2021/03 A Bit of a Blow

By Nick Wiseman

I am a mature cyclist and according to my family and friends, a pedant. Which may explain my attachment to maps – proper maps, printed on paper – and my habit of recording each ride in a jaunty colour so that I have a record of all my outings on a single map. Well, many maps really, because I can cycle across four OS Explorer maps in a single day if I put my mind to it. Most rides begin and end in my home town and in consequence my OS Sheet 122 looks like an explosion in a firework factory; appropriate not least because our town is the undisputed centre of the Bonfire universe.

In these dark months of Covid, our government-sanctioned daily bout of exercise is for many the highlight of the day, an escape from terminal ennui and a chance to reconnect to the real world outside. Thursday is my big day out because it’s when I cycle with my friend Nick. Together we have clocked up tens of thousands of miles across the British Isles, with the odd foray to Paris or Santiago de Compostella, all recorded on paper maps of course. Covid has restricted our relationship to outdoor meet ups only, elbow bumps acceptable but no hugs or even handshakes. Pub lunches, once the carrot that coaxed us up many a vertiginous climb, are a distant memory, now replaced by alfresco coffee stops of variable quality. We have found a few Michelin contenders but others are so vile that their product would challenge Mr Muscle for drain clearing efficacy.

The build up to our most recent ride was not propitious. Terms like ‘severe’, ‘very strong winds’ and ‘hazard’ were being bandied by the BBC, still smarting from post-Fish brickbats. As survivors of several near-death outings, Nick and I had belatedly learned a little caution befitting our advanced years. Reluctantly we agreed to postpone our ride for a week. Feeling a touch bereft on Wednesday evening, I noticed that the forecast had improved slightly: still powerful winds but the rain had disappeared. My devious mind started ticking. With strong westerly winds, why not a gale-assisted easterly journey, one way (as in rail journey, not Dignitas). Rye, fifty two miles distant and with a railway station would make a suitable objective. I could glide along the coast with the broiling sea to starboard and the hurricane at my back. With a pit stop or two for essential liquids I should be able to make it home for lunch - possibly a late lunch.

A change of tack now and I turn the handlebars south east, downhill towards the coast. At this point my two-faced friend the wind shows his true colours; despite the BBC forecast, this howler is more southerly than west. The country lane ahead meanders this way and that, apparently on whim; we are desperately close to the wind. A slight deviation to the left and I am in overdrive, effortlessly guiding my speeding craft with a light hand on the tiller, at ease with the world; conversely to the right and I am suddenly back in Captain Oates country, head down into the hurricane, veins bulging on my forehead as I struggle to make a miserable three miles an hour. Grudgingly the road bears away eastward, my faithful Dawes takes flight and my good humour is restored. Over-relaxed, I nearly make the fatal mistake of continuing to Herstmonceux, home of some of the finest takeaway coffee known to humanity, before realising that this will mean cycling back into the tornado. Madness.

Instead I head south again over the flatlands of the Pevensea Levels: treeless, almost car free and normally a great favourite with cyclists. But today is not normal and the road is neither due south nor straight. Occasionally progress is good and I can admire the view. More often I am standing up on the pedals, attempting with brute force to achieve some small forward velocity; at times I wonder if it might be interesting to stop pedalling and see how fast the wind would blow me backwards, before I recall the frozen drainage dykes beside the road and think better of it. Then I remember my friend Mark Ellen’s technique on oxygen-sapping mountains, tacking left and right but avoiding direct confrontation. Progress of a sort is achieved but at a terrible cost, both to my well-being and self-esteem. At least these windswept Siberian plains are deserted; a dog-walking pensioner would soon outpace me.

Finally I reach the shelter of an old friend, the Chilley Farm café and shop near Pevensea, mercifully open despite the BBC. The mood is post-apocalyptic, not a person to be seen (staff excepted) and at almost 10.00am I am warmly welcomed as the first customer of the day. I order a flat white and note the well-stocked bakery cabinet, pies and buns still hot from the oven. The baker has been working overtime, perhaps in anticipation of stranded motorists from the gridlocked A27 who have struggled here on improvised snow shoes. At least they won’t have to eat each other. I order a pasty the size of a baby’s leg with the journey ahead in mind and share it with a small black cat.

Now it’s payback time. We have joined National Cycle Route 2, which runs eastward from St Austell to Dover. The long awaited coast is joined at Norman’s Bay (named not after a local newsagent but after those pesky French, who landed here) and it’s high tide. The murky grey Chanel is empty of boats and wind-driven waves crash onto the shingle beach. I pass a handful of masochist westbound cyclists as I cannonball eastward at unfeasible speed, my eyes mere slits in my screwed up face, beach huts and villas just a blur in my peripheral vision. Suddenly we are in Bexhill and the prom, although far from crowded, looks - to this Olympian super-athlete pushing the 30mph speed limit – too like a human slalom course. I decide to take my chances with the traffic; we are travelling at the same speed after all.

A short rise over a small sandstone cliff and across the curving bay the unmistakable silhouette of Marine Court in St Leonards looms through the haze. Once the tallest block of flats in the UK and deliberately modelled on the old Cunarder Queen Mary, its nautical curves and portholes sit comfortably above the spume. The promenade is wider here and I abandon my motorist friends for the intimacy of the segregated cycle track, cutting my speed back to a stately 20mph. I have an elevated view of the empty beaches, the waves sending up occasional showers of spray. Exhilarated, perhaps even over-stimulated, I decide that it is time for another life-enhancing coffee and a carb hit. I head inland into Hastings Old Town, find an excellent coffee shop/patisserie in George Street and order a flat white; and an almond croissant; and a pasteis de nata. Because I know what lies ahead, I have cycled this way before: a surly beast of a hill that teases with false summits, penance for my carefree seafront sprint. The wind inexplicably fades and I am on my own, pounding at a gut-wrenching three miles an hour, trying with limited success to look nonchalant as sympathetic pedestrians smile patronisingly. Eventually I reach this final summit, knowing that all hills are behind me; it’s downhill all the way to Rye.

The gale picks up again and I am streaking downhill into Fairlight at 40mph; I am still cruising at 30mph through Pett Level and realise that nothing has overtaken me for several minutes. A final right turn to the coast and into Rye Harbour Nature Reserve, where I brake and dutifully crawl at the mandated 20mph, to the relief of the over-wintering wildlife. Four and a half hours after leaving home I pull into Rye railway station, just in time to buy another flat white and sausage roll for the journey home. By 2pm I am seated at my dining table, a substantial lunch for the hungry cyclist in front of me. An unforgiving hour or two has been filled and I have another fluorescent line on my map.

2021/03 A Bit of a Blow

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