Tuesday, 30 October 2018
Yasmin writes: I'd slept all right, but woke in a sweat. In my dream, my mother-in-law and a friend from secondary school (who I last saw in 1995) were visiting. But for some reason, instead of going to greet them, I stay in the kitchen chopping apples. I can hear polite small talk, and feel guilty about not welcoming my guests - until the microwave shouts at me in time with my alarm clock. "Apples! Apples! Apples!".
As usual, I leave home slightly later than planned. I glance down at the Garmin. 7.90am. Eek, later than I thought! What? Doh - it's 7.05am, and 7.90km from home. I arrive at the start of my first audax a sweaty nervous mess: the predicted 2 degree temperature and my bizarre dream had tricked me into wearing far too many clothes. I hang a base layer up on the hooks in the pavilion vaguely hoping that my 50p bargain, which now smells like a damp dog, from "Shop For Your Community" might not be there when I get back to Girton. It's good to see Nigel, Mike P and Glyn but otherwise I am nervous at the newness of the situation, and so many people I don't know. I feel very small.
It's good to be off. I love cycling with people, and it's a special pleasure to ride in such a large pack of experienced cyclists. The pack spreads and bunches at traffic lights; I look at the young men laughing and joking with their clubmates, and imagine my youngest boy being like them in another ten years, and the host of club jerseys. One guy is resplendent in Rapha pink; how funny, that pink should be so touted as a "girl's colour" but in cycling circles we just associate it with fantastically good and expensive kit.
Mike P pulls up. "That's a very girly pink drink you've got there, Yasmin!".
"It's just whatever was on the kitchen windowsill this morning!" I reply.
Mike P and Glyn speed off and I quickly drop back on the ramp over the A14, worried that I won't be able to keep this up all day.
Normally it takes me about an hour to warm up and sink into the rhythm of cycling, but I've ridden for two hours so far today and still haven't got that steady feeling. Then I see Alex, taking photos from the side of the road. Hooray! It is extraordinarily nice to see a friendly face, and cheers me up no end. The next morning, Alex shared the photo - Mike was right, my drink is very pink.
Yasmin with pink drink (Photo: Alex)
It doesn't take long to get into Newmarket. The market traders have set up their stalls and shoppers are out - Saturday has begun. Horses everywhere next, and then it's not long before we are in Moulton. The ford is as dry as a bone. I find a comfortable gear and winch steadily up the hill, watching riders ahead as they surge forward, lag back, surge forward again. It's nice to have been expecting this hill. I try to stick with riders, but just can't find anyone at my pace. That slight niggling doubt - will I manage this all day? - sets in again. The road winds round, and the sun shines. Bury is familiar territory, and I wonder about stopping - until I see the queues in Greggs. The loos at the longstay car park are a better choice for a pitstop, and I bring my bike in with me. A blast from the hand-drier gets the liner of my gloves the right way out, and I'm off again.
Racehorses crossing in Newmarket (Photo: Nigel)
Nick's route sheet suggestion of using the offroad path to Thurston was a good one. I'm still not quite in the zone, and stop in Elmswell for a rest and a good snack. I remember a couple of days' supply teaching in Elmswell about fifteen years ago - the head was so nice, all the staff so welcoming, but I wonder what happened to the child who kept trying to stroke my socks while I was reading a story at the end of the day. Whilst munching the first of the day's stroopwaffles (a Dutch delicacy: the last packet brought back from our summer tour), I have a better look at my rear mudguard which had sounded a bit odd. Ah, that would be why the going was tough - my saddle bag had made it slip and rub on the tyre. I tighten it up whilst eating a Pepperami and set off again. All self-doubt disappears for the rest of the day. Note to self: check mudguards before considering DNFing another time.
I catch up again with a rider with a bright pink bobble hat and long flowing blond hair. My husband Chris used to have hair just the same, and this inspires the mental musical soundtrack for the rest of the day - music which I studied and listened to in the late nineties. Brahms third symphony is up first: Chris and I met at university, but I'd just done Brahms 3 for my A-levels. Sadly, the mental recording isn't perfect: occasional distractions - oo, look at that buzzard - cause sections to be repeated rather more often than Brahms had intended. Oh well, the french horn solo is definitely lovely enough to listen to five times on the trot. I wallow in Rachmaninov's second piano concerto next.
The sun comes out, the sky is blue and the fields are beautiful. Over the A140 and on to Debenham, a busy bit of A1120 and then a final few miles of twisty roads before suddenly there's Framlingham. And signs for the Suffolk Coastal Cycle Route? I am a bit lost for a moment, then Nigel waves to me from inside a busy bakery. The bakery in Framlingham is nice enough; they have cake, a nice cup of tea, somewhere warm out of the wind, and a friendly Nigel who seems to be succeeding with his aim of enjoying the ride. Neither of us have seen Tom N. I decide an entire pot of tea will only result in more stops, and set off ten minutes after Nigel. About fifteen minutes later I see Tom heading into Framlingham - phew, not too far behind.
On the winding roads between the A1120 and Debenham I quickly discover a sunny spot with the most amazingly comfy mossy grass. This is a thing I love about long days on tour. The wider world is forgotten and there is great pleasure in simply being physically comfortable; a really tasty sandwich eaten when hungry, a sweet ice-cream when flagging, the pleasure of the sun on your back, or a nice cup of tea. Today I stretch out my legs, munch my sandwiches and enjoy listening to audaxers whizzing by.
(Photo: Alex)
The roads are quieter now; the faster club riders have probably downed their coffees in Maglia Rosso long ago, while others are spread out. The sun is still shining but the wind, which gently blew us to Framlingham, is now a worry - I know I'm rubbish in the wind usually. But not today! I pass the guy with long blond hair, and the internal jukebox ploughs through Radiohead albums of the late 90s. OK Computer gives me the giggles - there's a track with a line which sounds awfully like my maiden name - but is otherwise a bit depressing. REM albums and David Bowie next: I harness the needle-skipping thing and enjoy my favourite chord change in The Man Who Sold The World at least a dozen times before losing myself in JS Bach and Chopin.
Normally when riding solo, it's nature that I enjoy. Summer months bring lanes of screaming swifts; in autumn I bob along behind goldfinches. Winter disturbs sparrows in bare hedges. Early spring thermals bring out the buzzards who seem to track me rather than the other way around. Today there's not a lot around, so music is more of a preoccupation. I wish I'd sorted out headphones, so that I could enjoy a greater variety. And then suddenly it's Stowupland, and Stowmarket! Time for a celebratory sandwich and peanut bar. Chris texts to say that they're having a good day too - phew.
Not far to Maglia Rosso now. I've never been to the fabled cafe in Hawstead, and arrive just as Nigel leaves. He's heard that Tom got to the start a bit late. In the cafe, it's lovely to see Alex again - this time, stamping brevet cards and taking photos. They have millionaire's shortbread; a perfect combination of carbs, fat and sugar. Om nom nom. I wonder about getting another for later, but decide that my stash of fruit and nut bars which I've been chomping all day, plus an occasional stroopwaffle, are going well so should carry on with those (a decision my belly regretted the following day). It's nice to take my glasses off for a bit and listen to what Alex has been up to - standing outside at Great Thurlow for two hours sounds like an epic undertaking. He says there are about twenty riders behind me - not bad, I think. Soon my legs are twitching and it's time to turn on the lights and move on.
At Maglia Rosso (Photo: Alex)
The villages are familiar again - not too far from Long Melford, where my friends do Tudor re-enactment at Kentwell Hall. Onto the grim A143 past Highpoint Prison. There's a definite dampness in the air - I spy one audaxer togging up in a bus shelter - and I'm glad to see Cafe 33, knowing that it's not long until the turning and then familiar roads. Near Little Thurlow it becomes obvious that the wet air is actually rain, and is setting in for the night. I stop to don a waterproof - the temperature has dropped so it's useful anyway. I have a quick Pepperami and stroopwaffle whilst reading texts. The wind has dropped, so the weather isn't bothering me but it's obviously been worse in Cambridge - Chris and the children got cold in town, and Simon G has texted offering to collect me if the weather gets too horrible. I set off again, playing You've Got a Friend In Me from Toy Story for the next ten miles. Hmm, I'm sure that song should only have lasted three and a half minutes. I'm truly in the zone now, and my speed picks up.
The roads are quiet now. Through the drizzle, I can see an audax lamp just enough ahead to warn me of the twists and turns, and the slight rises and falls. This is just as well, as my front lamp appears a bit dim. Cripes! What should I do? Get Chris to meet me in Balsham with another front light? DNF at Balsham and go home? Call Simon? Then it comes to me - the lamp has several brightness settings. Dur. The road rises and falls, the rain falls and falls, and I decide to stop at Six Mile Bottom for a snack under the shelter of the Spar - before remembering that we're on the road straight into Fulbourn. So much for local knowledge. The noise of the A11 is remarkably cheering, and seeing the lights of Cambridge in the distant mist inspires some rousing choral anthems: Handel's famous Hallelujah chorus, then Zadok The Priest whilst looking out for a bus stop in Fulbourn. The first one I find is a mean affair, with a strip of metal to perch on rather than a bench - no doubt useful, if your bottom happens to be higher off the ground than mine. I down my last sandwich and a stroopwaffle, send Chris a quick text, then set off past the windmill for the final push through town.
I'm on my own until Cherry Hinton Road, where I catch up with some audaxers bearing ACME gilets. They're slightly perplexed by my habit of whistling through town, but I can thoroughly recommend it: it attracts people's attention in a positive way. Garmin suddenly loses the plot by Ken Steven's and starts beeping frantically: Off course! Recalculating! Calculating 15%! It doesn't matter now. Castle Hill is damp but easy. I power on up Huntingdon Road, pick up an audaxer with a broken Garmin and suddenly we've arrived! Yippee!
Nigel says he's only been there fifteen minutes, but Mike P and Glyn have come and gone. I am boiling and strip off as many layers as is seemly before, sadly, retrieving the 50p bargainous base layer. Ewa's soup and cake is as lovely as everyone said it would be, and I enjoy relaxing with Nigel, Nick, and a few others. Nigel says he found the return journey a bit tough, which surprises me - I really didn't find it that bad at all. I suppose I'd been boiling hot all day - so when the sun and temperature dropped, I was suddenly wearing the right clothes and didn't get cold. It's lovely sitting around, chatting - I feel so welcome. But I need to eat and drink up and tog up again - there's another ten miles home to Sawston.
On my way home, I realise that the children will probably be asleep by the time I get back, and that I'll have done over
150 miles or about 240km. Could I add a loop in to make it up to 250km? Easily. I give my toes a wiggle and find that they're floating in my boots, due to the water that's been dripping down my tights for the last four hours. Ah. Perhaps it's time to call it a night. I arrive home, dripping wet and triumphant, and Chris helps me in. We are so glad to see each other! Our youngest son, currently seven years old, bounces downstairs to see me. "Well done Mum! I heard you come in, and just had to come and see you!". Wisely, he waits while I peel off the soggiest layers and tell him excitedly about my day, before we have a big hug. His eyes light up at the thought of covering in a day what takes us the best part of a week on tour. Maybe he really will be one of those young men at the front one day.
Huge thanks to Nick, Ewa and Alex. Your hard work is greatly appreciated! Many thanks also to Chris, and many other club members, who have encouraged me to try my hand - or legs - at audaxing.
Yasmin
Yasmin, Nigel, Mike P, Glyn and Tom rode the Cambridge Autumnal 200 from Girton near Cambridge to Framlingham in Suffolk, and back again. It was organised by Nick W. Alex helped on the day; he rode the route check (in rather warmer weather) two weeks earlier.
Mike P and Glyn (Photo: Alex)
Nigel (Photo: Alex)