Tuesday Ride X: of stupidly fast descents, chasing mopeds and a stately home

Tuesday evening came round quickly this week, not least because I had spent much of the week suffering the effects of a debilitating illness, the details of which I will spare my reader, save to say that I lost nearly 4lbs over four days. Considering how awful this summer has been, the weather had remained uncharacteristicly dry so at seven-thirty in the evening I met with John and Bradley at the Bell Inn. The Lemond is starting to play up a little, the rear tyre had gone slightly flat and the bottom bracket was still knocking with every turn of the cranks. This matched Brad’s steed, his bottom bracket was squeaking with each revolution, John’s bike of course was fighting fit. We elected to go towards Longleat with some notion about climbing a hill or descending, I wasn’t sure which. Black Dog Hill had become a bit boring (neither John nor myself fancied watching Brad demolish us on the climb again) so we decided to go via Chapmanslade. There was no way we were going to get away without a climb of some sort, the first major one came just as we were overtaken by a moped. I was on point as it pulled past me, with Brad in hot pursuit. Pretty soon Brad was on his back wheel and the guy was looking behind in panic, trying to shake Brad off to no avail. It wasn’t until we got halfway up the first hill that the stricken scooter managed to pull away and Brad gave up with a laugh. Without the hill I’m convinced Brad could have sat one foot behind him for miles, it gave some indication of Brad’s fitness that the scooter engine was straining so much to put out the same amount of power Brad’s legs were generating as he churned the cranks in the big ring.

The road to Cley Hill was undulating with several short, sharp, shock hills splitting the riders up and giving our legs a going over. I’m finding the hills easier now, I can ride them faster with Brad off the front giving me something to aim at, even when he vanishes round a corner. Soon the mighty slopes of Cley Hill were rising to our left and the shadows were fading into the fast approaching night. We rode on past tiny turnings that promised to lead to places with names like ‘Longhedge’ and ‘Temple’, roads pointing up and roads dropping down. We stuck to the road we knew and took the roundabout up towards Center Parcs, the air filled up with the sharp scent of pine tar and freshly sawn timber as we climbed yet another hill. Soon we were turning into the barrier-controlled entrance to Longleat Safari Park. Now we were in cycle utopia, no cars, tarmac roads, beautiful trees and an amazing view. The distant lights of Frome burned hazily in the last embers of dusk, far to the West we could see the orange glow of Shepton Mallet.

Past a green, weed covered pond that looked like it might contain pike as big as coffins and twice as deep down, either that or some monster carp rolling lazily beneath the surface. My fishy reverie was disturbed by John shouting back “Check your maximum speed now!” before droppping off down the hill. The air accelerated past me with a deafening roar, Brad and John were way out in front but I could barely see through the water streaming from my eyes in the wind. Trying not to lock my arms was difficult as the speed sucked the warmth from my limbs, but the super-smooth tarmac kept the wheels running true, there was no vibration and the speed was incredible. Too late I saw the sharp right and just about managed to scrub some speed off before I shot onto the grass. Now I was riding for two hundred yards in a field as I struggled to point my errant steed back towards the tarmac, thank goodness there were no fences. Back on the road with the speed up, a cattle grid registered as a brief thrumming metallic chord beneath the tyres. The others were waiting in front of Longleat House and we compared maximum speeds. I had managed 46.5mph before coming off the road.

There then followed ten minutes of cycling round carparks, sporadic tannoy announcements that may or may not have been directed at us, and wondering if John actually knew were he was leading us. Past the adventure castle, the minature railway, the butterly house and the famous maze, onto a clearly defined track and yes John did know where he was going thank you very much, this was the way out of the park. More climbing, more descents, winding our way out of the valley and into the next one. Aroma of pub food mingles with stagnant water, orange glow of streetlights. The roads are busy, cars coming too close for comfort, not noticing three cyclists, time to stop and pull on the Hi-Viz Tron jacket in order to go nightwatchman at the back. Now the cars are slowing down, pulling wide as they see me. Onto the frome bypass, John’s rear light is fading but in his backpack he has spare batteries. As soon as he is recharged we head back onto the main road, now Bradley takes off but we don’t worry, we know he’ll wait at The Bell. Five minutes later we’re all grouped together, it’s the end of my ride but John and Brad have to cycle back to Trowbridge.

Next week, Bradley chooses the route – imagine the carnage!

Customized crashbike

The kids from next door asked if I knew how to get the forks off a bike. The younger had crashed his 20″ wheel bike and totalled the forks and front wheel. The eldest was donating the forks and wheel from his 26″ wheel MTB. I used my alligator grips to undo the forks and they swapped them over. The resulting hybrid is a masterpiece of hack-bikery, the kids were calling it a modern penny farthing.

I made them promise they would always wear their helmets when riding it.

Tuesday Ride IX: bicycling round the backlanes

Bradley had to work in the evening so he didn’t come out with myself and John. This meant we could ease off the normal pace and enjoy riding round the back lanes or “proper bicycling” as John called it, not racing, pacing or rushing. It felt nice, just what both of us needed I think. My bottom bracket was making all sorts of horrible knocking noises and it sounds like it’s on it’s way out. We started by going through Rudge then skirting Dilton Marsh, thereafter I just followed John as he took us around the small roads. I lost track of where we were several times, only getting my bearings as we crossed main roads or saw familiar church towers in the distance. As the light faded, not even a view of Westbury White Horse or the tower of white smoke from the cement works could guide me, the night was starless and the darkness getting closer. Heading towards Seend we sped along a country lane teeming with bats, never had I seen so many of the flying mammals, the air was full of them and their strange squeaking.

By now it was truly dark, our lights on full we turned towards Trowbridge. We had been riding for nearly a couple of hours but had clocked up only around 25 miles, such was the relaxed nature of our riding I had barely touched my water bottle. Easing into the suburbs of Trowbridge side by side and enjoying the rhythm of cycling over the speed bumps, there was a flurry of movement from a garden on our right and a young roe deer sprung out from the shrubbery and across our path, our bike-lights picking it out and framing it perfectly mid-leap. Saying farewell to John, I headed back towards the village with only the unnerving knocking from my cranks as company.

John’s Circuit: hills, traffic and the Makka Pakka

Having failed to go out on Thursday with John (he claims Bradley slaughtered him) due to illness, I was eager to get out with him today so at 1700 I cycled through Trowbridge to his house. He was already rolling down the street to meet me so we set off in the direction of Bath. We clipped Bradford on avon by the Leigh Park Hotel, a gentle but determined gradient warmed us up and John warned “This isn’t an easy ride by the way”. Out of Bradford on Avon and towards Sally in the Woods, the road surface was terrible and the traffic appalling. Considering it was Sunday evening there was an astonishing amount on the roads. The thing I hated was when a car would start to overtake, see another car coming the other way, sort of slow down like “I don’t know what to do now” then decide to just accelerate and cut in closer to us, great! “Ah I’m on the wrong side of the road with a car hurtling towards me and I may kill these cyclists I stupidly decided to overtake when I couldn’t even see if the road ahead was clear, I’ll just slow down and have a think for a minute!” Being killed by a moron is not my idea of a noble end. Pop-clunk-GRIND! My anger was immediately diffused by the fact that my chain had come off and jammed. A bit of brute force and an oily pair of hands later we were on our way again.

There was just a middle length gradient to the top of Sally-in-the-Woods and I dropped the camera down to ankle height, leaning right over the bike and pointing the camera backwards to get the shot above, I’m quite pleased with it. For more cycling photos see my Flickr page. The descent was great fun, a few switchbacks, some steep sections and with no traffic behind us we were able to position ourselves nicely on the road to take the corners. It wasn’t as steep as I expected, but it was quite a long descent. We crossed the Batheaston bypass and made our way into Bathampton. The traffic was very dense, I saw something tiny and white flash past my wheels on the road, somehow I registered the shape of The Makka Pakka. This extraordinary character can be seen on the cbeebies programme ‘In the Night Garden’, there is a weird amount of symbolism surrounding him. For example, he lives in an earthen barrow (similar to West Kennet Longbarrow) and sleeps with a pile of stones. He calls the forest denizens with his horn, then cleans them with his sponge. There’s something decidedly psychedlic-folk about him and I like him very much. I picked up the tiny figure, he was a bit dirty and dented, but I put him in the hi-viz vest and carried on with the ride.

A hideously sharp left and we were heading down to the toll bridge. Marvellously it’s free for bicycles to cross, to the left was an iron waterwheel turning away sedatley. Our ride over the bridge was ruined only by a cheeser in a range rover who thought he couldn’t be bothered to give us priority as he’s supposed to, and as a result had to drive on the pavement of this historic bridge in order to squeeze past us in his outsized twatmobile. The hill up to the A36 wasn’t as bad as we’d led ourselves to believe, it wasn’t easy though, the final few yards were steep enough to provide a real danger of the bike stalling. We both got up there and continued down the main road back towards the village. It was an undulating ride and it had been a while since we’d ridden it together. Interestingly I think we both found the hill up from Limpley Stoke to be easier this time, showing that the gruelling pace Bradley puts us through on the Tuesday Rides is having some effect in making us fitter. I still run out of breath before I run out of legs though. A nice fast blast down the remainder of the A36 stretch and onto the smooth new tarmac by Woolverton.

I arrived back at the house in time to wash and present the Makka Pakka to the children just as In The Night garden came on the TV. What better way to wind down from a ride than with some gentle, psychedilc dream-garden action?

No cycling blues, feeling ill, cheered up by Laura’s Blog from Japan

Youngest son was up from four this morning, I’m feeling a bit tired and ill, bit of a sore tummy. It would be nice to get the bike out today as it’s lovely and sunny, however I just don’t feel up to it. Luckily my old colleague Laura in Japan has blogged about a fantastic ride she recently undertook. Reading it made me feel so much better:

“Yesterday was a rather lovely day, so to escape the stifling heat in my apartment I slapped on the SPF 50 and went out on my bike. I had planned to see how far along the river I could go by following the small road that runs along my side of the confluence, but after city hall it became a smaller road and ended up circling round some sort of stone works and then up along a main tributary to the Tenryu river which I had cycled along before. Knowing where I was I decided to cycle up this way and see how close to Takato I could get”.

To read more and see some of her pictures from this lovely looking ride click here to go to the entry on her excellent blog.

Laura says that in Japan the attitude towards cyclists is much more tolerant than here, most people have a bike and cars give them loads of room, there’s no problem about cycling on the pavement, people just gently move out of the way, sounds fantastic.

Tuesday Ride VIII – Solo fifty miles, pouring rain, raging winds, Silbury Hill

John texted to say he couldn’t make the Tuesday Ride, so I decided to go it alone. I made up my mind to ride twenty five miles in one direction and then ride back again, giving me a fifty mile ride. The weather was foul, revolting, wind, rain, luckily it wasn’t too cold. I packed my backpack with a warm top, my cycle hat and a waterproof and set off at one pm. Thankfully there was some respite from the weather and as I rode out of the village towards Trowbridge and Melksham it was almost calm. electing to go through Trowbridge rather than the West Ashton bypass was a good idea, the buildings sheltered me from the rain and I got to ride on the cycles and buses only link road between Holt and Semington. I hit the bypass for the last stretch, beautiful new tarmac offering a fast ride into the outskirts of Melksham, thereafter I turned towards Devizes and into the wind. It was stronger than I thought and quite gusty, every now and again the skies opened up and the air was filled with rain, even so, the hedges offered some protection. I took it steady up the steep dual carriageway into Devizes itself, over the humpback bridge that jumps the canal and past the red-brick Wadworth brewery, homeplace of that most marvellous of Wiltshire brews, Wadworth’s 6X. The road through the town was fast and I was able to get past ranks of stationary traffic to Moonraker Pond. As I like to give you a little folklore from my rides, here’s the origin of Moonraker Pond’s name and also the reason why Wiltshirefolk are known as Moonrakers.

Lit by a beaming full moon, a group of Wiltshire smugglers were transporting some casks of contraband past the pond. Suddenly, the donkey carrying the casks was startled and the smuggled goods slipped into the pond.

The smugglers grabbed some hay rakes they found nearby and tried to hook them onto the casks underneath the water to retrieve the valuable goods. An excise man passing by on his horse saw them raking the pond, with the full moon reflected in the water. When he questioned them about their strange behaviour, their quick-witted riposte was that they were raking out the cheese they could see in the water. The exciseman laughed himself silly and told everybody about the stupid countryfolk – but he never knew that, in fact, they were the ones who had fooled him.

I stopped a little further down the road to report my progress to base. I had done just over 17 miles and my average was on 18mph. I needed to go another eight miles. I could feel the calling of the earthworks just outside Avebury, the monumental dod Silbury Hill was reaching out across the Marlborough Downs and I knew the direction I would take. Ride out of Devizes up a pretty steep hill and you are suddenly on the Marlborough Downs, huge fields, rolling hills dotted with burial mounds, clumps of trees hugging the skyline. This is an old landscape. The road seems incongruously straight, and perhaps this was indeed the old pilgrim route that took the Old Gods’ followers into the mighty Avebury complex and the heart of their faith. Now I was being tested, the Sky God, furious that I would seek to visit the Earth Goddess had torn open the air and filled it with piercing rain. The wind roared and blew at my back pushing me up to 31mph on the straight, but gusts came from all angles and it seemed to me that I was riding on a land-locked squalling sea throwing wave after wave over my bows. I held my nerve and arrived at Beckhampton roundabout swinging right and riding across the front of the Waggon and Horses inn. On turning the corner, the mighty mound of Silbury Hill heaved into view. This is the largest Man Made mound in Europe, its very existence calls into doubt the accepted view of Neolithic tribal life being nasty, brutish and short, punctuated with wars, raids and endless hunger. Only a settled society could build so remarkable a monument, when it is viewed in relation to the surrounding associated ritual landscape, the scope of our ancestors’ vision becomes all the more breathtaking. Who tended these places? How were the rituals overseen? Landscapes such as these light up the imagination, the lack of true knowledge about the time and people who built and lived amongst these incredible structures four to five thousand years ago, leaves a tremendous gap in our collective spiritual history. Was this place built in terror to appease some malign force, or in thankfulness for the bounty of the downs, or both?

The ancients couldn’t have foreseen that one day the hill would have a carpark, but there I stopped. Work is currently being carried out to stabilise the hill which has suffered serious erosion from previous archeological excavations but also from a constant troupe of visitors scrambling to the summit. The workforce caravans were powered by a diesel generator, it was giving off a huge amount of hot air so I stood next to it and dried out very quickly. On with the sweatshirt, waterproof and cycle cap, it was time to set off to West Kennet Longbarrow. In the layby to the barrow the odometer tipped over to twenty five miles, so I took the computer off in preparation for the walk up to the barrow. The Kennet was in full flow, pouring out from the ground at Swallowhead, fertile and swollen with the recent rains, the Sky God’s issue transformed in the belly of the Earth Goddess, now charged by the charms tied to the swaying willows by her followers, they whisper their desires and incantations to the flowing waters. Rolling the bike up the hill I met a hippy gentlemen on his way down, he tried to take my photo with my camera “Yeah man epic with the hill behind, don’t look at me, look into the distance”, the flash going off before he was ready. I took the next portrait myself with the self-timer, they will go up in my Flickr later.

Inside the barrow, corn rigs had been left and a freshly lit candle threw gentle, flickering shadows from an alcove, This had to be from the press-ganged photographer I had just met. A group of Americans looked round the inside speaking in whispered reverent tones. There is something about the barrow that makes one whisper. Back outside, the air was warm but ready to fill with rain again. I hastened down the hill and gave a quick phone call to say I was on my way back before easing out into the traffic.

The eight miles into Devizes were the hardest, the wind was seriously against me and all I could manage was a paltry 12-15mph along that stretch, there was no shelter and no relent from the wind. It took me over half an hour to reach the down hill stretch into the town, even on that descent the wind was so strong I only reached 24mph and was being blown all over the place. Devizes itself was mercifully calm weatherwise, although heaving with traffic as it was just after five in the afternoon. I picked my way through the cars until I was heading downhill out of the wind towards Melksham. Now I was feeling tired, but strangely the length of the journey made the journey back to the village seem much, much shorter. The last ten miles flew by timewise, that’s not to say I wasn’t hurting, I don’t think I made it past 18mph on the final two miles, however, Rode Hill was no bother whatsoever. The Odometer flicked over to fifty halfway up the gradient so I arrived back at the house feeling jubilant, if somewhat knacked.

In total I was riding for three hours four minutes giving me an average speed of around 16.5 mph, not bad considering that headwind on the way back, it’s a good thing I took advantage of it when it was a tailwind. A great ride, not the furthest I’ve cycled in one day, but it still felt good none-the-less.

Brompton in the Park

A bbq was booked for today with some of the founding members of The Highway Cycling Group, not that it was an official HCG event, because those simply don’t exist. My wife, having had a short go on the Brompton when I took it to Hilmarton yesterday, was keen for me to sling it in the boot again, I wasn’t going to argue with that. The weather was unpredictable, spotting with rain, sunny spells, windy, calm, it seemed to be going through the whole range of possibilities. The location was Lydiard Park in Swindon, a heavily refurbished country estate that has had a huge amount of money pumped into it by the local council, the result is an excellent facility for the town; wide open spaces, woodland, gravelled tracks, fields for bbqs, a country manor, church, cafe, amazing playgrounds and of course loads of great cycling. The sun came out, dappling the forest paths with dancing points of light. I quickly found out why my wife was so eager for me to pack the bike, she was itching to get round the park in a traffic-free environment. In common with a lot of cyclists she is put off riding by the proximity of so many cars on the roads and the speed at which they travel. To her, a cycle path or track is cycle utopia, so she was totally in her element zipping around on the Brompton and kept suddenly taking it off during lulls in the bbq. When I finally got a decent go on it myself I was amazed by the quality of the tracks on offer. Through arcadian woodland, grand avenues of trees, out into open fields, the variety of riding was highly pleasing. Various signs assured me that I could cycle to West Swindon, Hook or even Wooton Bassett. The further I cycled into the fields the fewer people I saw, a rider can quickly find solitude on the bike here if that’s what is craved. The crunch of gravel beneath the tyres and the whirr of the freewheel were the only human sounds as I eased the bike through a pastoral idyll of grazing white cattle and birdsong.

My sister assures me that she has cycled to the park from her House in Abbey Meads, almost entirely on cycle paths, a distance of around six or so miles. That would be a nice ride to document.

Needless to say that my wife is now highly enthused at the possibilities of a folding bike in the car and traffic free riding. It’s just a shame that even secondhand Bromptons are so expensive.

Highway, the spiritual home of The Highway Cycling Group

I took the Brompton in the car when we visited my mother today, she still lives in Hilmarton where I was brought up. My father moved to nearby Highway not long after my parents split up and it was from his rented house in the tiny hamlet of Highway that he created The Highway Cycling Group. My father died in 1995, and it would have been his 62nd birthday on the 10th of August. I didn’t plan to ride to Highway when I put the Brompton in the boot, but it made perfect sense to do so once I’d saddled up.

Even on the Brompton it took only five minutes to reach the turning to Highway, pausing briefly to take a picture of the signpost with my bike. This massively informative and somewhat overdone sign is in the middle of nowhere, but fittingly it has two cycleway signs attached to it. Pleasing to see that the route to Wooton Bassett goes through Highway.

Highway itself is small, maybe five houses one of which is a converted church, one farm and a rusting old barn, it’s so small a place that I don’t think it even has a ‘name’ sign telling you that you have entered or left the hamlet. My father’s old place was the first building as you enter from the Compton Bassett side, his was 2 Coronation Cottages, number 1 being the first half of the semi-detached, pebbledashed house. He lived there with his housemate, a fantastic fellow called Francis. Francis got around on a battered old racer from the seventies, I think it was a Peugeot. Often he would wobble back from a meeting of the Compton Bassett Cricket Club somewhat worse for wear having enjoyed too much Wadworth’s 6X. Watching him crashing into the dustbins and falling off the bike it was unclear how he made it back in one piece. He staggered upstairs collapsed into the cane sofa in my father’s study and waved his hand toward my sister and my father’s partner “Send the women away” he exclaimed wearily “they musn’t see me like this” and promptly fell asleep. The old neglected racer was left lying on the pathway, rear wheel spinning slowly, it looked as inebriated as its snoring rider.

This house was an ideal base to ride from, hardly any traffic passed down this road and one could get to Calne, Lyneham, Bushton, Spirthill or Hilmarton and back with ease. An old brick shed out the back housed my father’s road bike, and many’s the time it was wheeled out on such a day as this, bright, hot and filled with the sound of crickets in the verges. The road shimmered in the heat-haze as I rounded the corner onto Highway Common. In the gateway of a field a couple were resting having ridden there from somewhere, the woman was on a roadbike, the man sitting in a recumbant, I tinged my bell and they waved as I passed by.

The common itself is now fenced into fields, no longer common land, but the long straight stretch remains. This is pure joy to cycle down, no cars, a beautiful narrow lane with lovely views either side and a wildflower covered verge teeming with chirruping grasshoppers and crickets. To the right, sheep grazing contendedly while swallows swoop over their backs, to the left a field of stubble, crows rising as I wheel past. My digital camera has a poor quality video function and I fancied capturing a little of the moment. I got about 30 seconds before the card filled up and later I posted a lo-res version to Youtube. A long time ago I raced a hare down this road by the light of a full moon. Many Highway Cycling Group outings started, or ended with a ride down this lovely stretch of road.

Over the staggered junction, past Whitcomb farm and down to the crossroads below Snow Hill. This beacon, so mighty to me when I was young appeared now to be only marginally steeper than Black Dog Hill, and certainly shorter. I was almost tempted to take it on the Brompton, I waited at the junction and watched two roadies take it with reasonable ease, they smiled and nodded as they passed me, everyone likes to see a Brompton out and about.

For more photos from the ride, go to my Flickr page.

Tuesday Ride VII: of black cats, back lanes and cycling through the dark

It was 19:20 and I was supposed to be meeting John at that most evil of road junction types, the crossroads. However my youngest son was playing up and not going to sleep, so I sent a text to John telling him to ride round to the back of my house and I would put the kettle on while the kids settled down. John pulled into the garden with Bradley and his friend Simon. Simon looked like another super-fit chap, apparently Brad said he’d be slow because he was on a mountainbike, naturally this turned out not to be true. With the children finally in bed and the group fuelled up on fine teas, we set off up the hill, John muttered that when I had left them on the last Tuesday Ride, Brad had amused himself by sprinting after cars in Trowbridge “The thing was” said John “he was catching up with them”, I could well believe it.

Then it became apparent that I was truly messing things up as I had forgotten my bidons. I told everyone to go on ahead while I went back for the bottles, promising to catch up with them on the Wingfield Straight. With the two water bottles filled up I set off after the others, turns out Bradley and Simon’s definition of ’slow’ is not the same as mine and John’s. I could see them in the distance but it took a sustained sprint of 24-26mph over about a mile or so before I finally caught up with them. Thereafter I was content to sit at the back all the way to Bradford-on-Avon in order to recover. John attempted to get a bit of a chain gang going, but every time Bradley moved to the front he pulled away, leaving John battling the headwind again. Through the centre of Bradford, up past the Moulton place and out towards Holt. These are fast roads with little room for cars to pass and I was glad when we turned left towards Chalisford. By then I was starting to get lost, last time I had cycled past Chalisford Manor I nearly ran over a swan, no swans in sight on Tuesday, but plenty of old folk taking an evening constitutional, all looking startled to see four cyclists hurtle into view, but ready with a nod nonetheless. On the trafficless backroads it was pleasant to hear the whirr of four chainsets working together, the different pitches of the chains on the various sprockets created a droning chord as we raced through the narrow lanes. Suffice to say that despite Simon’s 26″ wheels he was having no problems matching Bradley’s impressive speed, they kept shooting on ahead leaving John and myself to carry on at our own pace. At least John’s Brooks saddle was starting to break in. The route John had chosen was undulating to say the least and we were going very fast, pretty soon I had completely lost my bearings and given up all hope of even knowing which direction I was pointing. Various discussions ensued as to how far we were going to ride and it transpired that earlier in the week Bradley had cycled to Chippenham, Calne and then on to Avebury, impressive work. We decided to carry on to Chippenham and ride back via Melksham, John seemed confident we could get back by 22:00 and we all had lights, except Simon who only had a rear LED.

We crossed main roads, back-roads, lanes, we cycled up cats-eyed roads, singletrack hills with gravel strewn across the tarmac. We climbed short, steep rises, hidden dips and long dull gradients, we swooped down wide lanes with wildflower strewn verges, and I sat at the back on nailbitingly narrow descents taken at 27mph with no hope of avoiding oncoming vehicles (had there been any). Finally we dropped down onto a larger lane that actually seemed to be going somewhere. I was at the back so I got a good view as Brad and Simon’s descent terrified a black cat which shot off just missing John’s front tyre in its haste to be away from the wheeled steeds hurtling down the normally quiet lane. The light was fading, it was time for the flashing LEDs on the seatposts to come into play, I was glad I had changed the batteries in my front lamp at the same time as replacing my blown inner-tube that morning. With the Hi-Viz vest on, the reflective wrist bands and my customised helmet it was highly probable that I could be seen from space. Through a short tunnel by some traffic lights, a very weird and confusing junction where we just “went”, well everyone stopped for us so we assumed it was our right of way, no one beeped anyway. We were then on some main roads, bg roundabouts, orange streetlight glow and concrete bridges spanned by massive pylons whispering their electric songs into the gathering dusk. Here the crickets had stopped, the wildflowers given way to harsh cut back grass on the verge, the hot reek of diesel working through thundering engines; serious roads. Not for us though, we spun away from Chippenham having grazed its flank and made for Lacock. Ahead on the main road I could see the flashing red LED of Bradley’s bike, we struck out for it, reaching him just as we turned off onto more lanes. By now the dark had gathered all around us, loud laughter in the clear air as revellers stepped out of a pub, momentarily framed in the golden light spilling from the doorway, gone in an instant. Some gentle but insistant gradients saw us on our way into Melksham, all four of us spread out across the road standing on the pedals and racing over the speed bumps. The centre of town was quiet, but then I suppose it was a Tuesday, past the betting shop where only two weeks ago a fight had spilled out onto the road stopping the traffic, then out to the new road. Brown tourist signs promise there is refreshment on this route during the day, it’s a greasy spoon called “The Waney Edge Cafe”, closed at this time of night a small, unassuming building with net curtains and a seventies block-font for the sign, decaying tarmac carpark, pummelled by decades of HGVs and builders’ vans, it looks excellent.

Now we were on the home straight, split into two groups, Bradley and Simon just in view ahead of John and myself. John and I chatting as he wound down, we were near to the street he and Bradley live in and they would be home soon. For myself and Simon there was a little further to go. A needless beep from a car-full of twats saw John wishing out loud that for once the wankers would stop to make their point and he could debate their imbecilic behaviour in a way they would clearly understand. It was a good thing they didn’t because the next car was a police car. Everyone gave us a wide berth when I was at the back, no doubt because I was glowing as though I was a special effects reject from TRON.

We pulled into the carpark of a local pub to discuss the evening and make plans with each other for the next rides. I took the obligatory group portrait:

Then as Bradley and John peeled off for their homes, I rode directly in front of Simon so his lack of front light wouldn’t be a problem. We shot through town at 25mph arriving at his street in time for him not to get into trouble. It was then left to me to make the ride back to the village, the legs felt good and even Rode Hill was no bother. John had designed the ride so that we all got 35 miles in. It was excellent, again I hope Bradley and Simon weren’t too bored having to wait for me and John all the time, it’s good for us to ride woth them as our pace is picking up dramatically.

In the Pines, in the Pines where the Sun don’t ever shine

A curious mixture of weather this evening. Rich golden light from the setting sun and ink-black clouds, their edges ragged and torn unloading a shower as I set out up the A36 towards Warminster. A tremendous slap up feed on Sunday was still sitting a little heavily on me so I just span gently up Black Dog Hill, not really sure where I was going to decide to ride to. There was plenty of spray coming off the road onto my legs, but the high cadence kept me warm. By the time I reached the beginning of the Warminster bypass I had decided to go to the little roundabout by Cley Hill and go left, up the hill past Center Parcs and onto the Longleat Forest road. The bypass itself was not pleasant in the rain, particularly the last part up to Cley Hill Roundabout (It’s one of John Hayes’ least favourite stretches of road), the road betweeen Cley Hill roundabout and the safari park turn off is even worse, a nasty Faux Plat and not that much room for cars to pass safely. Up past the entrance to Center Parcs and beyond the timber merchants the road disappears upwards into the dense pine forest. Sounds became close and sharp as the trees closed in tightly to the road. There was an expectant stillness, a quiet broken only by the clicking of my freewheel, a sound made abnormally loud by the looming forest. Though the rain had stopped, huge droplets of water showered down sporadically from the dank branches to spatter heavily on the road ahead and behind as I passed. A glance to the right revealed deep golden sunlight reaching out over the horizon in the distance, visible through the regimented rows of trees though it could not throw any illumination onto the shadows crowding the forest floor and the moss-edged road. The forest seemed older than its five score years, towering, oppressive even, redolent of pine resin, rich tar oozing from the ends of logs piled up, stacked where they had been cut down. It brought to my mind the eerie Leadbelly song Where Did You Sleep Last night.

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me,
tell me where did you sleep last night?
In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don’t ever shine,
I will shiver the whole night through.

My girl, my girl, where will you go,
I’m going where the cold wind blows.
In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don’t ever shine,
I will shiver the whole night through.

Yet on the turn of the hill as it began to drop away towards Horningsham there was a sudden flare of light as I rode past the entrance to a forest track. Cycling back up the hill a little way I could see the track running straight to a field in the middle of the forest and the setting sun could throw its rays all the way to the road. I eased the bike past the padlocked rusty barrier and wheeled it over the chippings to the end of the track where the forest opened out into the grassy field. A woodpecker called loudly somewhere nearby, and across the glebe a crow was cawing in the last minutes of glorious sunlight. This was a beautiful moment, made all the more lovely as it contrasted with the man-made forest with its trees planted so close that nothing grows on the forest floor save a pile of decaying pine needles from the dying lower branches of each tree. I savoured the remaining warmth as the sun set, then prepared for the descent. I followed a little Fiat down the hill at 36mph, keeping contact with it up to the roundabout, then I was away from the forest and back onto the A36. Black Dog Hill took my last remaining warmth from me on the descent, but in return it gave up 43mph of speed. All was going well, rows of artic lorries were pulling me along in their irresistible slipstreams, but then I reached the dual carriageway by Beckington. The sunlight was all but gone and I ran over something hard and metal, there was a bang, a hiss of escaping air and the sudden realisation that I had punctured badly a mile and a half from the village. It was a long walk down the A36 to the garage. I hoped to be able to effect a repair under the light of the canopy. I was a little concerned as the tyre in question was a slime tube, so if it was a small puncture it should have fixed itself. My fears were confirmed when I took the wheel off and levered the tube out. Green slime everywhere and a huge double snakebite rip in the tube. The wheel wasn’t looking too happy itself. The walk back to the village was long and dark down lanes teeming with rats, they scuttled in and out of the hedge, over the road in front and behind the bike, I could barely see them, a flicker of a tail in the bike light, a twitch of whiskers. Around my head flew many bats, coming so close I could feel the rush of air as they passed. It was an eerie walk back, but apart from nearly stepping on a pheasant’s tail and the resulting near heart attack it induced as it flew up squawking into the air in front of me, it was an easy walk back to the lamplight of the village.

That’s a trip to the bike shop tomorrow then… any excuse.