It seemed like such a good idea, back in February. But at 7.00am yesterday morning, in the chill of Clapham Common, viewing the crowds and crowds of cyclists far more competent than I, I have to say that I questioned my own wisdom.
What is it they say about being wise after the event? It must be better than coming suddenly to wisdom at the start gate...
We moved slowly in a huddle down Nightingale Lane, stopping and starting for the traffic lights; London's usual four wheeled gridlock replaced for one morning by gridlock of the two wheeled variety. The only difference being that our emissions were lower carbon (but no less toxic if the crowd I was stuck in is to be the measure). Dad, who knows London and Surrey well, was the only reliable guage of where we were and how we were progressing, though the sight of DBO, Sissy, Lovely Brother In Law and the kids waving and cheering on Garrett Lane was a real spirit lifter.
Once out of London proper, we were steered off the major roads and onto the quieter country lanes, which for the most part had been closed to allow us through. Our first real challenge was the climb up the North Downs. 
Although these hills weren't significant,(the climb up to A on the picture), they were very narrow lanes, and the fact that a few people chose to get off and push effectively forced us all into doing likewise. Which was irritating, as we were just beginning to get warm again. The same thing happened on the climb up to B, but thereafter we were much more comfortably spread out, and those who could cycle up the hills did. I'm proud to say, I managed all but Ditchling Beacon (the climb up to P), but by that time I was so knackered I didn't even attempt it!
The ride over the downs was pleasant. Embarrassing, in that I was riding with my father and my uncle, both of whom left me standing several times over, but pleasant nonetheless. We made a decision to push on through the rest stops until we actually needed to rest, which I think was a good decision. I lost the menfolk somewhere around Turner Hill (point I) where my comparative lack of fitness really began to tell. Dad waited for me just past the pub, but we didn't find my Uncle again until the top of the Beacon.
I really suffered between points L and O; my hand was hurting quite badly, and I had forgotten to put nurofen in my kitbag. I had lost Dad and Uncle and was cycling alone amongst friendly strangers; and I really would have gone home at that point, if there had been any way of achieving it without staying on my bike. The route map makes the road look downhill at that point, but in fact it's a very long, gentle uphill and it really was hurting. I stopped at point O, and spoke to Dad, who was 2/3 up the hill and sounding very puffed. So I took the opportunity to refuel - two Viper energy bars and a revolting sachet of snot, washed down with glug after glug of very dilute squash. I was ready to go.
Ever since I first planned this trip, I have been hearing about Ditchling Beacon. The consensus of advice has been not even to attempt to ride it. So I didn't.
And it was good advice. The Beacon is a long hill, and it is a steep hill. It is a relentless, unforgiving bitch of a hill. And every time you come across a gently flattening out part, you turn a corner and up it goes again. It was blazing hot out of the trees, and we were out of the trees for quite a lot of it. Every time it became truly unbearable, I thought "this must be where Dad was when I spoke to him. This must be 2/3 of the way up. I'm nearly there, now". Only somehow, I never quite was.
I clattered my pedal into the back of my calf, removing a healthy slug of skin and adding to my Beacon woes, but eventually it was over. When I could no longer breathe, and was long past the point where I could talk, Dad rang. "We're at the top. Keep going. I've found Uncle and we're waiting for you on the right hand verge. Just past the red ice cream van." I'm not honestly sure what was more sustaining; the thought of a welcome committee, or the knowledge that beyond the painfully hot, ragged lungs and sore, bleeding legs, there was still a world that contained red ice cream vans.
Once I'd rested a little and could breathe without wheezing, we set off down again. The downhill from P is really, truly downhill, although irritatingly it ended in another traffic jam, coming into Brighton. We were brought into town on the A217 (I think), crammed three and four abreast into a cycle lane scarcely wide enough for two, with two lanes of bemused but blessedly patient cars beside us. Stop, start. Stop, start. Another clattery bruise on the opposite shin, caused by skating my bike along the last 3 miles or so. And then onto the seafront. Sissy, Lovely B-i-L, stepmother, stepsister, stepsister's partner and Daisy were the first sight to greet me, and about 20 yards past them, DBO and Dan waving and grinning and cheering. I admit to shedding a tear, behind my dark road warrior glasses.
So, 59.66 miles (excluding the ride from Tooting to Clapham and back again); 23,000 feet of climbing (according to Uncle's computer); ride time 6 1/2 hours; total time 7 1/2 hours.
Highlights:
coming to a roundabout just before Turner's Hill (again, I think), where a lone policeman was charged with holding us back while his colleague waved through the cars from the junction to our right. I was in the front row to be stopped, and as we were obediently gathering to wait, a shout came through from behind us: "NO BRAKES!!!! I'VE GOT NO BRAKES!!!!!! CAN'T STOP!!!!" We scattered, and a bloke came tanking through the crowd, the policeman tentatively spreading himself across the cyclist's path, just as the first cars came around the roundabout. The bike screeched to a halt: "Only joking!" We all laughed - including, to his credit, the policeman. His colleague then took an extraordinarily long time to stop the cars so we could go again, which led to much ringing of bike bells, and a hearty cheer when she finally held her hand in the stop position. "Don't piss her off!" pleaed the copper, "I've got to work with her all day!"
My family's support. Dad and Uncle were great on the ride. They could have left me at any point, and gone ahead, but they waited for me to catch up; were sympathetic about my hand; and made sure I was ok at all times. They were better companions than I could have hoped for. And having the children, and Sissy, and B-i-L and lovely DBO waiting for me at the end was magical.
Lowlights: Ditchling Beacon; and incredibly painful hand; and realising that the coach taking us back to London after our fish and chips on the prom was actually in Hove, and we had to cycle to it.
Photos are beginning to be here.
