The Mighty 103

The Regency Fish restaurant, Brighton. June 2004. Yet another L2B completed. After one too many pints, time for reflection.

"Is this the way it's going to be forever?"

"There's got to be more to life..."|

"Why not Paris?"

Et alors, the Mighty 103 was born

And so a band of travelling minstrels stormed the beaches of Normandy in August 2005 in an audacious bicycular raid on the French capital.

The 103 Diaries document the group's continuing quest to bring the poetry of two-wheeled transport to the masses.

OVERVIEW:

Cow pie in Lewes, train to Newhaven, midnight ferry to Dieppe. Avenue Verte 5.30am, owls hooting, cafe and croissants at Neufchatel en Bray, omelettes jambon in Gournay en Bray, then a 3 courser with wine at L'Auberge de l'Abbaye at St Germer de Fly. Tea break 70 miles in, somewhere south of Beauvais. 100 mile photo captured 3 miles from Chantilly. Overnight in budget hotel, Chantilly.

Saturday fly past Charles de Gaulle airport. Early sighting of Eiffel Tower. *FAKE  NEWS*. Onto Canal de l' Ourcq, then to Canal St Martin.. The man who biked to Mec. Bofinger Grand plateau de fruits de mer  then to bastille for digestifs, chat, birds, sizecase

MILEAGE: 150 miles

RIDERS:

Finn

Mark

Mike

Nick

Nick

“THE CAR IS DYING. LONG LIVE THE HUMBLE BICYCLE”

Sunday Telegraph/Mark Ellen

I live in West London and once biked to Dorset for a swim. Last summer I cycled to Paris for dinner. There’s very little to compare with the feeling of floating in the surf at Kimmeridge Bay, or addressing a mountain of French seafood, if you got there under your own steam. You radiate a sense of achievement. You *glow* with self-satisfaction. You feel compelled to bore total strangers with your two-wheeled tales of derring-do. “We’re English,” we told our sadly underwhelmed waitress. “Got here by bike! Boat to Dieppe then cycled all the way. Did a hundred and three miles yesterday!” She smiled a watery smile and then told us about the dish of the day.

The French, to be fair, are used to this sort of thing. Head to the main square of any small town on a Sunday morning and you’ll find an assembly of trim, middle-aged men wearing lycra shorts. Within minutes they’ll be astride bikes so thin their wheels are like compact discs and be steaming round the environs in tight formation. We English tend to regard bike-riders as an irritation, something to be nudged into the verge as you overtake, but The French embrace cycling as part of their culture. Oncoming drivers tend to wave admiringly - “chapeau, bon rouleur!” - and their roads make every attempt to accommodate the pedal-powered tourist - in fact the first 25 miles out of Dieppe are on your own private road, an old steam railway route that’s been rolled with tarmac and declared a car-free ‘Avenue Verte’. It’s hard to feel part of the countryside when it’s seen through through the thick glass of train window, or from the stale fug of a car, but bike travel is an elemental experience - the sight of a field of poppies, the sound of a farmyard at dawn, the soft scent of bonfires or warm hedgerows in a summer shower. 

OVERVIEW:

MILEAGE:

RIDERS:

The Paris trip was such a triumph that the same line-up thought we’d move up a gear and try something harder. This year we did three days touring the South of Ireland with a spot of whale-watching thrown in. It’s the perfect team - there’s six of us (oldest 63, youngest 25) and, crucially, we’re roughly at the same level of fitness. Nobody dresses like a Tour De France contender and we’re not obsessed with speed - though we do like to cover some ground; the 103 miles from Dieppe to Chantilly was about 12 hours in the saddle. As long as you’ve got a bike with a lightish frame and at least 18 gears - plus a spare inner tube and some spanners - all you need is an appetite for adventure and the occasional grim repetition of the mantra “hills are your friend”. 

And, in this case, a van. Air travel with bicycles gets more complicated by the minute - these days you’re often required to dismantle your entire bike and repack it flat in a cardboard box with its tubes deflated (though surely only the most amateur of terrorists would pedal gaily to an airport with a bomb concealed in their tyres). So for this trip abroad we borrowed a six-seater Mercedes Sprinter, strapped the bikes in the back and took the ten-hour sailing from Swansea to Cork. The van also cut out tedious main road manoeuvres from our bed-and-breakfast every day and meant we could start each cycle ride at the foot of whatever mountain we felt like climbing and see all the scenic stuff from the saddle.

There’s no shortage of spectacular sights. Our first day was a fairly gentle 42-mile circuit of Sheep’s Head peninsula near Bantry, though the final ascent to the headland involves a strength-sapping ascent nearly six miles long. The only traffic we encountered on the north coast was a herd of cows. Whimbrels and oystercatchers probe the shoreline for shellfish and the air is heavy with the perfume of bracken and the hum of bumblebees and clicking grasshoppers. We must have climbed about 4,000 feet in return for some sensational views, the craggy terrain with its old peat mines now filled with pitch-black water and lily pads, the distant hills like broken teeth. When we sat down to six pints of Guinness in The Tin Pub in Ahakista - a pub, oh yes, made of corrugated iron - a pair of kingfishers shot out of the bushes to circumnavigate the bay. 

Southern Ireland has the perfect for pace for cycle travel. Nothing moves at any great speed and anything you might want you can find - usually in the same shop. O'Mahony’s in Kilcrohane is a petrol station, post office, delicatessen, shoe shop and rock venue all rolled into one. Signs in the window advertise “Dog and terrier racing - no lurchers, whippets or greyhounds!”. There’s old Irish music at Eileen’s Pub - albeit by a guitarist backed by his laptop - and the local steamed mussels and black pudding refuel the ravenous biker. People talk proudly of the bacon from neighbouring Rosscarbery: it’s *beyond* organic, apparently - “the pigs have a sea-view”.

There’s also the whaling boat that runs twice a day in summer from near the southernmost tip of Eire, the brightly-painted town of Union Hall, and we bunked off for the afternoon to scoure the surf for humpbacks, fins and minkes. By the time Alan, our weather-beaten captain, had knocked off his gripping yarns about 30-metre fin whales hurling themselves out of the water and a giant humpback tail rising ghost-like from the tide, I’m starting to hallucinate thrashing sea mammals in the shape of every wave. Eventually a “feeding frenzy” is sighted, a wheeling spiral of seabirds - gulls, shearwaters, storm petrels and dive-bombing gannets - and, sure enough, the fins of three 12-metre minkes roll out of the sea beneath it like giant porpoises. Perhaps mercifully, we’re not close enough to catch their breath - apparently a none-too-sociable cocktail that’s both “fishy and cabbagey”.

The final day was the cherry on the cake, a 52-mile orbit of the Gougane Barra peninsula near Cork, so breath-takingly beautiful that, when a TV crew once arrived to make a documentary about its unspoilt charms, the locals kept pointing them in the wrong direction. It’s virtually only accessible by bike or on foot, a long and glorious ascent from the sea, then some punishing slopes that lead eventually to a magical, hidden plain fringed with mountains and patrolled only by deer and buzzards. Great chunks of rock are scattered across its wilderness, its hedges are full of fuscia and blackberries and its hillsides airbrushed by the soft shadows of the evening sun.  

These, believe me, are sights worth seeing. And it wouldn’t be the same if you saw them from the warm interior of a Ford Fiesta with the radio on and left a cloud of exhaust behind you. Next year we’re doing Hadrian’s Wall and in the autumn, quite possibly, the vermillion maple forests of Vermont. 

The car is dying. Long live the humble bicycle. 

OVERVIEW:

MILEAGE:

RIDERS:

OVERVIEW:

MILEAGE:

RIDERS:

Finn

Joe

Mark

Mike

Nick

Nick

Thursday 31 May 2007

Car from London to Tiverton. Overnight with Sue and Chris Quick at Leonard, House, Leonard Moor.

Leisurely stroll revealed an informal Irish travellers convoy, tucked away on a minor road. They had a large number of pressure washers, still shrink wrapped in polythene. Did not linger.

 Friday 1 June

Set off on West Country Way, initially beside Grand Western Canal, then through hilly country to Bampton, on the edge of Exmoor.

Lunch at Exeter arms, drank a couple of refreshing Cottleigh Harriers, then set off up a very steep and narrow road, between high hedges. The Weazel’s chain broke, requiring great ingenuity on TWM’s part to affect a repair. Miuch hilarity.

Onto Exmoor, grey and windswept, past Dulverton and Challacombe. Then descending the Taw Valley, where we were delayed by a large flock of sheep on the road, and into Barnestable. Around the Taw Estuary to the more prepossessing Bideford.

Night at The Mount, a most genteel B&B.

 Saturday 2 June

On to the Tarka Trail, initially through pleasant, unspectacular countryside to Great Torrington, Sheepwash, and Hatherleigh (lunch, CC impromptu solo pub crawl), to Okehampton. Then along the Granite Way over Dartmoor to Lydford and North Brentor. Great route, former railway so wonderful viaducts, cuttings, waterfalls and wildlife.

Stayed with Sheila Downs at Burn Cottage, right on the moor in the shadow of Brentor Church perched on its rock.CC as most senior tourist was awarded the double bed in its own room, the remainder shareda communal bedroom. Mixed reviews from the non-snoring community.

For supper, set off giggling on bikes as the light faded, across the wild moor to Peter Tavy. Celebration meal for Finn’s birthday at Peter Tavy Inn, previously road tested by CC and subsequently endorsed by all. Stone paving throughout, which sticks in the memory as our ever helpful serving person dropped the tray with our six pints. Subsequent pints ensured that a taxi would be needed to get us back to Burn Cottage, leaving the steeds padlocked in the pub car park.

 Sunday 3 June

Nuns and kippers for a memorable breakfast around a big kitchen table. Taxi back to the Peter Tavy Inn, then off down the Plym Valley to Plymouth, an effortless 30 mile ride, largely downhill. Saw peregrines nesting through borrowed binoculars and arrived in Plymouth for an unspectacular but satisfying pub lunch. Then a train back to Tiverton Parkway to recover our cars (not pressure washed, but not liberated either) and thence back to the smoke.

OVERVIEW:

MILEAGE:

RIDERS:

Fusce ultricies nec eros vel varius. Aliquam lacinia diam eros, sit amet tincidunt tortor tincidunt a. Aenean vitae aliquet lorem. Cras eu ex imperdiet, consequat nulla quis, scelerisque sapien. Interdum et malesuada fames ac ante ipsum primis in faucibus. Mauris porta vestibulum orci, eget laoreet nisl elementum id.

OVERVIEW:

MILEAGE: 206 miles

RIDERS:

OVERVIEW:

MILEAGE:

RIDERS:

From

Subject

Date

Mark Ellen <bonzodog@btinternet.com>

Fwd: Summer Tour 2009

31 August 2009 11 :07:33 BST

\7tu)

Begin lorwarded message:

Frcm: Mark Ellen  <borzodm@Hirternet-cor>

Date: 17 August 2009  235451 BST

To: joseph garood <i@!@hSEna!!=corr>

Gc: Mike Bret  <mike@arclssmark.co.ub, Nic* Comwall <nickcornwall@googlemail.com>, Mdrk-Ellen

<mark@rvordmagazine.co.ulo, Nbk NeUfEm <n.neighem@btinternet.com>, Finn Cornwall <finnbatmmwall@gmail.com>

Subfirt: Re: Sumrrer Tour 2009

Cher The 103,

Have posted poor quality snaps to you all (thanks for hilarious email The Weasel,

posted yours but such an absurdly busy day I didn't get a chance to email back).

Can't tell you how much fun it was to get out of town, and once again in such

tremendous company. Men looked on admiringly - and I'd like to think girls grew

quite faint - on hearing my tales of 7860 foot ascents. We did well, people. Many

thanks to all, especially the brilliant future proprietor of Wheezel Wheelz who

organised it all (am away for a couple of days now but will send the money by the

end of the week). Bretty, you were much missed, hope you can make the next one

- but such good news re the work, many congrats.

Am a bit pissed so, here's a multiple choice question ...

ls a "base layer"...

a) a substantial cycling snack comprised of sand, toffee and a coating of chocolate

consumed only be weasels.

b) a 4 per cent Robinson's session beer, one up from Hatters (aka mouthwash),

two down from Double Hop.

c) a nutritious leek and potato soup served by a goth designed to line the stomach

prior to heavy Bluebird abuse.

d) one of Swordworth's 4OO picture postcard Lakeland cottages.

e) the kind of "filly" who hangs out at the Golden Rule hoping to cop off with a

pissed farmer with customised )O(L velveteen side-pockets.

f) a primitive form of ticketing equipment now only pressed into service by Old

Laughing Boy on the Windermere lerry.

g) a rudimentary road surface much loved by the 103's celebrated treadeur

O'Gravelbiter.

h) another term for a Mule Bar (aka bird droppings and treacle)

i) a brand of courageously tight "budgie-smugglers" sported by celebrated 103

pedal-pusher The Bear.

i) the very much maligned low-octave synth-prodder on The Shamen's classi

dance anthem "Ebeneezer Goode".

k) a ferociously aggressive "chucking-out" manoeuvre practised in The Golden Rule

when Grolsh drinkers get too giddy.

l) the most exciting item on display in a slate museum.

m) ... ditto a pencil museum.

n) an old Lakeland expression for black pudding.

o) a skull-cracking type of puzzle left on breakfast tables by B&B proprietors.

p) a primitive form of music performed by people who've only ever heard of Cat

Stevens.

q) a t3.50 All-U-Can-Eat carvery.

r) a form of rarely-served cheese on toast.

s) a foundation of three meatballs - on top of which a proper seruing of meatballs is

traditionally heaped.

t) an expression that means "getting your cycling helmet on the rt'rong way round".

u) the kind of non-conversation perpetrated by teenagers called Jason

v) a sophisticated new wireless-type "mobile phone" capable of more tfian making

calls to 1 181 18.

w) a new-fangled waterproof helmet cover rocked by celebrated 103 spoke-basher

Calves.

x) an under-four minute bike dismantlement.

y) Er... it's five to 12.

z) Better go to bed.

Mx

Four Wheels Bad, Two Wheels Good!

Is there a better way of exploring the countryside than by pollution-free pedal power? Mark Ellen cycles coast-to-coast - on a strict diet of steak pudding and Victoria sponge

Have you ever watched The Tour De France and thought: I could have a crack at that? I don’t mean the whole thing, obviously. Or going quite that fast. Or having to wear those eye-watering shorts. 

But the principle’s the same. You set off to observe a bit of countryside – not from a packed train carriage or the polluting fug of a car, but from the seat of your own self-powered chariot, out in the elements, inhaling the scented hedgerows, soaking up the birdsong and suffused with the pure pastoral delights of this scenic sceptred isle. Stopping every two hours to eat your own bodyweight in chips. 

Two old pals and I decide to give it a go, our team leader a sprightly 68, the other old lags in our mid-50s. The British landscape is now delightfully etched with “sustrans” cycle paths – many of them resurfaced steam railways tracks – which means that, apart from a few minor roads, you’re riding in a world blissfully free of motor vehicles and solely the domain of “sustainable transport” like bikes. 

One such spectacular route is the famous Coast-To-Coast. You dip your rear wheel in the Irish Sea in Whitehaven, start climbing towards The Pennines, thread your way through the Lake District and cross four counties – Cumbria, Durham, Northumberland and Tyne And Wear - before making the glorious descent into either Sunderland or Newcastle. Where you roll your front wheel into the North Sea and expect to have your back slapped vigorously by admiring locals.

Within minutes of embarking we discover where Lance Armstrong has gone badly wrong. He’s in too much of a hurry. The Tour De France legend barely looks up from his handlebars and beads of perspiration pop out of his brow, all of which suggests his sole concern is getting to his destination as fast as possible. The man needs to relax, to stop off now and again and admire the scenery, enjoy a pint of light summer ale and put away the odd cream tea. Maybe take a few photos or send a postcard.  

We also reveal where Armstrong went *right*. This breathtaking route across England is 136 miles and there’s an awful lot of hills in the way. When our yellow-jerseyed superman shoots off the plateau and into the crippling climbs of The Pyrenees, his speed barely seems to drop. Those stick-thin legs, that lean physique, those punishing years of circuit-training and “carb-loading” plates of pasta, they all seem to have given him the edge. 

Lance is also riding a bike the width of a credit card that weighs about as much as a slice of Ryvita. We, on the the hand, are astride sturdy iron horses hung with saddlebags containing several changes of socks, evening footwear, all-weather trousers, shaving gear, cameras, thick paperback books and some hefty metal equipment for mending wheels and broken chains. We soon realise the map warning “steep ascent” doesn’t mean a little less whistling and a touch more standing up and pushing, it means 20 grinding minutes in the lowest of 24 gears and a lot of highly audible exhalation, the pain considerably increased if you’re overtaken by a lady walking a Scots Terrier. If it’s marked with a chevron, it means “even steeper”. Two chevrons and your front wheel starts lifting off the ground. At one point, collapsed in a bed of cow parsley, we make the grim but accurate calculation that the vertical sum of our ascents over the next three days makes a grand total of one and a half miles. 

Then again this means one and half miles of *downhill* too, and it’s at these moments particularly that the sheer sensory delight of cycle travel kicks in. You realise what you miss when touring on four wheels – the low drone of bumblebees, the bleating of sheep, the symphonies of songbirds, the scent of bonfires and sun-baked tarmac. And the constant checking of the altitude makes you keenly aware the panorama divides into three equally striking types of terrain. The soft lowlands are mostly buttercup meadows full of cattle, skylarks and yellowhammers, winding rivers, woods with the odd red squirrel and rows of hawthorn in bloom as if dusted with caster sugar (we’re here in early June). Ascend to around a thousand feet and the great plains open up to sheep pasture full of lapwings, blending at the edges into marshland fells patrolled by buzzards and red kites. The final push past the old stone farmsteads to two thousand feet puts you in the shadow of chiselled peaks with wind-blasted names like Skiddaw and Blencathra, and out onto vast, rain-swept moorland awash with rabbits, crows, ravens, grouse, heather, loose scree and spongy fields of white flowers, and fired by the fantastic sight and sound of the curlews. 

Another great advantage of two-wheeled travel, of course, is that you meet people. The C-2-C has brought massive income to all those along its route – from the farmers who’ve converted out-buildings into low-cost “bunk barns”, to enterprising pub landlords and teashop operatives. Huge quantities of high-cholesterol foodstuffs are available at the roadside - you can barely move for beef and ale puddings, Victoria sponge, toasted local plum-bread and jam, and slices of shortcake the size of paving stones – and the locals extend a warm welcome to the pedal-powered explorer. We get war-torn sagas about ruined castles, sorry tales of bridges washed away by floods (like the one we crossed in Langwathby), and sepia-tinted memories of the old railway system, many of whose gorgeous brick and stone viaducts you now traverse on the sustrans routes. Endless good-natured amusement is wrung from the standing joke that around the next bend are several steep and uncharted hills to further test the stamina of the knackered biker, so best order another helping of their heart-stopping dessert - like “Chocolate Lumpy-Bumpy” (a big-seller in Keswick). 

And barely an hour goes by without you running into the gang of cyclists you saw in the pub at lunchtime or in the bed and breakfast the night before, each with their own view of the terrain and the level of challenge involved. There’s enormous respect – applause in fact – for the ones coming the other way making the brave journey from East to West (it’s tough enough going West-East but at least the ascents are sharp and testing and the downhills the perfect payback, long and gradual and with only the softest application of brakes. Do this in reverse, however, from Newcastle To Whitehaven, and it’s a doubly difficult – long, slow climbs like wading through treacle, and descents so painfully sharp that you’re burning costly brake-blocks to avoid hurtling into a dry-stone wall). 

The final act in this spectacular piece of theatre starts with a stiff rise to the old mine workings near Rookhope, a bleak little snapshot of its once-thriving industrial past. But from Parkhead onwards it is – quite literally – downhill all the way to the coast, a full 27 miles and most of it on perfect “sealed surface” rail routes. You steam down through the landscape at a steady 16 mph without any effort at all, through leafy cuttings, over flowered embankments, through tunnels, over bridges, at times even past the ivy-covered ruins of the little stations, platforms and signal boxes that managed the slate and lead cargoes from the hilltops to the harbours in the late 19thCentury. 

You can always tell when a cyclist has reached this stage of their journey. They start to glow with self-satisfaction. When the great port hoves into view, they often break into song - well *we* certainly did - and shout “Hello Newcastle!” at underwhelmed passers-by. There’s little to compare with the feeling of arriving somewhere when every inch of the journey was clocked up under your own steam - I’ll never forget wheeling into Edinburgh from Newcastle two years ago and hearing the thrilling pipe-and-drum sound of the festival in full swing, getting louder with every push of the pedals. 

And now we’re back at the Tyne again, this time for the ceremonial dipping of the front tyre in salt water. If the amount of energy expended can be measured by the food intake – which, indeed, it can - then we’ve clearly given the escapade our best shot. We head straight for a breakfast café in Grey Street and order biker-friendly bowls of “posh porridge” – steaming Scots oats ladled with double cream – and, pausing only to dab our chins with a napkin, stroll across the road for a slap-up three-course lunch of pork terrine and rib of beef with a rich rice pudding to follow. 

We strap our bikes securely into the guards’ van of 1459 to Kings Cross and, just past Durham, hear a comforting a sound. A food trolley is rattling its way up the aisle, laden with a large selection of sandwiches. 

103 CLUB CELEBRATE ASCENT OF ‘TOTALLY FLAT’ WELSH LANDSCAPE

After the depleted 68.6 Club’s comprehensive trouncing of the Welsh countryside, literary gonfleur Marky Boy has published the latest instalment of his Andy Garcia-inspired autobiography, “Things to Do in Lycra When You Tread”:

>

Cher The 103, 

I’m delighted to report that the 68.6 have safely concluded their fact-finding mission into darkest Wales, part cultural investigation, part knee-wrecking

they were new this morning

feat of extreme physical challenge open only to the kind of super-athlete 

capable of riding, say - random figure - 103 miles in a single day. We feel it’s only fair that we share these hard-won facts with our brethren who, for theatrical and geographical reasons, were unable to take up the mantle. Things learnt:-

1) Drinkers in the (pathetic Welsh accent) Prrrints Uf Wheeels hostelrie in Cardiff

are used to the sight of nine young men and two long-suffering girlfriends dressed as Pee-Wee Herman. Noting indications of a lack of virility in their ranks, they immediately issue Man Cards - “more can be claimed from your girlie friends!”. Their motto, which the 68.6 took onboard: “Man up, you NURSE!!!”

2) There are two types of sausage in a “full Welsh breakfast” - one made of the finest cuts of organic pork, the other of bits of old hoof removed from the month-old carcass of cloned cattle with a power-hose. Only one would get TVC’s seal of approval. 

3) Never go to Llanthony on Horse Show day. Over-refreshed members of the local “joke rodeo” team roam the valleys in cowboy hats starting riots.

4) Only a lunatic would tackle the almost vertical 350-metre climb beyond Usk, especially after a generous cream tea.

The “resale value of the inside of my thighs,” Cornwall later announced, “is virtually nil.”

5) In all of Wales, only Chepstow appears to have a reputation for being “lively”.

Stern-looking bar-staff called Louise are prepared to drive you there for £2 and offer a “reverse tipping system” unique to Shirenewton: hopology. Be warned, they swoop on men “like a seagull on a chip”. 

6) Hours of fun can be had cycling past long-faced locals and hearing Cornwall offer them a cheery greeting - “Morning!” - received with a grimace, a shake of the head or, usually, silence. There’s a pause, after which Cornwall pipes up: “I genuinely HATE the Welsh…”

7) Margaret Thatcher closed down every mine in the country in the mid-‘80s but mercifully missed a couple in Monmouthshire. On being warned of the arrival of the 68.6, workers toiled around the clock producing fine puff pastry from ingredients dug deep beneath the Black Mountains, and fleets of lorries steamed out of Merthyr Tydfil, half marked STEAK, the others KIDNEY. 

8) Locals in Shirenewton now play a strange game without fully understanding the rules (like one pissed member of the 68.6). They say “Zoom, Schwartz or Profigliano” in random sequence and then drink a bucket of “Thug Juice” (aka brandy and Appletize). 

9) There are six sewage works per square mile in the fragrant locale of Pontypridd

10) Retired wrestler Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson occasionally busies himself in the kitchen. Can YOU smell what he’s cooking?

11) If horizontal rain allows for only ten metre visibility from the top of Gospel Pass, simply send your coordinates to the 103 desk in Hong Kong and he’ll tell you what the view’s like.

12) Residents of Usk have a machine in the gents that produces a rub-on “X-Treme” fragrance to increase your sex appeal.

It seems to have worked for adjacent bike obstacle and 690 metre peak, Lord Hereford’s Knob. 

13) Look up the word “inept” in any dictionary and you will find a picture of Mark Ellen trying to read a map. Were it not for The Weasel’s internet map facilities we wouldstill be stumbling around The Tan pub in Shirenewton watching locals drink Stella out of pudding bowls.

14) The proprietor of the cycle shop in Merthyr Tydfil was unimpressed that the 68.6 had taken three hours to tread the unchallenging 20 miles from Morganstown. “But it’s toooootally flat! I don’t wish to pour scorn on your poo-er efforts but you’ll have to get a wriggle on to get to Hay by nightfall” etc.

15) Brecon has a jazz festival with a difference. It doesn’t have any jazz. 

16) You can get fish, chips, peas and cup of tea in Caaaarrrdiff “for the extoooortionate price of two pounds ninety-nine”. 

“Zoom, Schwartz, Clam Linguini!” - your fellow gonfleur, MBx

Yep

Eating healthily

Train man

Aberfan

Ironmen

Downhill action

yep

showing off

Another lovely day

Stile and style

103 hoping to get work in Leg advertising

Most pointless towel ever

End in sight

How to get across the river

Pumped

Tides out

Pukka H Man

Iron horse meets horse

spot the spelling error

Roulers, The Cent-Trois (aka The 68.6) have returned from Brittany where they and their steeds gave the troublesome hill-climbs a good kicking. They laughed at the rain (though the rain laughed back on occasions, and slightly louder). They gave deux digits to the brutal headwinds and declared the thick sea mists to be “picturesque”. They also saw many acres of exquisite countryside teeming with wildlife and endlessly cheery locals. But they learnt some “hard life-lessons” along le route. For the sake of research - and so they can be included in the valuable archive these brave men are compiling to assist and advise future two-wheeled adventures – some are recorded here:-

Never drink two pints of fruity bitter, two pints of Murphys and two large jus du thugge washed down with chilli-flavoured crisps and a quart of malt whisky, and expect to be skipping up les collines dans le matin. Only a fool would do this.

This amount, even sans thug juice, can cause normally abstemious fellows to discover themselves stumbling about on a deck at night blindly directing traffic while trying to find the iPhone that’s in their pocket. They will be firmly informed by crew members they are “drunk”.

Brittany Ferries have a metal-shield “limiter” that ensures they never exceed two knots and, for long periods, actually travel backwards. They can be overtaken by small children on lilos. They also run an enticing early morning food-is-fun event for fancy-dress prosti-tots dressed as La Spears billed at “Breakfast At Brittany’s”.

Do not attempt to think of “funny names” for the pop duo in the ship’s cabaret lounge – Confetti, Blue Orchid, Oyster Saloon, the Glen Ponder Experience etc – as they will not, in reality, have a “funny name”. They will be called Family Affair. He will look like Paul Simon in a polypropylene weave. She will look like the on-the-game elder sister of Cheryl Baker out of Bucks Fizz. They will sing their toe-tappin’ version of Cee-Lo Green’s “Fuck You” to an audience of wobbling infants waving balloons that have been twisted into the shape of a giraffe while their tattooed parents bugle large glasses of The Cocktail Of The Day (cheerily named “Orgasm”).

No funny names for the illusion act, ether. They are not called Scatology or Black Magicke. They will, however, graciously mingle with their public and attend mid-afternoon movie screenings – though fail to react when the people behind them keep suggesting the film is “pure magic” or “all smoke and mirrors”. Disappointingly the girl half of this floor-filling duo bears no scars on her neck that indicate nerve-fraying knife routines gone wrong.

The mixed grill served in Portsmouth pubs tips the scales at 2 cwt and contains over nine different species of animal, three of which have been genetically engineered.

Rice puddings in St Malo weigh even more.

Never get a wasp trapped in your bike helmet.

The worst experience known to le cylist, according to NB, is “a large insect flying into your mouth when you are chewing gum”. Desol-ay, fo’ shizzle!

 Never leave your wife’s £400 camera on a cross-channel ferry.

The remnants of the 68.6 take sanctuary in the middle of a roundabout, waiting for news of le camera perdu

Never ask dubious Sky TV anchor Richard Keys if he is tired of the bone-shaker surface of sections of Le Route Verte and would prefer “a bit of tarmacing”.

 Nick Cornwall’s facial expression is identical when presented with any of the following options – 1) 17 coachloads of Japanese tourists pouring into Le Mont St Michel to buy “I HEART Jesus” ashtrays, 2) a sentence that ends with the words “it’s just SO Alan Partridge”, or 3) a starter on a foot-square white plate that has been “autographed” with the restaurant’s name in jus de beuf.

 The French have an expression they use to describe their cross-channel cousins: “so British”. This is fond when referring the low-stress charm-filled rose-covered coastal cottages of Jersey in holiday brochures. Less fond when four rambunctious rouleurs rock into your restaurant asking how large the portions are and whether there’s chips with everything.

 Steak should always be served with a thick layer of pate de fois gras inside it.

 Alan “Al” Qaeda is not the leader of the well-known Sunni Islamist terrorist network.

 If an octogenarian barmaid tells you the Blue Train bar in Foubieres will ‘ave “boucoup de dance” of a Saturday night, don’t believe her. Unless “beacoup de dance” means three old blokes playing darts.

 Never drive a cab with one hand in pouring rain through an industrial estate in St Malo while running a taxi service by phone and watching movies on a little TV screen. 

 Never throw a post-business-conference party on the same hotel floor as Nick Cornwall.

 Never ride past French women of any age if called Michael Brett and the arse of your shorts has completely ripped. Levels of excitement can be unmanageable.

 Only book 103 “buddy prefects” into hotels under their real names as it will confuse the receptionist. And the person trying to find their room number. It took nearly half an hour to locate “Monsieur Gonflage Wiseman”. Instead I was offered “Monsieur Tee-Double-You-Emm Garrood”.

 The 103 wake up at 7am. France wakes up at lunchtime. 

51.5 Plus a bit

10 APril 2012 1453:09 BST

Dear  both

7-10 June 2012

I hope you were serious  about these dates because  l've only gone and booked them! Details as follows:

Way of the Roses Tour

Accommodation

Thursday 7 June

Berkeley Guesthouse, 39 Marine Road West, Morecambe LA3 1BZ

Seafront guesthouse with secure storage for bikes

Panoramic view of Morecambe Bay

'There are strangers at the Berkeley, just friends who haven't yet

Friday  8 June

Bewerley Hall Farm, Pateley Bridge, Harrogate, West Yorkshire HG3 5.lA

Listed stone farmhouse on a working farm close the River Nidd

Beautiful open countryside, private brown trout and grayling fishing

Saturday 9 June

The Fleece lnn, Bishop Wilton, North Yorkshire YO42 1RU

Yes, a pub! Open fires, cask ales' home cooked food, quaint.

Not a bunkhouse or caravan to be had, not even for ready money. But plenty of variety! They are all £3O a night which makes a total of £9O/person. No rush to pay as I have paid deposits only.

Gonflage

,,A FACE YOU'D NEVER GET SICK OF SLAPPING''

1 message

 Mark Ellen <mark@wordmagazine.co.uk> Sun,  Jun 10,2012 at 9:58 PM

To: Nick Cornwall <nickcornwall@gmail.com>, Nick Wiseman <n.neighem@btinternet.com>

Cher the 68.6, what a  tenific trip! We all learnt a lot. Here's some of the things I’ve leamt at any rate:-

- Mention "John Eric Bartholomew from Morecambe" and you'll get  a lot of points in comic circles. See also: "Ernest Wiseman".

- Mrs Simpson pinched our king - and had a glad eye for  a Dark & Stormy.

- "Three wood"  triple distilled whiskies - eg Auchentoshan - give you a manic burst of energy before a big hill climb followed by a spot of fatigue and  wheel wobble.

- Never get the  "silver Service" at Fudges Cycles in Chiswick High Road.

-  A nine stone dog roams the Morecambe Bay area answering to the name of '"Thorn".

- John Denver is alive and well and playing the Hornby Jazz Festival.

- Nick Cornwall's idea of "elevenses" is  a heart-attack flapjack followed by a pork pie.

- lf you pay over 11 quid for a pie in Yorkshire it will anive on a plank of wood sitting on a piece of slate. Warning: may contain “Jus".

- Some people have faces you never get sick of slapping.

- You can tell if the Wiseman brothers have been staying in your B&B. In their bedroom there'll be an empty Scotch bottle.

- Don't go anywhere near The Fleece in Bishop Wilton if your name is either Mike  Allen, Keith  Allen, Lily Allen, Dave Allen,  Alan Davies, Alan Hansen,  Alan Partridge  or Flanagan & Allen.

- Travelling people drink large numbers of mojitos in art deco hotels and then chuck their wives down the stairs.

 - Upper-class people have a couple of glasses of house white on a moving train and then gouge each others eyes out with ice tongs. Giving them plastic instead of glass bottles may save lives.

- There's  a Polo Tower but, weirdly, not a Rolo Tower. Or a Spangles State Building.

 - Katie Price's boss had to duck out of the Land's End to John O'Groats charity walk on account  of "chafing".

- Richard Wiseman's classic story about having a pee in a Parisian restaurant when he couldn't find the light switch must be retold at  all 103 conventions.

- Two pints of Goose Eye and it's hard to get back on a bike.

- Nick  Wseman enjoys his nightcaps wearing only one sock.

 - Lots of Yorkshire Villages have amusing names -  eg Kirkby Overblow, Kirkby Under Vale, Follifoot.

Grewelthorpe, Sicklinghall and Wetwang.

- Mention the word "wetwang" to a a massively pissed pig farmer come seed  drill vendor in the Bishop Milton area and it has the same effect as a marriage  proposal from David Attenborough, Kenneth Kendall, Michael Miles, Hughie Green, John Noakes, The Woodentops, or pretty much anybody who's ever been on the telly.

- Never tuck your trousers into your  "waterproof' socks.

- People near Ripon tend to accidentally discover folk festivals and then outstay their welcome by  six pints.

- ln Yorkshire you're not local unless you've had three generations in the graveyard.

- Hikers are interesting.  Bikers? “Also interesting".

- Yorkshire has shops  with names like 'All That's Girly And Glitz".

- Mittington Pastures (and Millington Wood) are up there will the best things  the 103 have ever seen, as was Fountains Abbey - and tons more actually,

 - lf you want to get rid of Nick Comwall, start talking about the dissolution of the monasteries.

 - lf you have a choice between packing spare brake pads or hair  conditioner go for hair conditioner.

- Shrimps in Morecambe Bay quiver in their shells when  the 103 are in the area-

- "The great thing about rain - no bugs!" - thus spake seer, sage and prophet Nick Wiseman, 2012.

- "We are dry because we drink beer!"

 A brilliant time, many thanks all - esp Nick W - Mx

MARK ELLEN, Editor

THEWORD O2A7"A78.8/;O4

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Word 112 is out now and includes the resurrection of The Stone Roses, the secret world of session

i players, the magic of record labels, the art of air guitar, the hair-of Tim Burgess, John Lennon's

Beachwear,  a letter from Pete Townshend, Larry Charles, Slash, best and worst British eccentrics, and

Richard Harris and Levon Helm remembered.

The latest Word podcasts at:-

The Word are media partners at  the Latitude Festival - Southwold,  July 12-15.

Click here for a brief history of THE WORD magazine...

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OVERVIEW:

PLAN A:

Horseologists, after consultations with Joe I have purchased the following tickets for four people (Joe, Mark, Nick, Finn):

Thursday 9 August

London Euston-Penrith 12.30 departure, arrive 15.30

£68

Sunday 12 August

Berwick-London Kings Cross 15.11 departure, arrive 18.56

£60

Total cost £128.00

(Went up by £11 overnight Joe!)

Because these benighted railway companies will allow a maximum of 4 bikes on any train, Richard and I will be travelling separately.

For those so minded my bank details are

HSBC Bank, High St Lewes

Sort code 40-28-15

A/c no. 51171208

But a traditional gregory will be equally acceptable.

51 days people!

Nick W

MILEAGE:

RIDERS:

Things learnt on a cycle trip from Prestwick to Berwick-On-Tweed:-

Never go anywhere from Prestwick. It’s uphill all the way, uphill all the way back.

They even supply stones to make your own hill:

Some Northumberland sausages can be “underpowered”.

Give Nick Cornwall three pints o’ Magic and a large Talisker and he will be visible from the Curiosity Mars Rover.  

Where the rest of the 103 prefer lightly-steamed locally-sourced fresh vegetables, Joe Garrood believes all restaurants should “go Costa”. This means you dress up a substantial Scottish lass as a Catalonian brothel keeper, give her a fake Spanish husband and stuff anything that moves with cheese and chorizo. Argue with her, my friend, and you’ll get a slice of her “bullfighting beef”.

There’s two types of hill on the Pennine Way. There’s a “hill”. And there’s “get over it”.

Never drink John Smiths, drink MOOR beer (geddit?)!

 Don’t carry a cup of take-away tea by the lid in Bellingham – “or else all yell be carryin’ is a lid”.

Teenage girls from Prestwick tend to have six pints o’ heavy on a Thursday night, followed by a technicolour yawn and then chips for pud.

On entering Prestwick dive bars, cycling superheroes will be offered “a pint of milk” and then sexually assaulted by birds with tattoos.

Everyone in Northumbria used to cycle – powered only by a diet of deep-fried mushrooms and Oxo cubes.

Swimming in the sinister dark-orange waters of Kielder Water is a challenge, not least because you can snag your toe on a church spire.

Half man, half anti-freeze

Finn Cornwall has more than one sunglasses strap.

While others are quacking on in tea-shops, The Wiseman Bros’ Architectural Appreciation Society are discovering mass graveyards of Pictish warriors.

“Print-media cartography” is history. Seven cyclists once travelled all the way from Prestwick to the Scottish borrrrder piloted only a blurred photo of a map on an iPhone.

Flat earth society: Dutch girls on tandems think the Cheviots are just like Holland.

Eat four hundredweight of “sizzling chicken” and nine out of ten doctors say it remains undigested for over a year.

51.5 Walney to Wear ‘Giddy’ Tour 2013 (180 miles)

 Tuesday 2 May

London Euston depart             10.30

Barrow in Furness arrive          14.36

Cost/person                                £44.50

 Sunday 5 May

Durham depart                        16.38

Kings Cross arrive                   20.19

Cost/person                             £38.00

 Total travel cost/person £82.50

 We have 3 reserved bike spaces on the Euston-Preston and Durham-Kings Cross legs. No reservations on shortish Preston-Barrow leg

Accommodation

Thursday 2 May

The White Hart, Bouth

01229 861229

Family room, 2 twins and 1 double

Total cost £80 (£26.66/person)

NW paid by credit card in full

 Friday 3 May

Scar Side Farm, Orton

07931277115

Double, twin rooms, shared bathroom

Total cost £99, £33/person

Not yet paid for, NW to sort out.

Saturday 4 May

Whashton Springs Farm

Low Whashton

01748 822884

Family Room, 2 twins 1 double

Total cost £114 (£38/person)

NW paid by cheque in full

Supper on Saturday evening at The Shoulder of Mutton, Kirby Hill (a mile up the road) at 7.15

THE ROAD FROM BURNESS & FARROW PIER TO DURHAM: A ONE-ACT PLAY WOT I WROTE

(*Spooky Deliverance-style banjo noises off*): *Rinka-dinka-dinka-rinka… *

A chill wind fills a remote rural landscape. Moles are nailed to gateposts. Crows too.

*Rinka-dinka-dinka-rinka.*

Calves “The Captain” (aka Commander Cody) Wiseman appears munching a cucumber prior to a double-chevron ascent. He surveys the panorama and mops his noble brow, an electronic triangle pulsing at his back. A bottle of Sol De Mayo is gaffa-taped to his bike frame and a small barrel of Jennings. He waves an iPhone at the scene before him, booting up his new-fangled “Find A Problem With This” app, but fails to get a reading.

*Rinka-dinka-dinka-rinka.*

Flash of high-visibility orange jacket. Nick “The Cycle Bear” Cornwall hoves into a view, narrowly missing a giant toad followed by a three-foot Yorkshire pudding. His water bottle is one-part anabolic steroids, one-part Auchentoshan (£5 for three doubles). Poorly-spelled (spelt?) objects parade across his path – dog’s, cow’s, hare’s, ornimental stufed otter’s, brasing steak etc. He wrinkles his nose and shudders.

(*Sounds of bare-knuckle acoustic balladry off, the work of Tan Hill fusion group Neutered Rooster*).

Mark “Onion Rings” Ellen comes panting round the corner, stops and leans heavily on his handlebar failing to disguise his manifest lack of fitness. Forlorn herds of nervous venison tear across the fields pursued by chefs sharpening knives and three girls in miniskirts carrying an inflatable phallus. A terrifying woman called Tony knocks a rival pub owner out cold and hands Ellen a smoked haddock crepe and a selection on “non-foods” including meat-free bacon fries and a huge portion of battered vegetables.

Captain Calves (in passable Scouse accent): “Where are we going to, fellas?”

Cornwall & Ellen: “To the toppermost of the pubbermost!”

Tony (coldy): “You can’t get insurance for that.”

[FIN]

Aliquam hendrerit risus in metus luctus, id posuere turpis dapibus. Nunc magna elit, vehicula at odio et, sodales semper ante. Cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. Integer tempor urna ut nisl eleifend mattis. Aliquam quis egestas eros. Ut ac leo id ipsum vulputate fermentum eget eu nibh. Fusce efficitur cursus iaculis. Aenean tristique egestas ex, at dignissim sapien pellentesque eget. Nullam placerat, urna et consequat tempor, velit leo porttitor urna, vitae vulputate arcu massa eu erat.

Dorset 2013

Thanks for a magnificent ride, the 58.5. ridiculous amounts of fun as ever. And like all 103 outings there were learning curves - challenges if you like, opportunities, as steep as the kind of hill you find outside a Beaminster cake shop. 

I’ve made a note of some of them to assist this noble cycle team’s collective wisdom:-

1) The 103 can sail up a one-in-five incline even when carrying a wet tent apiece and panniers full of water-logged clothing. When they tackle a one-in-four, however, their front wheels peel off the tarmac and they fall backwards into a clump of nettles with a bike on top of them. 

2) It’s officially a steep hill when Calves hears the siren of a speeding fire engine roaring up the road behind him and prays its “a mobile cardiac resuscitation unit”.

3) If a 103 member uses the word “hypothermia”, order a shot of rum with a each coffee. It works. 

4) Why start in Dorchester and then go back to Dorchester? Some locals will think you’re insane. You might as well just stay in Dorchester. 

5) Best not to tell a pirate-bandana-sporting Dorset publican that his Caribbean-flavoured hot and spicy bouillabaisse “tastes like battery acid”. Or remind him that his restaurant is half-empty on a Saturday night (due to deaths by battery acid). 

6) Some vegetarian options in Dorset contain “surprise ingredients”. Those ingredients are …chicken! Surprised? Iam, actually!

7) Londoners patronising restaurants are “arrogant”, stick their legs out and “deliberately try and trip up waitresses”. 

8) A bottle of Languedoc is not called a bottle of Languedoc at the Shave Cross Inn. It’s “a bottle of 213”, alright?

9) The definition of a “pop tent” is a tent that will sleep one person who is three feet long. Anything bigger is a tenner a night and subject to compulsory clothes-drying charge, peg tax and guy rope levy. Refuse to pay and you’ll be sentenced to three solid days of a goose-filled “nature walk”. 

10) Don’t drive a Mercedes van the wrong way round a roundabout, taking the third exit and continuing cheerfully on the right-hand side of the road - and then ask “did I just drive the wrong way round a roundabout?”. This will give 103 old-timers a heart attack. 

11) Drink more 4Ms and Tom Brown. They’re excellent. And Jack Ale. Top notes of choir loft and warm straw, etc.  

12) The smell of roadkill badger is more even potent than the Sex Panther cologne favoured by Paul Rudd in Anchorman.

13) Always play “Match The Person To The Paper” at a Londis on a Sunday morning. 
 

14) Dorset has its own microclimate. When the rest of the country is enjoying a heatwave, it has a monsoon with a 60 per cent chance of “small hail”. 

Colossal fun and many thanks for all the organising and route-mapping et. Much appreciated. Will let you know re the sums later but work beckons sadly.

Upwards! MBx

OVERVIEW:

Start and finish in Exeter

MILEAGE:

118 miles

RIDERS:

Mark, Nick, Nick

51.5 Tour du Moor April 2014

Travel

Monday 28 April

Paddington                           07.06

Arr. Exeter                             09.30

Wednesday 30 April

Exeter                                     19.06

Arr. Paddington                    21.21

Cost/ person                         £48.30 return. 3 bicycle spaces booked each way.

Accommodation

Monday 28 April

Bunk house at The Drewe Arms, Drewesteignton

www.thedrewearmsinn.co.uk   01647 281409

 Cost/person B&B                         £21.70

 Supper in The Drewe Arms

Tuesday 29 April

Callisham Farm B&B, Meavy

Family room with three beds

Esmewww.callisham.co.uk01822 853901

Cost/person B&B                         £35.00

Supper at The Royal Oak, Meavy 

www.royaloakinn.co.uk

 Total cost/person travel plus B&B         £105.00

Cycling distances (approximate)

Day 1            Exeter - Drewesteignton            20

Day 2            Drewesteignton - Meavy            43

Day 3            Meavy – Exeter                        55 miles

Total mileage                                    118 miles

51.5 OVER DARTMOOR, APRIL 2014

ASSORTED GOOD THINGS:-

Swallow, martins, skylarks, goldfinches, woodpeckers, Johnny Buzzard etc.

‘Glacial moraines and ‘erratics’.

The Drewe Arms Tuesday night Stitch And Bitch knitting circle – plus assorted hounds. Word of advice, though: don’t marry one of these outspoken women as the shortcomings of your sex life will be broadcast to most of South Devon. 

Cycling Senior Railcard holders complaining about the cost of living in French – ‘C’est trop. C’est pas possible!’ Adding ‘Tu voleur des directions, vous!’ while shaking an angry fist at the map. 

 Sign in greasy spoon of winking forties American waitress saying ‘OK Toots, what’ll it be?’

 Climax vegetation.

 ‘Chirpsing’ birds. 

The Devon Breakfast slice of ham – over an inch thick. Ditto granary toast beneath beans. 

Homity Pie and Eccles Cakes on the menu.

Posters saying: ‘It’s better to be over the hill than under it.’

Raspberry, oatmeal and yoghurt slices – only available to men who look like pensionable TV actors of Scots/Italian origin.

Places called Hoo Meavy. Or Moo Heavy. 

Scampi fries: you’ve got to love them.

Putting away a Ploughman’s on the spot where Sir Walter Raleigh was arrested. 

Incoming news re Next Goal Wins on Radio 4. 

The delightful Esme with her pioneering ‘extra egg’ offer. 

Neolithic burial grounds that collapsed in 1862 and were repaired by enthusiastic Devon Victorian farmers.

Mother-daughter outfitters called ‘The Mare & Foal Sanctuary’.

Devon Ales (eg Proper Job, Legend).

The Granite Way, the Dartmoor Way, ‘towns with moor’. 

Locals with gigantic sideburns who look like Adge Cutler of the Wurzels.

James Boden & Sons store in Chagford - smells of the 1950s ie birdseed, gumboots, three-in-one, cribbage boards and Tomorite.

‘Trios’ of local sausages. 

Teenage parties full of screaming girls charging round Newton Abbot in pink fire engines. 

Double chevron hills. 

ASSORTED ‘CHALLENGES’:-

‘Triple chev’ hills. 

The couple in The Drewe Arms, Drewsteignton, who had a dog called Admiral Lord Nelson – aka Nellie – and split their bill after dinner. 

£3 tablets of ‘Menhancer’ available in Devon pubs toilet vending machines – though Nick C says they’re very effective.

The bridge at Drewsteignton which changes position after dark to confuse anyone who’s had three pints of Leg-End and a barrel of Laphroaig. 

Pubs that close all-day Monday. 

‘Devon Tapas’. Eeeeew!

Bar staff who can’t take their eyes off the snooker.

The haunted bunk-barn o’ Drewsteignton – were it’s rumoured that, on the stroke of midnight, young lady ramblers see an apparition of a man in his underpants leaping from a darkened toilet mumbling ‘oh *here’s* the light switch. At ease, nothing to see!’. 

OVERVIEW

RIDERS

NW, ME, RW, NC

MILEAGE

83 ish miles

Fantastic trip as ever. A few things I noted down that can only happen when this collection of devilishly handsome super-athletes convene upon their noble steeds - 'The Hoarse Foremen Of The Apocalypse'

WHEN THE 103 ARRIVE IN THE COTSWOLDS ...

- they can commandeer their own train and get it announced on the tannoy

- fish have their fins cut off

- a sole thinks it's a plaice

- a banana thinks it's a carrot

- scallops shrink in size, as do chorizo sausages

- trips are made to Slappertown' (just past Totty In The Water, Crumpet Abdale, Upper Birdington and Ho' In The Wold

- senior citizens don pink corduroy trousers

- poor people are banished to somewhere not made of Jurassic stone and fish and chips costs seventeen quid

- the countryside gets 'lumpier'

- vast beef and suet puddings appear on pub menus

- men dream about Calves Wiseman locked out of Malian hotel room in his underpants

- the 103 stallions gossip about their masters will listening to their conversation from the other side of a wall

- doddery old gaffers tell the 103 the best way to the Horse & Groom is to cycle up to the gates of a distant country house, by all means have a look about, and then cycle back to where you started

- Sir Oswald Oxford-Blue welcomes them to his palatial estate

- none of the local food tastes 'like battery acid'

- no faux-pirate follows them to a campsite with a meat cleaver

- girls dresses as bridesmaids throwing confetti blub profusely whenever Speech Bear™ hoves into view (fair enough, they're only human)

- new phrases are pressed into service - 'Do we get horseradish with that?', 'Not my circus, not my monkeys' etc

- men sporting 'Rainlegs' drive more girls crazy: fact

- anyone over 59 is comatosed within seconds just by looking at a bottle of Auchentoshan

- 'The Hole In The Ground' by Bernard Cribbins becomes the new national anthem

- Googlemaps invent a new app which leads stout yeomen of the cycle a merry dance up hill and down dale in an obstacle course full of boulders, brambles and tennis courts and then presents them with the ultimate challenge: 2 miles in 5 miles: effortlessly they pass the test

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Mark Ellen <mark@markellen.com>
Date: 16 August 2014 at 15:06
Subject: NOT A COMPLAINT, A COMPLIMENT!
To: fgwfeedback@firstgroup.com

Hello First Great Western,

Could you pass on my thanks to Carole Helyer, the train manager on the Paddington to Swindon service that left at around 0840 on Thursday August 14? 

There had been a mass disruption at Paddington after a death on the line in Slough - all trains cancelled - and Carole got myself and my three friends and our bikes (we were on a cycle tour) onto her train and then rang the Swindon-Stroud 0938 service and asked them if they'd wait a few minutes to allow us to board it as we were so late. Which they did, as did various other grateful passengers. We couldn't have been more appreciative. 

Another staff member said Carole was usually part of the Bristol division I think. Could you please pass this message onto her with all our thanks? - all best, MARK ELLEN

Overview

Riders

ME, NW, NC

Mileage

110 ish

My cher The 51.5. What unbelievable fun. A few memories before I forget them, eg the moment when ...

- the 51.5 trod past a scarecrow festival in Meltham and the Bear said 'we'd better not slow down or they'll mark us'.

- in Barnoldswick - aka Best British High Street 2014 - where the wind was so 'fresh' the tulips went horizontal. Inside: raspberry eccles cakes and bricks of heart-stopping Mars Rice Krispie clogging the arteries of a (doomed) Labour door-stepper. And Calves coming up with a new name for Ugly Rumours - the Rolling Tones.

- in Slaithwaite, it was 20 minutes wait to order a sandwich and 20 minutes for them to make it, and the chip shop pulling down its shutters at ten to two growling 'we're closed'. And the Silent Woman pub - which couldn't have been more silent as, like the rest of Bank Holiday Yorkshire, it was closed too.

- it was Groundhog Day outside Meltham, where the 51.5 spent spent 20 minutes rattling down a boulder-filled valley to get back to where they started.

- Mama Weirdigan announced 'no shoes, no meat, make your own beds, wash up and never visit Sainsburys': that's so Hebden Bridge

- 'slabs' of pork belly arrived at the White Lion, Hebden Bridge, with crackling and deep-fried spheres of black pudding on sticks: nectar-like dinner of cycle champions.

- the Sun Inn staff were disappointingly friendly.

- the poster-changer approached the steamed-up Dent Station waiting-room wondering if he'd stumbled on a semi-clad homosexual dogg-spot.

- I rang up mournfully in some remote village thinking I was lost with no map and no idea where I was going: man up, you nurse!

- it was Kendal United 1 - Dent FC 0

- the 17 year-old Lavender controlled the pie-munching Dent yoof.

- there was rain and wet rain.

- Up hill and down dale? Why not down hill and up dale? Just sayin'!

- Karen - shining knightess on white charger - gunned her Mountain Bike Rescue bus (aka Bosh & Becks) up the Whernside Valley saying 'are we having fun yet?'

- we asked the way on the canal bank to be told 'there are two ways to get to Colne and you've chosen the wrong one'

- the girl in the Kirkby Stephen rent-a-station wondered why 'chaps are gay' while peering desperately from a top window at the disappearing cycle troupe hoping for a glimpse of a Bear buttock.

Classic fun. Can we please do it at least once a year? Thanks once again, CC, for all the organisation, massively appreciated as per - Mx

OVERVIEW:

MILEAGE: 90 miles

RIDERS

Finn, Mark, Mike, Richard, Nick C, Nick W

Liverpool Street to Norwich for a bargain £12.40, joined by our Kiwi sometime member Richard, standing in for the absent Weasel. Speeding through the streets of medieval Norwich we soon joined Sustrans NCR 1 - the Marriotts Way - and breezed along the former railway line through Reepham, Foulsham and Great Ryburgh. Passable lunch and acceptable beer at a Wetherspoons, probably in Fakenham.

Then on to Burnham Market on the achingly modish North Norfolk coast, pastel perky in the late afternoon sun and looking more than a little pleased with itself. Our objective - The Hoste Arms – was the scene of a long-ago contretemps between Mrs Calves and a smug Aussie chef. It didn’t disappoint this time around, still the same Oxblood Red walls reflecting the rubicund cheeks of the well breached clientele, nicely setting off the terracotta chinos of the London posh boys, relaxing after a torrid week in the City. Definitely Islington sur Mer, but still a decent pint of Nelson’s Revenge in the evening sunshine. A short trundle to our bunkbarn at Burnham Deepdale, hot showers all round, then a sunset ride along the coastal footpath through the saltmarshes for supper at The Jolly Sailors, Brancaster Staithe. The keening of seabirds was interrupted by the trumpeting of a florid stockbroker in terracotta chinos “Git orf my beach!”

The Jolly Sailors had much to commend it, not least the lack of Oxblood Red walls. Clearly popular with families and holiday makers, the hearty food offer and aggressively affordable Woodforde’s Wherry soon had the 103 back to turbo banter mode. It seemed only fair to test the Jolly Sailors’ preposterous claim to have the largest choice of rums in North Norfolk. Now Mr Chris Blackwell may well make a remarkably good rum – oh yes – but having demolished a bottle of this outstanding Caribbean throat charmer it was disappointing to be told that there was no more to be had, not even for ready money.

Next morning a full English in Wells next the Sea in a caff overlooking the modest harbour, before setting off along the coast in bright sunshine along quiet roads and light traffic. Mid morning coffee and essential cake in Cley next the Sea, in a bosky garden beside an imposing windmill. Then some hard decisions. Midday approaching, 40 miles to ride and a train to be caught in Norwich at 5pm. Mikey, suffering the after effects of an old war wound, elected to do a solo dash cross country. The remainder decided that the next priority was lunch so set off with conviction along NCR 30 and then NCR 33 south to The Saracen’s Head, Wolterton, a most imposing pub in remote rural splendour beside a dilapidated estate of the same name. Hugely enjoyable al fresco lunch under an unforgiving Mediterranean sun and then the 20 mile sprint for the train, most of it along the route we had taken outbound. In the best 103 tradition, timing of the final leg had been calculated to the nano-second with no allowance for stragglers or punctures. The post lunch peloton headed south at high speed, with Cornwall pere et fils in the lead, leaving a trail of animal carcases and slack jawed local in their wake. The train was caught, of course – it always is. After two hours of post-prandial in the slightly clammy bosom of Abellio Great Eastern the 103 debouched at Liverpool Street Station and re-joined the real world.

RASTAFA-RUM? MAKE MINE A DOOOOOBLAY!

Norfolk, 2015: here’s just a few of the challenges The 103 faced on their “Issues Tree” in search of a solutions space:-

Q: There’s a sign in the Liverpool Street-Norfolk Express lavatory that reads “Do not flush the toilet while the train is in the station”. What’s written underneath it?

A: “Except in Diss!”

Q: Is a glass of iced orange juice before a pint of Wherry strictly speaking “a build”?

A: Yes, it is.

Q: So are a pair of pasties before a Mars Bar also “a build”?

A: No, that’s “laying a foundation”.

Q: What about when you chug down an ocean of “La Bouquet” house white at the Jolly Sailors in Brancaster Staithe and then float a “base case” of rum doooblays on the top?

A: Only a lunatic would do this.

Q: What’s the most fascinating aspect of Finnbar’s new cycling socks? Is it a) their length, b) their texture? c) the little red tab at the top?

A: None of the above.

Q: Have the phrases “leap on and ride her like a rodeo pony” and “she tore his johnny off with her teeth (which is usually a green light!)” ever been loudly uttered in a high-end family tea-room on the Norfolk Coast?

A: Yes they have. And very funny they were too.

Q: If two people order a main course each and then split the gastronomic options – eg the Cromer crab and the rack of ribs with coleslaw - are they a) “sharing the risk”, or b) “pissing about”?

A: You decide. 

Q: What was “shanked out of the stadium”? Was it a) Calves Wiseman’s reputation after being spotted in a Norfolk Wetherspoons (and worst of all, *enjoying himself*)?, b) a gasping Mark Ellen after riding 30 miles on cinder track in 17 minutes? or c) bunk barns in Burnham Deepdale that charge two pounds “towel rental”?

A: All three.

Q: Are locally-brewed Wherry, Jaipur and Once Bittern ales “in scope” or “out of scope”?

A: Impossible to tell after only four pints of each. Requires further research.

Q: Or do you mean “PERI-scope”?

A: Shut it. 

Q: How can you sum up a picture of six “adult” males with Flying Saucers on their tongues in a disused Norfolk railway station in three words?

A: Men without women.

Q: That bloke at the Hoste Hotel, Burnham Market, didn’t want the 103 – the One-O-Frigging-Three!! - sharing his otherwise empty eight-seater table. Does that make him a) a wanker, b) a gherkin, c) an enormous cock?

A: He drinks at the Hoste Hotel. Nuff said.

Q: Who said “it’s like a concentrated Cuba Libra with more oomph” and what were they talking about?

A: Fuck knows but it’s written in my notebook.

Q: Who said “put a bicycle tyre in my mouth and call me a Maasai tribesman”?

A: The Bear. The man was on fire.

Q: Who said “it’s Christmas pudding in a glass”?

A: Calves - and he was spot-on as per - but if he’d tried that caper in the Wetherspoons we’d have been finding bits of him all down Marriott’s Way.

Q: What was the name of the boyband photographed in the ruined abbey? - a) R@stafa-R*m, b) The Off-Road Boys, c) No Sense Of Direction?

A: Sus-Tranz.

Q: Why is the phrase “Frankly my dear I don’t riverdance” funny?

A: This is funny because the comedian Steve Coogan – in the guise of his fictitious TV chat-show host Alan Partridge – says it in a Clark Gable accent thus recalling the iconic movie etc etc ...

Q: Has the “Issues Tree” had its HDR activated and retained the optimum value of its solutions-space resolution?

A: Not a hundred per cent sure. Anyone for another Bittern?

 51.5 Tour to Kennet& Avon Canal/North Wessex Downs 4-5 May 2016

 THE PLAN

 Wednesday 4 May

 Train Paddington – Hungerford

10.18 dep – 11.21 arrive                                                                              £22.50 return

Pick up tickets at Paddington Ref. CBB3XTJT

Cycle

NCR4 Hungerford-Great Bedwyn-Burbage - Fyfield- Pewsey- Devizes-

Semington beside/close to Kennet & Avon canal

39 Miles

Night at Bridge House B&B, Semington (on Kennet & Avon canal)             £29 p/p            

Jean Payne £30 deposit paid, £63 to pay            

BA14 6JT  01225 703281            

Supper at Somerset Arms Semington (Good Pub Guide)

Kitchen open 6-9pm 01380 870067

Thursday 5 May

Breakfast at Bridge House

Cycle

NCR403 to Melksham-Lacock-Chippenham-Calne-Compton Bassett-Avebury-Marlborough-Great Bedwin-Hungerford (41 miles)

TrainHungerford-Paddington

16.39 dep – 17.45 arrive

Reservation for 3 bikes

Total cost/person travel and accommodation                                                £49.50

 Can I just nail it to the mast that that was the most enjoyable - indeed therapeutic - 30 hours imaginable? An absolute delight from gun to tape. God we packed a lot in. Both my lads were at home (mayoral voting) when I steamed in with stories of snipe, pork belly, flights of locks, bonkers tattooed waiters, ukulele-strumming bargees, goose fat and oven gloves (actually I missed the last two) and they seemed mightily impressed.

Thank you so much for all your wonderful organisation, map reading and brake-tightening, enormously appreciated.

Have just lain in a hot bath with a cup of tea reliving some of those Eric Ravilious landscapes and wondering why I'd just unpacked a) the waterproof trousers I'd taken, and b) not one but two thermal vests.

OVERVIEW

Lakes & Dales Loop 1-5 August 2017

Nick C, Richard W, Nick W

Tuesday 1 August

Euston dep. 07.30

Penrith arr. 10.30

Night stop Cockermouth 37 miles

Wednesday 2 August

Night stop Broughton 47 miles

Thursday 3 August

Night stop Kirkby Lonsdale 48 miles

Friday 4 August

Night stop Orton 29 miles

Saturday 5 August

Ride to Penrith 35 miles

Penrith dep 13 03

Euston arr. 16.08

Total distance 196 miles

Rail fare £58.10 return

Nick C 07899 844266

Richard W 07501 013241

Nick W 07785 533786

The Lakes and Dales Loop is a

new cycle route that incorporates

a number of existing Cycle

Routes. The 196 mile circuit is entirely

on road and should be waymarked

throughout. These are

the towns and villages en route:

Day 1

Penrith 

Greystoke 

Mungrisdale 

Caldbeck

Bewaldeth 

Cockermouth 

Great AsbY

Day 2

Low Lawton 

Loweswater 

Lamplugh 

Kirkland 

Ennerdale Bridge 

Calder Bridge 

Gosforth

Santon Bridge

Eskdale Green

Ulpha

Broughton Mills

Broughton in Furness

Day 3

Subberthwaite Common

Lowick Bridge

Bouth

Newby Bridge

Cartmell

Grange-over-Sands

Levens

Deepthwaite

Hutton Roof

Kirkby Lonsdale

Day 4

Sedburgh

Roundthwaite

Orton

Day 5

Whygill Head

Great Asby

Appleby-in-Westmoreland

Dufton

Milburn

Blencarn

Skirwith

Langwathby

Penrith

TTFTTS

OVERVIEW:

Day 1: Train to Ashurst, then mostly on NCN2 through the New Forest to Christchurch. Along the beach, through Bournemouth to Sandbanks ferry. Through Studland to Swanage, where we stayed in Nikki’s Airbnb in Park Road. 43 miles

Day 2: Steam train to Corfe Castle followed by ride to Worth Matravers for lunch at Square and Compass. Bike and foot to Dancing Ledge; tour of schools in Langton Matravers; then dawdle through the flatlands of Poole harbour. Final mad sprint for the train resulting from duff advice from motorist. Train Wareham to Clapham Junction. 30 miles.

 MILEAGE:

73 miles

 RIDERS:

Mark, Nick, Nick

THINGS WE LEARNT WHEN UNDERTAKING THE JOYOUS CC-DEVISED 'THROUGH THE FOREST TO THE SEA' (May 3/4 2018)

You can leave a bag containing your key worldly possessions on a table in The Eagle and it'll still be there ten years later. 

Bear Bistro serves top-drawer Iranian fish gumbo.

When Senior Railcard-holders gather and consume wine, they end up watching Woodstock, complaining that "the brown acid is not specifically too good", and wishing they'd married Janis Joplin. 

Johnny Wild Horse is a magnificent sight.  

A sausage sandwich in Christchurch is a pig between two paving stones.

Had the hapless wrong-route-taking Mark E not found a phone signal he'd have spent the rest of his life in Brockenhurst. 

The 103 are buying a beach hut.

A "Calves' mile" is twenty-five per cent longer than an actual mile. See also a "Calves' hill" (one such double-chev monster appears between Corfe and Worth around Kingston). 

It's high-risk to open a conversation with an AirBnB hostess with a gag about "playing the pink oboe" but those in Dorset cackle with raucous mirth. 

Present Nick Cornwall with coarse pate and a 2cwt suet pudding at the Red Lion, Swanage and he'll be so full he can't even manage a sip of Fanny's Bramble. If you lift his eyelids, there's a sign saying 'FULL'. 

Said pub only admits hopeless snooker players and prize bores showing out-of-town women photos of their breathtakingly tedious trips to Paris. 
The number of OAP coastwatchers at Peveril Point possibly exceeds the quantity of paddleboarders they're observing. 

Is there a more pleasurable return on £1 than a) the Sandbanks Ferry, or b) upgrading to the Observation Car on the Swanage to Corfe Castle steam railway?

Famous Central Casting clients often start out pushing antique luggage dressed as Emmeline Pankhurst.

"The Signalman's Daughter" is an Incredible String Band song waiting to happen. 

Never ask the world's most sarcastic man if it's possible to have "one scone with cream and jam" in a scone, cream and jam emporium. 

The pasties at the Square & Compass should be Michelin-starred. 

"Oh look, an early bee-orchid!" is a phrase to gladden the heart.

Weeping haystackers hung bunting to celebrate CC's glorious return to Dancing Ledge after - yes, oh yes - 62 years. 

Never allow Mark Ellen to visit two - or even one - of his old schools. He will quack on for hours about water-based porridge, censored letters, and being thrashed by sadistic headmasters to within an inch of his life.

The Leeson school janitor is a card-carrying cock. 

Teenage twerps jauntily riding electric bikes in the Studland area must be hunted down by their non-machine-assisted counterparts and ritually humiliated. 

Never ask for directions from motorists when on the sus-trans from Studland to Wareham as they will add many miles to your journey. Hold yo' nerve and carry on!

Wareham "artisan pies" are effectively a sheep en croûte.
After 73 miles, "the resale value" of the Bear's arse is "not high".

0                  ASHURST STATION Lon A35 direction ‘Lyndhurst’.

2.3                  Lon Beaulieu Road B3056 past Council offices.

4.5                  Rat ‘Denny Wood Camp Site’.

                  Head S on track past WMs 296, 301, 324, 326

7.0                  track bears R after WM 326 at WM 327

                  Follow track past WM308 (X roads) to B3055

                  Ron B3055, then shortly L on Mill Lane

9.4                  BROCKENHURSTfor lunch? If not:

Lon Church Lane, cross A337 onto Tilebarn Lane

10.7                  Rat TJ on B3055

11.0         Go under railway bridge and soon after bear R on ‘Private Road’.

11.9         Go under second railway bridge and follow former railway track; go over road then under road.

                  At TJ goR then shortlyL

15.6         Continue under A35, then shortlyLand immediately Ronto track.  Lat modern white house.

                  Stay on tarmac (Holmsley Passage) and cross 2 fords. Take next R at WM173 onto track. At fork take L track then str. on past WM 172

17.8                  Pass Holmsley campsite, then turn Lat WM163

18.6                  Rat TJ onto Lyndhurst Road

20.0                  Cross Ringwood Road

21.3                  ThroughSOUTH BOCKHAMPTON

Over X road onto Hawthorne Road

22.5                  Under railway, then footbridge over A35

23.2                  Burton Road to roundabout CHRISTCHURCH

R(third exit) onto Purewell and then Bridge Street

Over River Avon (Priory on right) to roundabout then Land second Ronto Whitehall

continue onto St Margaret’s Ave

Lat TJ onto Sopers Lane and Willow Drive

24.6         At large roundabout, first exit Lonto B3059 over River Stour

At next large roundabout first Lonto Wick Lane, follow to end, then quick Land Ronto Harbour Road.

26.0                  Follow to TJ then quick Rand Lonto promenade.

34.18 to Sandbanks ferry, 40 to SWANAGE

Day 2

                        Swanage

0                  Train to Corfe Castle

2.0                  Kingston

4.0                  Worth Matravers: lunch at Square & Compasses

6.2                  Spyway Barn, walk to Dancing Ledge

9.3                  Swanage

12.7                  Studland

18.9                  Sharford Bridge

21.7                  Ridge

22.2                  B3075

22.9                  Wareham

23.4                  Wareham Station

Optional detour to Arne 3 miles round trip.

IN SUMMARY:

Through the Forest to the Sea 3, 4 May 2018

Nick C, Mark, Nick W

Wednesday 2 May

Foregather at 74 Bolingbroke Grove for team supper, tour briefing, early bed

Thursday 3 May

Train from Clapham Junction            09.46

Arrive Ashurst, New Forest                        11.40

Cycle through the New Forest to Christchurch along Sustrans NCR 236 and then NCR2. Lunch somewhere bosky en route.

Then along the sea front, still on NCR 2 to Bournemouth and the Sandbanks ferry (every 20 mins up to 23.00)

Short cycle ride along the coast to Swanage.

Overnight stay at Victorian townhouse Air B&B, Park Road, Swanage (contact Nikki 07747 838180). Breakfast included in total price of £75 (£25 per person).

Supper in Swanage, possibly at the CAMRA rated Red Bull

Friday 4 May

Steam train from Swanage to Corfe Castle, depart 10.00, arrive 10.30

And then we have options:

The pottering option – Short hilly ride to Kingston and then walk down to Dancing Ledge; back to Worth Matravers for lunch at The Square & Compasses. Back via Worth Matravers through Swanage to Studland, Arne Nature Reserve (Dartford Warblers?) and finally Wareham for tea and train home. About 20 miles

The riding option – From Corfe via NCR 2 along the valley of the River Frome (and therefore flat) through Moreton to Dorchester, then south on traffic free NCR 26 to Weymouth). About 30 miles

We can decide our ride preferences on Friday, depending on weather, fitness, mood etc.

We have tickets booked from Weymouth to CJ, departing17.20. The train is a stopper so we can join it at other points between Weymouth and Southampton (Wareham for example).

South Western train do not allow bike reservations, nor are bikes allowed onto trains before 9.30, hence our more relaxed departure time. There should be no probs getting bikes on trains they say, but we should be at the station in good time.

Costs:

Rail fares                        £19

Accommodation            £25

TOTAL                        £44

NW 25.4.18

OVERVIEW

RIDERS

Stevie

Finn

Joe

Nick

Nick

MILEAGE

RIDE PROFILE

The route

As the main peloton – JG, FC, NC – musters at Ascot, NW is paying his respects to a recently departed chum, in a substantial Catholic abbey somewhere deep in Sussex. A strong westerly breeze is blowing and the skies are leaden, appropriate for a funeral, less so for a 2-day ride. After a Clark Kent-style costume change and high-speed drive to Gatwick, NW is hunkered down on a Reading-bound train, surrounded by denimed nymphets heading for the Reading Festival.

The peloton meanwhile has escaped the time warp delights of Ascot and is pedalling west into the wilds of Swinley Forest, past Toffs Totter, Windsor Drive, Soggy Bottom and the Devil’s Highway. Despite the excellent forestry road through the mature pines, the 103 chooses the narrow cycle track – immediately adjacent – that perversely twists and turns over challenging roots and potholes. The next village, Crowthorne, is memorable principally for the extensive high perimeter security fencing topped with barbed wire, surrounding faceless Soviet-era blocks with minuscule windows. Welcome to Broadmoor. Famous residents – there have been many – include the Krays, the Yorkshire Ripper and the Stockwell Strangler. Among the also-rans is Graham Young, the Teacup Poisoner. Jailed in 1962 aged 15 after poisoning several family members, he was released in 1971. Rehabilitation was only a partial success, and he went on to poison seven more. This time they made it life.

Definitely time for a brew, at the Google-rated Loic’s (‘Delicatessen & Takeaway’):

“Have you got any food?”

“No”

“What about those sandwiches?” (clearly visible in the prominent display cabinet)

“Oh. Yes. We have sandwiches”

No upselling, no description of the taste delights in prospect for the mighty 103.

“If you want food, you are better off going up the road to the café on the High Street.”

Sound advice as it turns out.

Next up is Aldermaston, an absurdly pretty red brick and tile village, but better known for its nuclear weapons facility, whose grim grey industrial buildings, double barbed wire fence and surveillance cameras make Broadmoor look positively homely. Brief respite is found in the Hinds Head, a finely restored 17th century coaching inn and purveyor of fine sandwiches. Back on the road, the headwind is now challenging, and mizzle is in the air, obscuring the fine views over Greenham Common towards the Cruise missile store.

Meanwhile, NW has barged his panniered bike through dithering festival goers at Reading station and is on a train to Newbury, hoping to meet up with the peloton. Newbury is a quintessential southern market town of gracious coaching inns and resplendent Georgian town houses. These qualities are somewhat obscured by the sheeting rain and blustery cross wind as he pedals southward towards the agreed rendezvous at a bleak roundabout on the edge of town.

Finally reunited, the soggy foursome presses on for the final lap to Hungerford. Gradually the rain eases, suburban sprawl gives way to bucolic Berkshire countryside and the sun finally appears. Across Hungerford Common a flower decked hostelry, The Downgate, is pouting coquettishly at us and it seems churlish to refuse. We elbow our way to the tiny bar past rosy-cheeked locals, who eye us with amused disdain as we retreat to the front terrace, pints in hand. The beer – locally brewed by Arkells since 1843 – is fresh and delicious. Rainwear at last discarded, we luxuriate in the last rays of the afternoon sun.

Hungerford’s High Street is a delight, warm red brick Georgian houses, smart shops and a splendidly over the top Victorian clock tower in Italianate Byzantine style, but with fifty challenging miles behind us we are ready for hot showers and a substantial dinner. We jostle with post-work commuters to be first over the Kennet and Avon canal, dive off the busy road onto narrow country lanes and are soon panting up a character-forming climb over the Lambourne Downs. The exhilarating descent brings us to the front door of the Queen’s Arms, our berth for the night.

This is serious racehorse country. The OS map shows a countryside littered with gallops; there are stables everywhere. Our bedrooms - Bob’s Worth and Datsalrightgino – are named after winning nags. Photos of racehorses fill every wall; the bedside reading is exclusively equine. There is no respite in the stable-themed bar because two giant screens, mercifully silent, are showing non-stop horse racing from nameless tracks around the world. Nobody is watching. The beer, Timothy Taylors finest, is on draught but has somehow lost the will to live between the frozen barrel and ludicrous dimpled tankards associated with cavalry twills and Tootal cravats.

The menu is long and elaborate, the prices ambitious, suggesting that a skilled brigade under a passionate chef will be crafting a memorable meal for us. Sadly, our starters - either fridge cold or scaldingly hot - prepare us for the disappointments ahead. Our high faluting main courses offer a masterclass in microwave mediocrity and we take refuge in several bottles of undistinguished and overpriced claret. Even the top shelf – the last refuge of the scoundrel – is bereft of arcane palate ticklers and we settle for large glasses of pleasant but unremarkable malts.

The bar, full when we arrived, is now almost empty. A horsey couple, married but probably not to each other, are sharing a bottle of wine at the high table behind us. He is doing the talking, loudly; she looks as though she would prefer to be elsewhere - probably in bed, alone. A second bottle is ordered; this is not going to play out well. We leave them to it and head back to our stables.

Breakfast next morning doesn’t disappoint because expectations are low. Poached eggs are minuscule, overcooked and sit forlornly on wastelands of bland toast. Fruit salad is short on fruit, coffee lacking in conviction. But hey – the sun is shining and it’s a beautiful summer morning. Today’s plan is to ride south and west over the Vale of Pewsey to a leisurely lunch in East Chisenbury, before catching a train back to London. There are modest hills en route and we have four hours to cover an unchallenging 30 miles, leaving time for a coffee break mid-ride. Traffic is light as we pedal beside the crystal clear Lambourne, one of England’s 160 chalk rivers – there are only 220 in the world – before diving under the thunderous M4 and up into the Wiltshire hills. Ramsbury, a prosperous red brick and thatch village in the Kennet Valley provides the coffee stop at the surprisingly upmarket The Bell. The two Nicks recall that they have stopped here for lunch on a previous jaunt. The excellent coffee is served in ‘Hygge at The Bell’, a light and airy Skandi nook crafted from an outbuilding behind the pub. We emerge nourished and cleansed.

A short vicious climb takes us up to a plateau where the road is inexplicably wide, and straight. We are on the former runway of RAF Ramsbury, built at speed in 1942 as a transport airfield for the Royal Airforce and the United States Army Airforce. The hangers and concrete pads, once filled with Horsa gliders for the invasion of North Africa, have long gone, replaced by colourful fields of conservation planting. The going is easier now through the welcome shade of Savernake Forest and into the Vale of Pewsey, where frequent ’Tank Crossing’ signs remind us that we are in military country, not far from Salisbury Plain. From Pewsey we follow the River Avon along quiet lanes to our lunchtime oasis at the Red Lion, East Chisenbury. This is everything that last night’s pub was not. The welcome is friendly, the beer fresh and delicious, the menu full of promise. On such a gorgeous day we elect to eat in the sunny garden and a table is swiftly laid up for us. We choose from across the board and every selection is spot on: immaculate scallop ceviche; a perfect crab tart; lamb cooked à pointe; hake oven baked to perfection. We rescue a lonely bin-end Burgundy; a half bottle of Sauterne is the perfect partner for the peaches and cream profiterole. One of the party declares this ‘the best meal I have ever had’, a little over the top perhaps, but there is no dissent.

Rocket fuelled after lunch, the peloton retraces its steps to Pewsey railway station, to find that our train is delayed, leaving time for a valedictory (if mediocre) pint in the adjacent Crown Inn. Back on the platform, our bikes are poised as the delayed train pulls in; the conductor points out that only two of us have bike reservations, leaving the other two in limbo. A very English compromise is reached; he helps the anointed duo to load their bikes, turning a blind eye as the two renegades scamper up the train to smuggle their bikes aboard in distant carriage. We change trains at Reading – no bike reservations required for this leg – and settle back into our seats for the journey back to London.