finally, some civilisation. A petrol station. For hours it had been chickens, sheep and crazed terriers. We went in and stocked up on Ginsters and Walkers ‘finest’, devouring it all in stony silence. We hadn’t brought enough food, and we were both ravenous. Then, some good news. Another sign informed us that b/right/on was a mere 7 miles away. 7 miles. That’s less than my 1 way journey to work. This was glorious news. Trouble was this was the A23 where we had no right to be, but there was a cycle-path alongside. We set off with renewed determination, and glimpsed the city off in the distance. We were nearly there.

Finally, we passed a sign welcoming us to Brighton & Hove. I raised my hand in victory. Yas made a joyous sound. We’d done it. After another half an hour we pulled up at her sister’s pub. It was 5.05. We’d been on the go for 9 hours. I couldn’t believe how long it had taken us. Scrub an hour off that for the times we rested, and about 45 minutes for route checking, and you’re left with our journey time. For sure it’s not the route the forum take on these rides, as we missed Ditchling altogether, although we rode along Ditchling Road once in town. We went to another pub where some of Yas’s family had gathered, and I was delighted to find it served Hoegaarden. There could have been no greater gift than this. I was parched. Then, a moment of thanks from the gods of something or other. In my bag I had precisely, to the penny, enough for 2 pints of the stuff. It was meant to be. They tasted good. The roast chicken did not. Today though I’ve been dismayed to find that according to google pedometer, b/right/on is exactly 48.543 miles from my home, and our start-point, albeit in a straight-line. Surely it’s more? Anyway, we’d obviously not ridden in a straight line, but I know not of how many extra miles can be added to our ride. It was a funny old route. Glorious in places, in fact most of it was all very pretty, but like I said before, a field is a field. They’re nice, but I can’t get overly excited about them after the sixth hour. I’d like to try another route. It was quite a day. I saw the sea. I did not get fish and chips. We had no mechanicals at all, other than mental. The bikes kept us going, just like we kept them going. Mine felt glorious throughout, the saddle I picked up at the LMNH jumble passing its first long-ride test. We’ve signed-up for the Cambridge ride. It’s further than b/right/on. Maybe I’ll sell my bikes.

Got a Garmin trail for that?

It sounds as if you went much further than the distance you computed there. Brighton is usually between 50-60 miles, depending on which route you take. I always recommend Simon Legg's FNRttC route. I think it's by far the best.