2011-07-16/17 Sat/Sun - Dunwich Dynamo DD19

The weekend of the 16th and 17th of July saw the latest instalment of a cycling event quite unlike any other; the Dunwich Dynamo. It’s been running for several years now, but the first I’d heard of it was just a few months prior to participating. Organised by the Southwark Cyclists enterprise, the ride has as its destination the Suffolk coast, about 120 miles out of town. Having learned this, I wasn’t much bothered that I wasn’t previously aware of such a ridiculous and, I thought, impossible feat. I mean, 120 miles is a long way when relying on your legs. A cycling forum I’m involved with though soon sprung into life in the weeks leading up to the ride, and I soon gathered that a lot of people I knew planned on riding; for some, far from their first attempt. So I started to pay more attention to it, but all the while the immovable object of setting off on a journey of such length trumped the irresistible force I’ve never considered my fitness and stamina to be. I found it a daunting proposition. I’ve been on several mid-length rides to various places, totting up between 50–70 miles here and there. The furthest afield I’d ridden in a single stretch was to Brighton, give or take half the distance of the Dynamo, and I could remember only too well the effort and time which it had taken my girlfriend and I. Brighton took us about 8 hours, but we have a very casual attitude to taking rest stops – mostly at the top of hills we’ve pushed our bikes up, where we’ll smoke and cough until content again. I really didn’t much fancy spending what I thought would be double the amount of time of that ride in the saddle heading to Dunwich. What’s more, the Dynamo is ridden through the night. By now I was certain there’d been a typo, and that the ride was bound for Dulwich instead. That I could understand. Surely nobody could possibly fancy riding 120 miles through the night?

Being contrary and not a little bit stupid, I signed up. Or rather I didn’t. There’s a very egalitarian attitude towards the ride, no conditions to satisfy on the part of participants; it’s free, no club membership required, none of that repressive stuff I can’t be bothered with and cycling isn’t about anyway. You turn up and take your chance. All that’s required is a bike in full working order, and a mind that probably isn’t if you’ve arrived at the start. Which I nearly didn’t. Riders gather at a pub on London Fields from about 7 o’clock on Saturday evening. I spent the day clueless as to what to do with myself, other than fret and pretend I was looking forward to it. I set about getting my bike into as reliable a state as I could, reduced my gearing, tightened this, oiled the other, hoped it would break so I could justifiably get out of this fine mess. The weather throughout the day was as changeable as my mood. Should I nap? What snacks do I need? Why am I doing this? I had no answers to any of it. You have to challenge yourself once in a while though, so I set off to meet my girlfriend from work, glad that I’d not had to do so myself. The heavens opened once or twice after I’d arrived, but I was beginning to feel the quiet determination build. Together we set off for London Fields, about 10 miles from my house, but still no nearer Dunwich. The 120 miles is calculated from Hackney, not Ladbroke Grove.

What struck me first, apart from the sheer numbers of cyclists, was that most were fetching pints from the pub. I’d not had a drop all day, thinking this was wise. I had no plans on having a beer at the pub either. But there was a very informal, relaxed air to things, and so I treated myself. The second thing to strike me was the range of people and their contraptions. There were your serious cyclists, represented by the Dulwich Paragon group of riders. Couples on tandems. People on clapped-out mountain-bikes, wholly unsuitable for long distance rides. A man on a recumbent. Plenty on Bromptons. And lots riding fixed, my girlfriend included. Suddenly I felt like this would be good fun. All the talk was of route maps, and claiming your coach ticket for the return, the one concession to logistics and good sense. Once the route became available we bought a few copies, but wisely concluded we’d never get it right anyway so we’d be better off following other riders. In truth it just perplexed us. At 8.30 pm the whole group, now over 1000 strong, turned their first wheel which set the imaginary clock running and the distance reducing. Getting out of London is bad enough, given its size, and 1000 or so cyclists heading East(ish) through Hackney on a Saturday night made it no easier. We had to break London’s grip, then head to Essex and Epping forest, territory I’ve ridden before. Sadly doing so means heading up deathly boring and straight A roads, the likes of which it’s hard to enjoy on a bicycle on even a short ride. Spirits were high though, and the trepidation had given way to excitement. There were also many people we knew, and plenty of others who, harshly or not, I had down as being significantly less fit than me. The point to the Dynamo though is that it’s most certainly not a race. It’s the getting there. We didn’t heed that though over the first 20 or so miles, as there was quite a pace being set at the front, where we’d placed ourselves. Catching up is harder than keeping up, but with the volume of riders and their varying ages the peloton, if I can call it that, is stretched immediately depending on intention. We were clipping along at a pace we simply couldn’t maintain for the duration, all the while it growing ever darker. Soon enough the traffic and street-lighting begun to disappear, and the dawning of the severity of the distance hit me hard. Riding a bike a long way is as much a psychological test as much as physical; perhaps I’m reading too much into it. But I find that when you’re heading somewhere for the first time, to a place you’d not even heard of, without a device which measures distance remaining, it’s easy to feel adrift. There’s nothing familiar to look forward to, landmark wise, nothing suggesting imminent arrival. Just a bike underneath you and the knowledge that this will inevitably take many hours, and more inevitably still there’ll be patches good and bad, both physically and mentally. So you just keep turning the cranks. Soon enough there was total darkness, and nothing to look at whatsoever, save the flickering train of lights.

Within the hour there’d been an accident. One of the Paragon riders had fallen, and the ambulance was on the scene already. We had to filter through and past, noticing as we did the rider strapped to the support stretcher, neck-brace included. It was dark and cold, and I could easily have turned around at that point. We’d not seen what happened, but for some minutes afterwards the mood dipped and I was in several minds about what to do. I was a long way from home by now, but I was an even longer way from Dunwich. To be honest I had no idea where I was, and everybody else was heading in the opposite direction to me had I decided to pack it in. I noticed that most if not all of the other Paragon riders has elected to continue, so I did the same, assuming their friend must be in a better shape that I’d imagined. So on we ploughed, still riding much too quickly, still seemingly unable to do anything about it. A good pace keeps you motivated, as does having somebody in front to match when you’re feeling good or cling onto when feeling less so. It also keeps the cold away. Eventually much of the conversation dies down as the pack is spread further, and you individually settle into a rhythm. After a while I was craving a small village, as the lanes and their total darkness were sapping my spirits. I needed something else to look at. Thankfully the first unheard of one popped up, after a couple of hours of riding. People are free to stop as and when they please throughout, but it was clear that many were choosing to pause here; it was only 10.30, and so the quiet pub was still open, hence the mass stop. We gathered with a group of friends and there was talk of us having ridden 31 miles, which cheered us up no end. We’d managed a quarter, and were feeling well. Shame it wasn’t true. We’d actually covered just 21 miles from the pub in Hackney, leaving a paltry 100 left. It’s a very big number, and I was still intimidated by it. After 15 minutes we got on with it again, a Tracker bar and a roll-up to the good.

Stopping to rest is vital, but it also saps your strength. The adrenalin you depend upon is soon lost when you begin to relax, and hard to gather again. Riding becomes a chore, until your next good patch, and there’s no telling when that will kick in again. There’s a lot to contend with, the fatigue or the ride itself, and that of your sleep-deprived body. I chose not to nap in the day as I find I’m more groggy afterwards than before if I do, so come midnight I’d been awake for quite some time, with the promise of being awake for plenty more hours, and with no clue where I was. I’ve been used to that feeling before for a whole other bunch of reasons, but this was entirely different. As we rode we passed some groups and others overtook us, until you’ve no idea where you stand in the grand scheme of things. Some hills provided an opportunity to look behind at the snaking vista of flickering front-lights mapping the undulations we’d already navigated; spectacles such as this were truly staggering, the vast numbers still behind, others much further ahead. Motivation was gathered from all these other people battling their own determination in the distance.

There’s a village hall which opens in a place whose name I’ll never remember, other than it being known colloquially, and falsely, as the halfway point. That became the next benchmark. We were riding with our umpteenth group of strangers by this point, familiar faces spread who knows where. Finally we reached it, greatly looking forward to a cup of tea, some warmth, and something to eat. We were keen to know exactly how far this point was; it sat 52 miles in, so quite a bit from halfway. We’d covered that in 5 ½ hours, or in other words smashed the time it took for us to hit Brighton, not much further at about 60 miles from London. While grateful for the stop, this one killed us. You don’t feel the cold so much when you’re riding, but once you’ve stopped for a decent length of time, in a warm village hall, going outside with the prospect of riding the same length again plus a bit more ahead of us was quite a downer. The hall was full of people in varying states – some slumped, asleep, others bemused, more still happy and chatting. What couldn’t be ignored was our weariness. Tiredness had struck, and the urge to curl up and sleep was total. By now it was still the thick end of the late night/early morning; I couldn’t tell anymore. All I knew was it was still thoroughly dark, no suggestion of the dawn at all.

It took all of our strength to swing our legs over our bikes again, the cold mocking us. We were freezing now, but found motivation by the numbers of people still constantly just arriving as we set off again. The feeling of detachment increases as the ride progresses you see, as people are lost to their own pace. It’s easy to feel alone, to wonder whether the ride is still going on, when things are as stretched as they kept on becoming, but to see that it was of course still happening for everybody was the spark we needed to continue. No respite was shown though by the succession of lanes and all too brief villages to tempt the eye. It seemed endless. Soon enough larger towns offered themselves up, and it dawned on me I’d forgotten all about the existence of traffic-lights, having not encountered one for so long. They were a novelty, but not quite as much as finally seeing people other than our fellow riders. We’d be shouted abuse or encouragement from the people in towns walking home following their night out, depending on their inebriation, which had a dual-effect; it was nice to hear recognition from others not involved in the ride, but I found myself envying their arrival and imminent sleep at their familiar homes. I was thoroughly lost and disorientated, and I have quite a dislike of the former. There’s nothing to do other than keep pedalling, and try and visualise how far you’ve covered in terms of time taken; something to occupy the mind, other than the relentlessness of this journey.

After a couple of hours and a return to an acceptable feeling of optimism, something significant happened. It was threatening to get light. The punishing darkness was giving way bit by noticeable bit, until I could actually make out the blandest of things which suddenly became riveting, such as the hedgerows. Birds began to call as life picked itself up again. In such circumstances we were invigorated, not to mention thoroughly grateful. It would be easier, maybe not easy, from here on in, we’d been told. And so it was. My attitude changed completely, and I was surer than ever we’d make it, regardless of how long it would take. Now it was just a matter of when, rather than if, and the whole experience became less taxing. We began to stop more frequently and for longer, as the cold was giving way. It became pleasurable, rather than a cruel necessity. Our sight had been restored, and the many hours we’d spent in the pitch black had melted away. We could even turn our lights off, finally. I remember one stop in particular, heading through a small town which wasn’t quite ready to begin its day. We sat down and consulted the route-sheet for the first time in ages, checking the name of the town against our mileage. We reckoned on having covered about 75 miles at this point. Plenty left still, but all of which would be in ever increasing daylight. No need to rush the break, we were able to fully relax and get on with it again when we felt like it. Our entire approach changed, from one of maybe even desperation to get rid of the night, to one of looking forward to the remainder.

We still had rough patches, but the promise of Dunwich was getting ever more real. At the start of the ride there’s no point at all thinking about the destination, but as you close in on it it’s the only thing on your mind. It’s getting nearer, and then nearer still. Despite the lack of organisation to the ride, the route is well travelled so some kindly folk had set up a stall outside their house selling tea and bacon/sausage sandwiches. Hours previously we’d passed another but I was happy to ignore it as we fought to break the darkness, but now in the full morning light this was all the temptation we needed. Never in all my life have I enjoyed a stewed tea so much, nor a sausage sandwich. I was a new man. At this point a couple of friends of ours also pulled in, except they’d begun their return journey. We knew full well that riding back too was well beyond us, but we offered them our sincere encouragement as we once again headed to where they’d already been and left. By this time we’d ridden much further than ever before in one go, and were very pleased with it. Then we cracked 100 miles, nothing less than a milestone. Steadily the numbers of cyclists going the other way for the return leg grew; the super-fit or super-stupid, I’m not sure which. We were in the final stages at last.

There was still time for another disappointment though. According to the route-sheet we’d been figuring on being about 10 miles out of Dunwich within 15 minutes or so of the food stop. That’s not far. However I was conscious of still not having seen a single signpost for this mythical place. I wondered whether this was all a hoax. At last we saw the first, but it held bad news. We were still 17 miles away. Now that’s not much either, but it was a vivid letdown. We took it as a challenge though, as we put our heads down and gave it some beans, not stopping for the rest of the ride. I suppose by now we were totally committed, as we’d earned our right to get off our bikes once and for all, to say we’d done it. We ate those miles up, in a group we’d been seeing more and more often for the past couple of hours. As with the entire number of participants as viewed right back at the beginning in Hackney, this fragmented group of about 8 cyclists contained the full breadth of those drawn to this quite peculiar challenge; a woman on an uncared for but presumably well loved heap, perhaps in her early 60s, certainly of a fitness level of just about average. She too was going to make it. Others on their top of the line road-bikes, in full lycra. We were all going to make it. And then we did. Truth be told it was a bit of a letdown, but short of there being the fruit of the Gods strewn on the ground it was always going to be. I looked at my watch. It was precisely 9.30 in the morning. We’d set off the night before, at exactly 8.30 in the evening. Save at least 2 hours combined rest time, we’d been cycling the rest, without sleep.

So, Dunwich. There’s not much to it. We put our bikes on the coach and I finally cracked the sole, celebratory can of Holsten Pils I’d carried with me the whole way. I’d never been close to opening it on any of the stops, as this was my personal gift to myself come the end. Of course it was warm, and actually not all that satisfying. I think I was in a daze. The small shops open up early for the arrival, and I was overjoyed to find they stocked beer. I’d not been expecting that, it obviously being too early to serve, but that cold one finally hit the mark. We headed to the beach, which was pebbled rather than sandy. I hate pebbled beaches. But the ocean was as wet as ever, and I went for a well deserved walk in it, before flaking out and lying down. Our coach was due to leave at 11, so we didn’t have much time. I was grateful though for its early departure; there were several in total, all heading back to London at staggered times. On it I bowed to the inevitable, and slept. We were dropped at Smithfield Market, where within a few minutes it begun to thunder. I got the wettest I’d been on my ride back home, as the weather was on our side the entire way to Dunwich. My measly commute home, a distance I do twice each and every day, was awful. I was spent, and considered jumping in a taxi. That would have been a cop-out though, so I crawled home, as slow as I cared. Once there I was overcome with what can only be described as jetlag. I was clueless as to what day it was, and exhausted. I soon gave in to more sleep, missing Darren Clarke win the Open as I’d planned on doing. But it was beyond me. You know when you’re beaten.

All in all I rode getting on for 150 miles, in about 11 hours. My body-clock was done, but I felt in reasonable physical shape. I was thoroughly satisfied. In all that time Yas had a single puncture, the only mechanical we encountered. We got there. I can’t promise I’ll be doing it next year, but I will most certainly do it again. We can all of us surprise ourselves. And I’ve since met the downed Paragon rider. She’d swerved to miss a light which had fallen off a rider in front of her, hitting a pothole which threw her off. She sustained a broken collarbone, and some injuries to her face. Her biggest disappointment, which I can now fully understand, was being unable to complete the journey.

Hahaha... Yeah, about right... I kept waking myself up cause I thought I may be snoring:-)

Thanks theory swine- a great read though you forgot to metion the home made beef jerky and dried peach fruit swirls you're short of about 340 words

ChainBreaker you WERE snoring
everyone was, which is why ian (Conker) and I couldn't sleep the whole trip back;)

Ha, I remember the peach swirl things, don't you worry. Not often I'm confused by food.

That video Alex posted is excellent.

I so was NOT snoring!!!

Brilliant read 'swine!!!

tl;mrl

(too long; might read later)

That was such an excellent write up, you described it so well, I started to remember the ride as if it were yesterday, this mere description of the general feeling during the ride was spot on, this is to me, exactly what the Dunwich Dynamo is about;

Riding a bike a long way is as much a psychological test as much as physical; perhaps I’m reading too much into it. But I find that when you’re heading somewhere for the first time, to a place you’d not even heard of, without a device which measures distance remaining, it’s easy to feel adrift. There’s nothing familiar to look forward to, landmark wise, nothing suggesting imminent arrival. Just a bike underneath you and the knowledge that this will inevitably take many hours, and more inevitably still there’ll be patches good and bad, both physically and mentally. So you just keep turning the cranks. Soon enough there was total darkness, and nothing to look at whatsoever, save the flickering train of lights.

The coldness setting in is exactly why I didn't stop at the mid-point fuel stop;

While grateful for the stop, this one killed us. You don’t feel the cold so much when you’re riding, but once you’ve stopped for a decent length of time, in a warm village hall, going outside with the prospect of riding the same length again plus a bit more ahead of us was quite a downer.

tl;wri

(too long; will read it)

fixed.

seriously, it's probably the best write up of the DD.

Ha, I remember the peach swirl things, don't you worry. Not often I'm confused by food.

That video Alex posted is excellent.

bit trippy though isn't it?

great write up!

Nice write up TS. I can feel myself slipping into that must get to Dunwich mindset again.

I'm going to do it again in a few weeks...was a little disappointed with this years effort on the return leg. This time I'll try not to overdose on painkillers and fall asleep whilst riding due to the drowsiness, or throw up in any chip shop toilets half an hour from home. :]

I'm going to do it again in a few weeks...was a little disappointed with this years effort on the return leg. This time I'll try not to overdose on painkillers and fall asleep whilst riding due to the drowsiness, or throw up in any chip shop toilets half an hour from home. :]

Oh the nostalgia, the good times!

Are you going to do it in the night or there daytime back night?

That "17 miles to Dunwich" signpost was a bitch.
Someone had messed with it though right? It was only 7 miles?

Great write-up! Definitely captures the spirit of the ride (I did it in 2009).

Cheers for the mention (glad the sight of me on the spinal board/in neck brace didn't put you off your ride). Clavicle seems to be healing well now the plate & pins are in and I've got the date of Dunwich 2012 noted in the diary!

I sure was knackered by the second half, we only trained for 3 weeks prior to the ride as we decided last minute to do it.

That was to the comment about the video I posted by the way sorry.

That "17 miles to Dunwich" signpost was a bitch.
Someone had messed with it though right? It was only 7 miles?

Yep, and I believe the cheeky AlexB changed it to say "71"...

that almost broke me... Thanks AlexB... Grrrrr....

Didn't have energy problems. Did have "Oh my god, this saddle is destroying my arse" issues.

I had 'why is this ride over so soon just when I'm getting in the groove?" problems
(Things do get easier once you're over 50:)

My mate Al, who I'm riding the End2End with in a few weeks did a write-up on our ride blog. It was his first go at the DD. He's a much better writer than I am.

http://www.notthehairybikers.com/?p=333

He also shot a short, slightly hallucinatory piece of video too.

http://vimeo.com/26959294

I'm going to do it again in a few weeks...was a little disappointed with this years effort on the return leg. This time I'll try not to overdose on painkillers and fall asleep whilst riding due to the drowsiness, or throw up in any chip shop toilets half an hour from home. :]

Only ELEVEN WEEKS before we can do it all again folks!

Well...except the chip shop vomiting and overdosing on Whiskey and painkillers. :]

.

Is there a DD 20 thread yet?

And 11 weeks is nothing!!!