Double Dutch Infinity Beckons
The weather continued its pattern for March and the start of April. For the last few weeks the rain has bucketed down, ceasing only for Audax rides. Saturday 25 March saw a somewhat depleted field set off from Ruislip to Oxford for Tim Sollesse’s London Oxford London with quite a strong headwind for the first 110 km but no rain. The following Saturday was another ride organised by Tim, the White Hart from Richmond. Many riders had scratched the previous day because of the rain. They must have been kicking themselves because there was not a drop of rain during the event.
Preparation is all. On the London Oxford London ride I noticed a small spot of sealant on my front tyre as I stopped for a break on the gravel cycleway between Abingdon and Didcot. I put my finger over it for a minute or so and set off, intending to check and repair the leak during the week. The tyre seemed OK with only minimal loss of pressure over several days; I rode on it for the White Hart and noticed a few bubbles after riding through standing water. It definitely needed some attention before the next ride. Having a couple of front wheels, I decided that the easiest solution was simply to change the wheel and leave a repair to a day when it was not raining: I don’t have the luxury of a garage or workshop. I decided to add some sealant to the second wheel before fitting it.
It was only on the train to Huntingdon that I realised that I had put sealant in the tyre that had been leaking and that I had put the same wheel back on the bike. Oh well, it should be OK - and it was.
Saturday morning I got out of bed at 4.15 am to have breakfast and get myself ready to leave the house by 5.30 for the 5.40 Elizabeth Line train to Paddington. In my experience the Elizabeth Line trains can be very prompt; there are only certain stations where they wait to keep to the timetable. My station is not one of those. The Elizabeth Line trains stop at Faringdon where it’s very easy to change to the Thameslink service to Peterborough - penultimate stop Huntingdon. Except that this was Easter Saturday and the trains terminated at Paddington, requiring a nostalgic trek to the Hammersmith and City line for a short respite on the underground before another trek underground and through St Pancras Station itself for the two lifts to the northbound platform.
On the positive side the train was (almost) on time and the mist was burning off as we approached Huntingdon.
Martin and his colleague Ann Marshall were in the car park distributing the brevet cards and making change available for the ferry: the charge had increased from £1 to £1.40, necessitating small coins as the staff do not offer change.
I’d registered to join riders from Central London CTC with whom I have done a number of rides. I led us out of Huntingdon because I’ve done the ride before and know which lane to be in. We rode together for a while; eventually I fell into my usual pattern of riding on my own as the others were slightly faster. I have fond memories of 100 km Audaxes from Henham and Ugley in Essex, starting and finishing at the cycling bungalows; I often saw a man in his 70s who kept himself to himself, riding on his own and loading his bike into his Rover 200 at the finish. I suppose that I’m now that old man!
I soon joined three cyclists, one of whom explained that they were riding for charity to raise money for a surgical robot at the James Paget University Hospitals in Great Yarmouth. I rode “on and off” with them for a few km, backing off when I started to get sprayed with sealant from the rear tyre of a Pinarello. From the colour of the blobs on my Garmin and clothing, I think it was Muc-off sealant; certainly when I got home my jacket lit up when I shone a UV light on it!
A few km on I stopped to watch a demo of how to plug a tubeless tyre using a Dynaplug (I think) kit. I carry one but have never had to use it - I really should not have written that, tempting fate! The p******* fairy was out, attacking riders with tubes as well as the tubeless.
I was quite happy riding on my own. I live in West London now but spent my first 18 years in the Fens, making this a bit of a nostalgia trip. 34 km into the ride we passed Doddington Hospital; this is in a relatively new building but back in the 1950s it was in hutted accommodation. It was there, at the tender age of 5, that I had my tonsils removed. As my family did not have a car and there was very limited public transport, my mother was able to visit me only once in the week that I was in hospital. That was then and this is now, when tonsilectomies are no longer routine and children are not left bereft of support.
And so to March. I rode past the Neale Wade Academy building which I attended for my last year when it was still March Grammar School, founded back in the 17th century. My first six years were spent in the old building in Station Road. I travelled by bike from my home to the station in Whittlesey, dumping my bike with others in the pub by the station: no need for locks in those days. Kids from more affluent families paid sixpence to leave their bikes at the station. It was a short walk from March station to the school. When we moved to the new building, we were provided with free transport on coaches from a local company, Canhams. I remember that several of us sought assurances from our biology teachers that blood cells were renewed and that those we lost from the coach fumes would be replaced! That was then and this is now.
The brevet card demanded a receipt from somewhere in March. I was in a short queue for the Lloyds cash machine when we were screamed at by a woman of indeterminate age in a mobility scooter. Naturally, we were very polite and ensured that she got past our legs. It was pedestrians, with and without bikes, that incurred her displeasure.
Next stop: Nordelph. “Distance to London on milepost” demanded the brevet card. Another rider pointed out the small stone milepost below the modern road sign. It’s 99 miles, in case you were wondering.
Kings Lynn and another receipt required. I propped my bike between others, somewhat anxiously, while I went into a cafe to buy the cheapest item just for the receipt. I think it was Smiths the Bakers but can’t be sure: a young woman appeared promptly to take my money and give me a receipt but in my haste I forgot my Viennese whirl!
The ferry across the Nene to West Lynn is back in operation, the previous owners having retired. I harboured memories of a narrow passage to the ferry and a slightly tricky manoeuvring of the bike into the ferry while doing my best to avoid an impromptu dip in the River Great Ouse. Call me a coward but I had earlier decided to take a detour on the road, as had another rider who decided to follow me “because you look as though you know where you are going.” I didn’t explain that I have little or no sense of direction having been brought up in the Fens where I could see the landmarks for home from miles away: no need for maps or signs. Garmin, of course, did not exist and I could not have afforded one anyway.
At about 105 km the route runs alongside the stretch of the Nene that flows into the Wash. This is coastguard country: visitors can walk but vehicles must stick to public roads. The routesheet referred to a control by white railings at Holbeach St Matthew. I had found these on Google Street View; it was quite uncanny coming across them "in real life”: the brevet card demanded the date of the building: 1891, by the way.
On to Spalding. When I did this ride some years ago, the rider I was shepherding round insisted on going to McDonalds by the roundabout and bridge as we entered Spalding. This was my first and only visit to that venerable institution: never again. On this occasion I went to the adjoining garage and bought a protein bar and a bottle of water for the receipt as proof of passage. I’m reading “Pro Cycling on 10 dollars a day” by Phil Gaimon who says that in the US he would not enter a KFC without a gun to his head. I feel the same about McD and a host of other similar outlets.
NCN 12 runs for about 12 km from the outskirts of Spalding towards Crowland. For me, this was the highlight of the ride: half an hour of virtually traffic free riding with a slight tailwind alongside the River Wellland. I met two cars, both of which pulled in for me with their drivers giving me a slightly sorry look: who’s that old man looking so fatigued? The peace of this stretch was broken only by one man on a speedboat churning up the bank. Did no one tell him that there is a speed limit of 7 mph?
Next up: Crowland, remarkable for Trinity Bridge in the centre of this small town. I’m sure it’s worth a stop and I will do this ride again over two days, taking time to stop. Crowland is described as a “hidden gem” by an American travel writer, Dagney Mckinney in https://www.culturaobscura.com/crowland/ who writes “It is reached via a somewhat nerve-wrecking drive through the fens.”
Fen roads are notorious for subsidence. From my last experience of this route I remember being rolled around on the bike; in the meantime Cambridgeshire Council has resurfaced the road on the stretch from Thorney to Whittlesey and from Whittlesey to Ramsey Heights (sitting some 2 m above sea level).
Fen roads are also known for their long straight stretches. Not so, south of Thorney where the straight stretches are punctuated by right angled bends. Back in the late 1960s I was part of a group visiting a teacher whose husband was an affluent potato merchant; he decided to take all the men on a trip in his Triumph 2.5 PI, famed for being as fast as it was unreliable. Back in those days there were no rear seat belts which made for an unnerving journey as he almost “lost it” on one of those bends outside Thorney. He was annoyed with me for my lack of prowess in drinking beer and I was none too keen on his driving: end of a beautiful friendship.
The road from Thorney to Whittlesey sits in my memory for three things: the benches set into the verges which I was told as a child were the resting places for monks travelling to and from Thorney Abbey; the massive sluice by the Dog-in-a-Doublet pub; the bridge over a bend in the road, now straightened, where my father drowned in his early 40s. He and my mother had been unwell with very heavy colds or flu; his turned to pneumonia and, in a fever, he rode his bike in the middle of the night to cool down and missed the turn. The post mortem showed such serious damage to his internal organs before death that he would not have wished to survive.
Whittlesey, scene of my childhood, came and went. The road towards Ramsey Heights has been resurfaced but cracks are appearing as the ground continues to sink. In the distance a BMW moved to its right, then back again to its side of the road. As I got closer to where it had performed this dance I could see the reason: a definite dip on one side of the road.
And so to Huntingdon and the finish at Sandford House, a Wetherspoons. I filled in my brevet card, made a quick dash inside to hand it to Ann before the short ride to the station. It was a ten minute wait for the train back to London, exactly on time and with very few passengers.
There were 111 entries, with 84 starters and 80 finishing. I do hope the group from the James Paget Hospital overcame the tubeless tyre puncture to finish and raise money for that surgical robot.
Thanks to Martin and Ann. I’ll return shortly to take photos to add to this account.
