Act 1: Beginnings

It’s 1AM and I’ve just broken an Allen Key. Anyone who’s been reading my blog may have gleaned that I ride a beautiful black Bianchi. I’ve ridden it to Brighton before, I took it on my ride round London, I’ve blitzed it up the hills near my parents house. I’ve fallen off it more than once, but not fallen off of it many more times. And two days ago, I broke it. Don’t ask me how, but the rear dérailleur is not hanging as it should. I am capable of fixing most minor issues with my bike, but as soon as we get into dérailleur territory, I back out – a lifetime of overconfidence in my abilities to fix mechanical things, coupled with the sure knowledge that as easy as the book makes it look to fiddle about with, the instant I touch it a thousand tiny springs will ping off in every direction means that I need to take it into a grown up to have a look at, and there’s just no time for that. After a day of calling up every bike repair shop within a reasonable distance I resort to renting instead. I end up with a slightly too small rental bike, as apparently the same forces that top me from booking my bike in for a repair have also compelled people to rent all the bikes in my size. It’s a Trek 1.1, and it’s very nice, but it’s not my bike.

I make the most of it. I take off the bell and the rear reflector and – after being reminded that a 4AM start will in fact be in total darkness – replace them with some lights. I mount the Garmin. I try and put my pedals on, and oops, there goes the Allen key. And I’m bleeding. This gets better and better. I eye up the assembled kit that will slot into my jersey pockets; the tools that will keep me rolling in case of accidents; the row of energy gels, the isotonic energy drink chilling in the fridge that will fuel me. I reflect on the sad fact that I have to be up and going in approximately three hours, and the fact that my previous week at work has been hideous, with nowhere near as much sleep as I might have hoped for, let alone any training. I look at these things and consider the saddest fact of all: I’m not ready for this.

4AM rolls around too soon. Usually when I’m setting off at a ludicrous hour for a heroic cycle I hop out of bed feeling amazing. “Take that, regular people” I cry, “I’m doing a thing, a significant thing, and you’re asleep”. This, however, is awful. I force a bowl of pasta and a mug of coffee down my throat and slink into the darkness.

Act 2: How art thou fallen from heaven, O day star

I’m riding with a small group of guys for the initial drag out of Clapham. On the first hill – and not even a very significant hill – they drop me, one after another. This is only partially my fault. The irritating toe clips don’t help; used to my cleats welding foot to pedal, I slip out of them with distressing regularity, and continue to do so until I stop and adjust them. For most of the first half of the ride I play leap frog with a couple of serious looking guys in identical kit. They don’t look like cyclists, more like rowers, and from the back they are identical. I nickname them the Winkelvoss twins in my head. It’s a story I’m quite familiar with, they are faster than me on the hills but I make up the time on the flats. A loose clump of cyclists forms. I overtake some people, some people overtake me. A chap on a bright yellow Pinarello Dogma blows past me at one point, but astonishingly I overhaul him on one of the hills. The last person I saw riding a bike that flamboyant and expensive was on the TV, and he was in the process of winning the Tour de France. This isn’t Chris Froome, and I lose track of him a short way later when my impromptu Peloton gets lost.

We lose about 20 minutes in total. The first 30 seconds involves barrelling down a long hill; the rest of the time involves arguing about where we are and then climbing back up again. I feel less silly than if it had just been me who got lost, and we’re soon back on track.

I’ve talked before about half a ride being in your head, and I’m feeling this again right now. I start comparing the amount of time I’ve been awake with the amount if time I’ve been on the bike, and the numbers are not adding up as well as I might have liked. I choke down an energy gel and it makes me feel slightly worse. I look at the time I’ve taken so far and realise that the only way I’ll post a time I’ll be happy with is if I strap a literal rocket onto the back of the bike. I feel like I can see every single mile ahead of me, and every one is full of pain. I’m angry at my bike, angry at the pedals on the bike. Angry at my job, angry at my inability to sleep. Most of all I’m angry at myself; I think about every day I could have gone out but didn’t. I come to the realisation that either you pay the blood price in training or you pay it ten-fold later; this seems so obvious now, but perhaps it’s eluded me in the past. I think that I hate myself, but hatred is good; that if I didn’t want to punish myself, I would have never rolled out of bed in the morning, climbed on top of this hateful engine and engine-legged my way southwards. I want to grab onto my anger and ire and keep it close and use is as fuel. Am I an institutionalised man now? I feel like Brooks in the Shawshank Redemption, and maybe if I murder the Winkelvoss Twins I’ll be able to keep riding forever.

It was a strange hour or two, that’s for sure.

I am surprised when Turners Hill – the easier, and much less infamous hill on this cycle – offers some positive vibes back into my life. Suddenly I find I’ve got my legs back, and while I’m not exactly sprinting up this hill, I am appreciating the fact that there are some guys walking their bikes up. This cheers me no end. At the top of the hill is a feed stop. Apparently lunch has been laid on, and I’m told it’s extensive. Cake was mentioned. I look at my time again. I’ve already failed my initial goal, why not stop for a bit? I could get off my bike and grab a bite; chill out for half an hour – an hour, even! This is the sensible option, it’s what I should do. I’m not as prepared as I could be, but there’s no shame in that, I’m not out to prove anything to anyone, so why not chill out for the rest of the ride?

All of these thoughts swirled through my head as I neck a gel and wrench my bike around back onto the course. Give up? Fuck off.

Act 3: Rise

The next hour or so is one of the best I’ve ever felt on a bike. It helps that these are gorgeous long smooth roads, and I can ride on these roads, at this pace, for approximately forever. There’s a guy drafting behind me, a novel experience on this cycle. I find another group, and we tear up some tarmac. This is the flip side to my existential despair from before; right now I want to race the world.

Eventually the ominous spectre of the Ditchling Beacon looms ahead of us. You can see it for miles, and you know that your destination lies on the other side. It’s hill I’ve described before as the ‘Ventoux of the South East’, and as it hits a hefty 6/10 in my ‘100 Greatest Cycling Climbs‘ book, it’s not to be trifled with. Riding with me is a guy on the ugliest Bianchi I’ve ever seen. The top tube is a sort of garish yellow, and the bar ends are a hideous bright red. But this guy is hitting it hard, and fast, even though he doesn’t look Pro at all. This is a day full of surprises indeed; maybe I’ve learned something about not judging books by their covers. And as I pull out a gel tube, he pulls out a banana. We have a hill to climb after all.

I hit the beacon and swiftly stand on the pedals. Then I remember some advice my dad gave me, that my uncle gave him, and sit back down again. It feels very unnatural, but I quickly feel some serious muscle groups wake up and knuckle down. I even find myself upping the pace at one point, and it feels fantastic. Admittedly the only guy I pass is the guy pushing his bike, but it’s the small victories that count right?

Last time I climbed the Beacon I got to the top and died a little bit inside. I was so exhausted that I needed to stop and seriously re-evaluate my life choices. This time I just keep accelerating. And when matey boy who’s been pushing his bike up comes past me I decide I’m not having any of this, and chase him. And catch him. And pass him. And here I am, flying on top of the Ditchling Beacon at 25mph / 40km/h, about to hit a ludicrous descent into Brighton proper, and it feels great. It feels amazing. And now I come to my biggest realisation of all: I wasn’t ready for this, not in any way. But I did it anyway.

Epilogue:

I got to the finish at almost exactly the same time as another Team Amnesty rider. We are the first two to make it. He started shortly after me but didn’t get lost, so I’m happy enough to consider it about even between us. The finish line is great, with a funnel of barriers, and even a semblance of a cheering crowd, which is amazing. There’s a Team Amnesty section, with deck chairs. I sit in one and have terrible difficulty getting up again but that’s ok, that’s what deck chairs are for. I pose for a picture doing my best Bradley Wiggins impression:

I eat some dehydrated pineapple, courtesy of the lovely ladies at the Amnesty stand. I get on a train back to London, and cycle from London Bridge back to Bow, which hurt more than it should have. and I dreamed big dreams of doing it all over again next year.

I highly recommend the event – large enough to feel busy with people, and small enough that the roads were never clogged, at least not when I was cycling, and it was a really nice mix of people of all ages and abilities.

My time was a shade under 4.5 hours. Given that I lost about 20 minutes to my unexpected detour, I think I did it in just over 4 hours for the full 54 miles. I’m disappointed with this time; I could have definitely done better. And despite my protestations above, most of my loss of time was to do with my lack of training. Whilst my own bike and own pedals, as well as my lack of sleep were all contributing factors, the fact is that it was my fault I didn’t go as fast as I wanted. But we live and learn, we have to accept these things, learn from them and, hopefully, grow from them as well. Watch this space for more manly cycles, and prepare your mind holes for another post 12 months hence entitled “How I smashed the L2B”.