Tell us about your weekend ride

Yesterday was the 'slide' to Brighton. The sun had been reserved for today, but expensive chainrings don't make us future-gazers. We took our hand and played it.

A meet in Clapham and off, under skies suggesting we might just win. Very soon and within spitting distance of Croydon, James and I had lost the group. We did not panic, or if he did it was well hidden behind his weeping eyes. Nobody wants to spend their time in the Devil's armpit so we resorted to the virtual aid every sham descendant of a hunter-gatherer must - Google.

With luck and navigational sense all my own (by which I mean entirely not mine) we both found our way back to the waiting group to be regaled of tales of a Brighton bound National Express driver with a disregard for the sanctity of life. Having debated between us when our optimism of reuniting with the group was low whether we should simulate a near death experience of our own by wandering around Croydon's IKEA instead, we knew all too well of what they spoke. We'd had our own near miss.

Onward then, reformed and rejuvenated - but the weather, lacking the fortitude of Thatcher recently deceased, was turning. Slow but insistent rain worked its magic before we reached the halfway-point pub-stop at Turners Hill, wet but unbroken. Hungry cyclists need their grub, and this pub needed an extra pair of hands in the kitchen to help their poor chef all set for a leisurely afternoon of feeding the regulars their staples meet the demands of a banquet of microwaving his jaded fingers couldn't match.

Chef could not keep up. Random dishes appeared from the kitchen to be announced by a waiter with all the certainty of a lost tourist. One of our number tolerated a comical wait for his bangers and mash - the free peas served up as consolation for his withering away during his 90 minute torture made little impression, as did my waving of perfectly bland but promptly delivered chips under his nose in a show of support. Without much thought he dispatched his gruel while the rest of us, no longer satisfied from the holes filled what seemed a fortnight ago, gazed and drooled. The bastard didn't offer us a morsel.

All eyes turned to outside, as every new punter arrived more disheveled that the last - it was properly raining now, and our post-hunger slump was kicking in hard. Bikes with sopping saddles are not very enticing but there's no choice other than stick or twist, and I saw no white flags being waved. What followed us right to Brighton were the worst conditions I've ever known. Rain may only be water and wind no more than a breeze but combine the two and things can turn deranged. A few of us skipped the next pub-stop in favour of getting Ditchling out the way. Although I've ridden to Brighton before this was my first encounter with the fabled beast, as wisely we swerved it last time. I'm sure some folk find it easy to ride up but I found it bloody difficult pushing. Come the summit any view was obscured with mist but the wind couldn't be heard any clearer. It bit and it tormented.

Snow was in the air. One by one those who stopped at the pub caught us up as we regathered once more, but mostly for shelter from the elements rather than celebration as we shivered and the light faded. Not since my days scaling the Matterhorn have I known a more sparse environment - had the world ended I'd not have known the difference. The consensus was we push for the finish before we did our best Han Solo in the deep-freeze impressions, but the run-in was what the cool kids call sketchy, and what I call dangerous.

My bike seemed to take on a life of its own. For a while I convinced myself that despite my best efforts my veering towards the centre-line was due to a wandering headset and a bike doomed to failure, but it was the viscous crosswind pushing me close to where I shouldn't stray. I had to fight my bike and myself to stay on course, the visibility next to nothing except when a welcome car overtook and its rear-lights gave me something to aim for. All I could hope for was no mechanical failure as the roads refused to signal our arrival, until - seagulls with their unmistakable call. We had made it. Without a thought for the sea we made for the train station and a return trip to London in a time that made a mockery of our efforts.

Those lacking blue lips made do with shivering uncontrollably - I found solace in a tub of M&S flapjacks. More rain greeted us in London but I flew home, never more glad for a fridge full of Hoegaarden and a pan of red-onion chutney I knocked up the day before to go with some homemade lamb burgers seasoned with harissa, once saturated clothing had been discarded and I felt a new man. The ride had no right to be as rewarding as it was. If it's tough for one it was tough for everyone. For hours we were drenched. Despite it all we prevailed, but they were the hardest 75 miles I've ever known.