Problem 1 was simply solved by setting the alarm clock to 5 a.m. instead of 6 a.m. After all, one hours less sleep pales into insignificance compared with the sleep deprivation of the long summer rides to come in a few months time.
I set off round the M25, and came off at the A23 towards London. I reckoned the best bet was to memorise as much of the way to the start as possible, and trust my memory, so I pulled into a lay-by. No sooner had I done so than a small rust- coloured car with two bikes on the roof came past. Roger Philo and Chris Avery! I quickly tucked in behind them and they led me to the car park where the ride was to start. That dealt with Problem 2.
At 7.30 the sun still hadnt risen, and it was still chilly, so I decided to spare the citizenry of Cousdon the sight of my knees, for the time being at least. My other act of cowardice was to ride a bike with lots and lots of gears. The organiser, Alan Pedals Pedliham, a fanatical fixer if ever there was one, had recommended his route as ideal for fixed. I took this with a pinch of salt. After all, he regards any ride up to 1200km as ideal for fixed. He even regards a double-sided fixed hub as a compromise strictly for namby-pambies only.
I took my customary position at the back of the field as we rolled out of the car park. Very soon we were crossing the cattle grid and climbing on to Farthing Down, a bizarre patch of land with cows grazing on it, an unfenced road running across it, and wooded panoramas to the south. If you were careful about which direction you looked, it looked really rural, and yet we were only a few hundred yards from suburban South London.
Problem 3 was beginning to manifest itself as I toiled uphill. Things werent made any better by a cow which ran beside me and almost kept up. She wasnt even running, just a gentle jog. But I did spot that the cows all sported natty reflective ankle-bands. Obviously they were street-wise urban London cows.
We then swept down a long descent, over the M25, and into the Surrey countryside. Here I caught up with Roger Philo, and we rode together through the patchy mist. The sun was trying to break through, but it was still very chilly. For the time being at least, the ride was living up to its name.
Surrey is supposed to be the county with the most cars per mile of road in the UK, and I had wondered whether I would spend the day choking fumes, but it was still relatively early on a Sunday morning and there was no-one about yet, except for a few horses (and their riders).
The route undulated to the first control at Hartfield, just a volunteer with his car stamping cards by the roadside, but handily placed over the road from some inviting Tea Rooms.
Inside, Chris Avery was providing a constant stream of jokes to his appreciative audience, consisting of Richard Phipps and a couple who were on tandem. By the time I had finished my three rounds of hot buttered toast and mug of hot chocolate, the sunlight was streaming through the window, making the open log fire somewhat superfluous.
It was now more like a May day, as I rode with Mike Bone for the next short leg to Penshurst. I realised that the last time I had seen him, he was limping along in great pain, pushing his bike towards Cirencester where he could abandon on the South Coast 400 last May. He said he had suffered knee pain for months, but then the trouble had disappeared as soon as it had appeared. He certainly seemed OK now.
Pedals himself was manning the Penshurst control. He immediately asked if any of us had been attacked by the dog in Moat Lane. It seems the only rider assaulted by said mutt had been Andy Seviour, another fixed fanatic. This was the spur for some learned discussion. It was agreed that it is certainly difficult for someone riding fixed to free his foot and kick the canine, but you have to admire the hounds bravery in going for ankles spinning at speed. Then with a leap of the imagination someone pointed out that a dog riding fixed would have the advantage of being able to rest two of his legs at any one time.
With that I set off again, alone this time, into the quiet lanes, under the unseasonably warm sun. Soon Id had enough of overheated knees and stuffed my longs into my saddlebag exposing my lily-white legs to public view for the second time that weekend. Once again I appreciated the value of a local planning a route and showing off his favourite lanes. Even though it was past noon, there were very few cars to be seen. At one point the route crossed the A23. So that was where all the cars were. It took an age waiting for a gap in the traffic, but eventually I got across and continued on the traffic-free lane on the other side.
In contrast to the Cotswold villages of the previous day, the Surrey villages had an air of affluence about them. Whereas the Cotswold villages seemed to have a high proportion of battered 1960s Land Rovers per head of population, these villages had a high proportion of 1998 Range Rovers (as well as Mercedes). Note that this is a purely subjective impression, and I will gladly accept, if any rural Surrey native insists, that these villages are populated solely by horny-handed sons of toil. And daughters of toil. And stockbrokers. Not to mention company directors and self-made millionaires.
Musing on these matters, I approached the bridge over the M25 before clunking into my granny gear for the last time in the weekend. I hauled myself up the steep climb on to Farthing Down, and down again to the finish in Coulsdon and a mug of tea and a bacon butty. Considering the warm weather, Pedals was said to be considering changing the events name to Tropical Monkey 100.
So that left me one more 100 km ride this month before the 200s in March, 300s in April, 400s in May, and 600s in June, before the slow and steady decline between August to December.
John Spooner