Nothing heralds the arrival of spring like the appearance of bluebells, longer evenings, lighter mornings and the Eurovision Song Contest (as they used to call it when I were a lad). For cyclists, even those without a hardier constitution will by now have decided to, at last, ditch winter tights, packable jackets and long-fingered gloves; reckless optimists may even have removed mudguards or rolled out the Best Bike for some puddle-free miles.
For me, though, it is none of those things. Spring has not sprung round here until I've taken part in the Cycling Weekly South Downs Spring Sportive that runs in May from Plumpton racecourse. Nestling in the lee of the South Downs escarpment, and only a few miles from the Jubilee Plantation at Streat & Westmeston Cricket Club, it's a quintessentially English place to start a cycling event.
The venue was packed with happy cycle jockeys, all leading gleaming steeds of various pedigree to the start line. As ever with UK Cycling Events, signing in and domestic arrangements were second to none and we were soon corralled to the starting gate, champing at the bit, ready for the off - OK, I'll stop the horse racing metaphors now.
The reason I like this sportive more than most is its format and accessibility. It's barely 20 miles from home, though I've never been tempted to cycle there as I did for the Ashdown Sportive. The course itself is a Jekyll and Hyde affair, starting with a fairly flat and fast 50km of tiny and perfectly formed country roads, criss-crossing the main thoroughfares that radiate towards the coast south-east from London. Once past the first mini-climb just outside the venue, you simply head due east with nothing to impede your overall progress except a few give-ways.
Things start to get interesting once the South Downs begin to curve a little north and start to meet their northern siblings towards Uckfield. Gun Hill is nothing like its namesake in the Potteries, so prominently featured in the Stoke stage of the Tour of Britain, but after two hours of big-ring over-confidence its measly gradient hits you in the quads like a Hobbit with a baseball bat. It took me a while to remember that my chainset had a parking ring, as I kept pushing at the right shifter trying to stop the screaming coming from my muscles.
Thankfully, the first feed station at Heathfield isn't far away and the break gave me some time to work out what was ailing me, and to remember where it all went wrong last year. Everybody had the same hangdog look as they came in to stock up on high-carb cures for amnesia, and you could almost hear the sound of loose change as the collective penny dropped for all of us.
With Dr Jekyll safely put to bed, Mr Hyde serves up a succession of lumps not seen outside of school canteen custard. Every corner seems to serve up another helping, though many come with a complimentary descent to cleanse the palate in time for the next course. The road surface here also takes on an iniquitous demeanour, trading smooth and clear for pot-holed and debris-strewn.
Soon, though, the elixir wears off and the parcours resumes its mild-mannered persona. There's even another feed station, way-too-soon-but-for-the-epic-course-riders, in case you need to top up with fig rolls. After the cacophony of the middle 40km, the final five are like the ringing noise you get in your ears after an uncomfortably loud but enjoyable concert; almost a freewheel back to the start and the complimentary medal, snacks and sponsored magazine.
I'm sad it's over for another year - I genuinely love this ride and I forget how awesome the countryside in Sussex can be. Save me a spot for next year; I'll take another glug of the potion and celebrate the triumphant arrival of spring once more.
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