Club Run, Saturday 21st September, 2019
| Total Distance: | 113 km/70 miles with 1,096m of climbing |
| Riding Time: | 4 hours 17 minutes |
| Average Speed: | 26.3km/h |
| Group Size: | 30 riders, 3 FNG’s |
| Temperature: | 20℃ |
| Weather in a word or two: | Lambent |
Back to self-propelled methods for getting across to the meeting place, ironically I found myself 10 minutes early, compared with last week when I’d driven there and been 10 minutes late.
Main topics of conversation at the meeting point:
I found G-Dawg and Crazy Legs sitting on the wall, enjoying the warm sunshine and chatting with an FNG.
“Interesting documentary on Fleetwood Mac on BBC4,” the FNG opined, “They were all at it with each other, well all bar the drummer.”
“Drummers, eh? They are a breed apart,” I suggested.
“I’m a drummer,” the FNG replied.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, drummers, there a bit like goalies,” Crazy Legs volunteered, “Oddly different.”
“I’m a goalie, too.” the FNG asserted, “although I sometimes play left-back, because I kick a ball left-footed.”
At this point I thought it was probably polite not to express any kind of view of left-footers and maintained a diplomatic silence.
The FNG then told us he’d been doing a lot of riding in London, in a group who seemed to do nothing but ceaselessly circle Regent’s Park at break-neck speed, all on hugely expensive bikes and all kitted out with the latest Rapha gear – sort of all dressed-up with no where to go. It should make anyone who lives within a stones throw of our outstanding countryside eternally grateful – even if the roads can sometimes resemble the Somme after a particularly intense, heavy artillery stonk.
Our interlocutor then said he’d been tempted to try some Rapha kit himself and had wandered into one of their shops, boutiques, sorry, err … clubhouses to browse their wares.
The decided racing-snake fit had prompted him to ask the staff if he was in the wrong department and if they had any adult clothing, before he decided that it just wasn’t mean’t to be…
Aether had planned the route for the day, with a trip down the Ryals before the climb back through Hallington. I like this route, the weather was good, my knee had been set free of all protective bracing and all was well with the world. It promised to be a good one.
Off in the first group, I dropped in alongside Ovis as we followed Caracol and the Cow Ranger out at a decidedly brisk pace. Then, approaching the airport, the Cow Ranger managed to ship his chain (something that’s becoming a common occurrence) and as he dropped back I pushed up to replace him on the front.
“So, that planned chain drop worked well again,” Caracol noted as I replaced the Cow Ranger. I agreed it was a good trick and one I’m keen to master.
Heading toward Darras Hall, home to posh people, lumbering 4×4’s and (what passes as royalty in these parts) Premiership footballers, young and old – Ovis replaced Caracol on the front and on we went.
Someone called for a break, then, a bit further on we stopped again, potentially to reform once the second group joined us, but then we dithered and then we pressed on without them. So a fairly standard day for decisive decision making then.
By the time we’d dropped down the Quarry and reached the top of the Ryal’s, G-Dawg had worked his way to the back of the group, conscious of the speed-wobbles he’s experienced on the Ryal’s descent and giving himself room to manoeuvre, should the worst happen.
As we approached drop an older looking feller topped the crest on a sit-up-and-beg bike laden with panniers, completely unruffled by the long climb and breathing easily.
“Got to be an e-bike,” Crazy Legs observed and so it was, making a mockery of the Ryal’s fearsome reputation.
It was our turn for some fun then, tipping over the edge to let gravity have its wicked way with us … wheeee … over 60kph without even trying.
At the bottom, I joined up with Crazy Legs as we took the turn to Hallington. Other riders pressed on for a longer sweep around the reservoir, while ahead of us we saw Ovis, caught between waiting for us to catch him and chasing down Rainman.
We soft-pedalled, waiting for G-Dawg, still alive and chatting animatedly with Otto Rocket and Buster as he caught us up. He confirmed he’d had no issues, but his experiences have instilled a high degree of caution in his approach to the descent.
Our small group then set off to climb up through Hallington and onto the road above Kirkheaton, occasionally fracturing and reforming over the hills. The top road is usually a fast paced, roller-coaster ride, but today there was a stiff headwind and it was tough going.
We scrambled up Brandywell Bank and started to pile on the pace. I dropped in behind Crazy Legs as we took the drop down toward the Snake Bends as he rode down the white lines in the middle of the road to try and find the smoothest passage.
An approaching car forced us back to the left and, after it passed and Crazy Legs swung back into the middle, I accelerated down the inside and kept going as hard as I could until G-Dawg surged past me, quickly opening an unassailable lead.
Everyone else swept passed and I sat up, rolling to the junction where we regrouped, seeming to wait an interminable amount of time before finding space to dart through the heavy traffic and wend or way through to the cafe.
Main topics of conversation at the coffee stop:
Everyone seems to be looking forward to next weeks World Championships in Yorkshire, especially Rainman, whose national proclivities are to the fore, as he touted the chances of a Dutch successor to Valverde, while simultaneously disparaging any Belgian contenders.
In short order he had built up the chances of Mathieu van der Poel and Dylan van Baarle, while demolishing those of Remco Evenepoel, Greg Van Avermaet and Oliver Naesen.
“Ere, ere,” Caracol pulled him up sharply, his west country burr to the fore, “You can’t possibly go around pronouncing every riders names correctly and expect us to know who you’re talking about!”
There then followed and extended, bizarre discussion about whether the West Country accent was more representative of pirates or farmers, which concluded with the Caracol’s startling conclusion: “farmers, pirates, they’re one and the same really.”
This left us confused and wondering if pirates were the cut-throat homesteaders of the high seas, or farmers were the freebooters of terra firma.
I don’t know, maybe it’s both?
An elder gent from the Vagabonds cycling club was at the cafe with his missus, who was accompanying him on an e-bike. An intrigued Otto Rocket was curious about the e-bike and was offered a chance to try it for herself.
“We don’t actually know her, she just turned up in a taxi,” Crazy Legs quipped as Otto Rocket swung her leg over the frame and disappeared out the car park. The e-biker owner laughed, only ever-so-slightly uneasily.
Otto Rocket duly returned and pronounced the e-bike brilliant. Of course, Crazy Legs had to have a go too, whirring back to the cafe to second the opinion that e-bikes were brilliant. We all agreed they were highly likely to feature in our (not too distant) riding futures.
The ride home once again featured a quickening of the pace as we powered our way up Berwick Hill, but nothing quite so savage and unrelenting as last weeks madness. Still it wasn’t long before I was following G-Dawg through the mad mile, before casting off and striking out for home.
Great weather and a great ride, I wouldn’t object to a few more days like that before the winter takes hold.
YTD Totals: 5,898 km / 3,665 miles with 77,491 metres of climbing
Sur La Jante 