The Mighty 103

Key ‘life lessons’ learnt on the 103 Weald and Downland jaunt, January 2014:-

 … all Victoria station ticket inspectors would like to join the 103. And who can blame them?

 … if you have 60+ Oyster card they virtually payyou to travel to Lewes and back. ‘Keep the train, mate!’  

 … according to the on-train free Finn Cornwall Tech Support Workshop, iPhones have a ‘torch’ facility and can give you instant weather stats in Barcombe if you happen to be in Barcombe. Ditto Sheffield Green, Laughton, Selmeston, Firle or Glynde. And it’s not just confined to the Sussex area: if you were in Haiti, it would give you the weather in Haiti. Who knew?!

 … people at Google work in ‘pods’ not teams. Their idea of pro-active management-speak, going forward, is to play slightly more aggressive table-tennis or refuse to conduct ‘blue-sky meets’ in a pit filled with coloured balls. 

… when it spots the 103 squad – sorry, pod– in its log-warmed interior, a ‘salad garnish’ at the Yew Tree in Chalvington instantly transforms into roast potatoes, three veg and gravy. 

 … no pod member should change out of their shorts in a phonebooth thinking they’re Superman. They’re not.

 … all Sussex women on horses *heart* the 103. Fair enough, they’re only human.

 … Sussex ‘llama farmers’ breed llamas to breed llamas to breed llamas. Eventually the world will be taken over by llamas. Blame Sussex. 

 … when Calves says ‘it will rain at 1.37’, it will rain at 1.37. He is the guv’nor. Or, possibly, God. 

 … Sussex dog-walkers think they’re poor photographers and say things like ‘don’t ask me to take a snap of you, oh famous windswept and brave 103 - though sadly minus Bretty and Nick (*pause for theatrical sobbing*) - because I’ll probably stick my thumb over the lens!’ ‘Pshaw, kind lady, have a pop anyway!’ we say. Photo attached.

 … there’s a cat in Isfield, Alfie, that eats a meal a day in each house. If he can put away a pork belly with ‘salad garnish’ and a steamed syrup sponge at The Yew Tree, he’s welcome to join the 103.

 … people in Isfield have life-size model railways.

 … Sir Bradley Wiggins can’t lift five crates of milk because he’s a wet and a weed: fact. According to Sussex men driving 4X4s. 

 … pod members can suffer ‘wheel-spin’ when riding on steep South Downs grassland. Even when they’ve had syrup sponge for lunch. 

 … all men in Haiti are lying under a palm tree with two birds in bikinis drinking something out of a coconut shell. But secretly they’d rather be wheel-spinning on the South Downs while beingactually blown sideways by horizontal rain. 

Sorry for the late communication but here is the proposal for Monday:

09.00 train Victoria

09.59 arrive Haywards Heath

10.00- 13.00 ride over Ashdown Forest to Lewes

13.01 Lunch at The Snowdrop, Lewes

15.00ish train back to London.

I will meet you at HH station. We then ride through Lindfield up to Chelwood Gate (uphill but unchallenging). Beer/coffee break, then across to Danehill and easy, mainly downhill, ride back to Lewes.

Length of the ride is adjustable (20-30 miles), degree of difficulty 5/10 on the chevrometer, and the weather forecast is good. 

I hope that works for all, I look forward to meeting up with most of you at HH on Monday.

Happy New Year to all roulers, 

CC

2018

On 2 Jan 2018, at 05:32, Nick Wiseman <n.neighem@btinternet.com> wrote:

New Year’s greetings to the Mighty 103. 

Here is a proposal for our annual New Year Jaunt. It majors in leisurely pedalling, gentle slopes and competitive chat. It focuses on a quality pub lunch with more chat, then a quiet snooze courtesy of South West Trains back to the smoke.

Thames Valley Tootle

Meet up at Richmond Park                                                    09.00

Cycle on Sustrans route NCR 4 (Thames Valley route)

via Hampton Court, Weybridge, Staines

to Englefield (on the edge of Windsor Park).

Lunch at The Bailiwick, Englefield                                          12.45

(table booked)

Depart Englefield around                                                        14.30

Cycle back to Staines (hop and a skip)                                  15.00

Back in London                                                                       15.45 ish

Variants:

·        Those wishing a post prandial spin can retrace the ride back into London

·         Bretty short tour: train to Staines (5 miles from Englefield, where we could meet up en route to the pub) or train to Egham, a couple of miles from the pub.

Notes

This is a notoriously flat route; hills are only detectable with a spirit level. 

Competitive opportunities will be few, mostly confined to the pub.

Riders can dive in or out at any point. Lunch is mandatory.

Something for everybody then,  although apologies to Joe for the absence of lung-busting hill climbs.

Chaps, this could be the first six-hander for an unfeasible long time. Let’s do it!

 CC

JG, MB, FB, Nicks

Lewes to The Swan, Dallington then back to Polegate Station (38 miles)

2 January 2019

Things of note recalled this morning
The post-Swan pile up between CC and Joe outside the Merrie Harriers in Hailsham. Are you hurt, Calves? "I'm feeling a twinge of humiliation." Joe? "Just a bit of guilt."

Finnbar's touching cracker-barrel philosophy: "We have lots of time. But not much time together."

Classic Calves touches to the route - the view of the sea from the Swan in Wood's Corner, proximity to Mad Jack Fuller's burial pyramid in Brightling, a few miles of immaculately surfaced Cuckoo Trail into Polegate, 800 metres gentle altitude. 

The 103 laughed at the piffling 40 per cent Mount Gay option and took the 80 per cent Sailor Jerry route (the new Auchentoshan) - off-head, off-road, off-bike.

Asked to flog the remaining two inches in the SJ bottle for the price of three singles - a risk that, at worst, would have lost them a quid - the Swan management came back with a resounding "100 per cent no!". So British.  

Then again ...  Swan lamb chops: two each and both the size of a suitcase. 

The groaning tray of sherries that perked up the OAP crackers and paper hats pub quiz coach party from Herne Bay. 

In the Dinkum in Polegate, where David Dimbleby rocks up every night to get completely hammered, Joe refused a stiff rum chaser and was accused of reversing the key 103 strategy: "less Lycra, more booze". 

Alight with rum, FB entertained the Polegate-Clapham express with tales of Ro's best friend Nick's fragrant "weird father" who has a spookily unexplained extra house across the road in SW11 apparently containing his train set in a basement. Nina was cautious that Ro should visit the place without police protection. "Typical Johnny bird," the Bear barked loudly. 

That Brett-sent knowledge that Sailor Jerry bottles used to reveal hula girls on the inside of the label as the level dropped reminds veteran 103-ers of the peanut cards in pubs in the '70s. As the packets were torn off, a topless bird appeared. #DifferentTimes etc.

 00.0              LEWES follow familiar route to Horam

15.5              Lon Cowden Hall Lane

16.2              Ron Foords Hill no sign, house on R

16.6              BearLHammer Lane sign ‘Warbleton Church’

18.5              BearLCowbeech Rd sign  ‘Rushlake Green’

18.8        RUSHLAKE GREEN

19.2              Head Non Rookery Lane

19.9              RatXroad Colliers Green finger post

21.0              Bear L sign ‘Dallington’

21.6        DALLINGTON

22.2              The Swan, Woods Corner

 0.0     The Swan

0.6              DALLINGTON

2.3              Straight on ‘Bodle Street’

2.9               Bear L

3.0              ForkRShrieks Lane, house on L

3.7              BearL, no sign

4.8              COWBEECH

5.2              Merry Harriers PH on R

5.7              RCinderford Lane, sign ‘Horam’

6.8              LGrove Hill, sign ‘Hellingly’

8.1              HELLINGLY

8.1              Ron Mill Lane, blue signs

8.4              Lon Cuckoo trail at X road

13.5              POLEGATE STATION

 Trains to London at 16.32, 17.08, 17.32, 18.08

Some like it wet: a watery tour of the Western Weald

5 January 2025

This is a significant year for The Mighty 103, who first put foot to pedal twenty years ago, on their unintended epic journey to Paris in 2005 (103 miles on Day 1…never since equalled). Now that the younger members are proud fathers and captains of industry, we don’t get to ride together so often but the annual Winter Warmer – in the dark early days of the New Year, always marked by a celebratory pub lunch – is mandatory. This year we are exploring the Western Weald of Sussex, a landscape of small valleys and rolling hills, dotted with timeless tiny villages replete with church, village green and pub, that to date have escaped the curse of the appended executive estate. It’s Rupert Bear country, with thatched cottages and vicars on bikes.

The weather forecast is not propitious and there are severe weather warnings for most of the country. Although the 50-mph gale has been downgraded, rain in a variety of intensities is guaranteed throughout the day; the prudent advice to travellers is to stay at home. But we are in too deep: train tickets have been purchased and more importantly the pub lunch booked. We ride.

Clapham Junction is suitably downbeat on a grey Sunday morning, a steady drizzle greets our westbound train as we wait, panniered bikes poised. After a couple of minutes, it is clear that the doors are not going to open. Behind the doors, a blue/grey flash hurtles towards the front of the train; another minute later the doors finally open. When our tickets are inspected mid-journey, we recognise the blue grey livery of our conductor and press him for details. “I can’t believe it; I lost the key” he admits. Hence the twelve-carriage sprint to borrow the driver’s key.

The Weasel, final member of the team, is waiting for us on the rain-lashed platform at Liphook, dressed in elegant black racewear that would not disgrace the Tour de Britain, in contrast to the rest of the peloton, who have layered up Bibendum-style with survival in mind. We had planned to raise our spirits with bacon baps and steaming mugs of coffee before starting out, but the good burghers of Liphook have no truck with such decadence, especially on a Sunday. We settle for brief man-hugs and head south in search of provender.

Despite the drizzle, the countryside is ravishing, narrow lanes twist between high hedges, a patchwork landscape of small fields and ancient woodland is occasionally visible beyond. At Chithurst we pass the diminutive church of St Mary, barely altered since it was recorded in Domesday, the village it served long disappeared. It stands silent on a pagan burial mound above the thundering River Rother. Giant puddles slow our progress because it is impossible to guess how deep they are, or what hazards they conceal. Nick C is brought to a standstill in a concealed underwater trench; brown liquid overtops his waterproof socks, filling them with icy water. Finnbar discovers a tooth-crunching pothole that disables his rear brake. Roadside repairs are carried out under a steady downpour. Progress, despite hard pumping, is painfully slow and we are still two hours away from lunch.

Hopes rise briefly when we reach the Elsted Inn, a well-regarded hostelry advertising breakfasts on its blackboard. Every day of the week…except Sunday. Deflated and starving, we press on as muddy water from the saturated fields on either side cascades down steep banks onto our lane. Road drains, now working in reverse, discharge seething fountains into the air. At times we are literally cycling against the current. At Treyford we turn east in the lee of the South Downs, where flocks of morose sheep in huge fields eye us balefully through the downpour. Finally, at Cocking we find The Bluebell pub/café/restaurant, and the lights are on. A friendly face appears at the window and beckons us in. Over a life-enhancing cafetiere we get the story. The Bluebell is a community pub, saved by locals from closure and – just about – getting by. The current manager, taking a coffee break with her team, is leaving next day to look after her sick husband. We wish her well, leaving behind a large puddle as a record of our flying visit.

Traffic has vanished entirely as we press on along unsurfaced farm tracks under the lowering presence of the Downs. This is deepest Sussex, and the views are heart-stopping, but our minds now are on more carnal matters: pub, food and a pint. At Selham we pass the exquisite tiny church of St James, its herringbone masonry unmistakably Saxon; on a celebrated chancel arch inside, fierce pagan beasts emerge from writhing Viking foliage. But these delights must wait for another day.

With the clock ticking, we decide to save two miles with a cunning short cut via Lickfold, a hop and a skip from our lunchtime Shangri La, The Red Lion in Fernhurst. Just short of our turning, a driver stops, winds down her window and says “you’ll never get through. It’s completely flooded!” We thank her patronisingly and pedal on; the 103 don’t do turning back. We round a bend to a scene of carnage. A rescue truck has just hauled a dripping car out of a vast lake, locals are turning traffic back as the rain lashes down. Across the new lake, the road to Fernhurst is a raging torrent and we abandon any thoughts of an African Queen-style transit.

It's decision time. A local cyclist tells us that the alternative route to Fernhurst involves a killer climb followed by a cross-country route over unsurfaced goat tracks. We are already late for our lunch booking. The light is fading, and we are famished. Behind us is a cheery timber-framed pub, around which the rising waters lap. Through the windows we can see rosy-cheeked locals quaffing foaming pints in front of roaring log fires. Nano seconds later we have cancelled our original booking and have snagged a delightful circular table for four in front of one of the aforesaid fires; suddenly the world is a better place. Pints of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord appear, closely followed by steaming bowls of French onion soup, belly pork, vegetables cooked just so, to accompany a robust Malbec. Our dining room glows with warmth and bonhomie; outside through the leaded lights it could be the Amazonian jungle, green and foetid. With iron discipline we eschew pudding, settling instead for a round of large Laphroaig bracers with the killer hill in mind. The Weasel departs early in a brave attempt to save both his frost-bitten limbs and his marriage.

The killer hill does not disappoint, winding unremittingly up through glorious beechwoods that would be a delight in spring, especially if travelling in the opposite direction. We are now severely off-piste, navigating entirely by Google and approach a dog-walking local for some local intel. The choices are stark: straight on to join a snarling A-road packed with bike-hating psychopaths; or take our chances on slippery goat tracks through the sodden woods as darkness falls.  We choose the latter of course.

There is still ten miles ahead of us when we finally hit tarmac. It’s completely dark, and still raining as we climb through dripping woods towards our final destination, the station at Liphook. Flood-crazed motorists are rushing home along unfamiliar roads; we are grateful for our near-legal flashing lights fore and aft plus hi-viz jackets and wonder how the Weasel fared with his puny front light and low-viz black clobber.

We have 50 minutes to kill before our train leaves for London and scour the mean streets for a halfway decent pub. Liphook reliably disappoints. Damage limitation directs us to The Royal Anchor, a charmless conversion of a small terrace of period houses into a faceless drinking barn. Rows of shiny fonts dispense beer that no sane human would choose; there is not a handpump to be seen. The wind is getting up as we ride back to the station, freezing rain running down our faces. We are just about defrosted by the time our cosy train reaches Clapham Junction. Later we get an update from the Weasel “Sadly my luck turned after breaking from the group, with two punctures and an ill-advised ride/walk through a forest”. No mention of the frostbite, or his current marital status.

NW 5.1.25