I'm beginning to feel, and am willing to bet there are many others who feel the same, that each time I decide to go out specially some kind of magical cloud seeding occurs, and that I'm destined never to ride a sportive again in the dry. Perhaps it's about time I evolved gills - from the pattern my mesh layer leaves on my skin, I'm pretty sure I'll be developing scales soon. Being born and bred in Crawley I already have webbed feet and smell a bit like an outfall pipe at low tide.
Today was to be my second attempt at the Surrey Legs of Steel event, Ful-On Tri Club's annual tour of lumps and bumps around the Surrey Hills. A fifty mile, pocket-sized sportive consisting of just over half a dozen climbs of varying brutality, starting and finishing atop Box Hill.
Coming as it does close to the end of the traditional sportive season, it's a pretty sure bet that someone will have optimistically chosen short sleeves or fingerless gloves but for once that wasn't me. Both me and Nick had been feverishly watching the weather forecast over the previous seven days, our phone apps showing a Monday-to-Friday line of happy Pac-Men chasing a single grey cloudy ghost on ride day, before resuming its yellow dotty progress into October. We were well prepared for maximum humidity but, in true delusional style, hoped that the forecast was wrong.
Right up until arriving at the start line for our briefing, the rain held off. This despite the Box being shrouded in close cloud. There was even a hint of blue, but this was soon replaced with blue language as the heavens opened and thunder accompanied us down the ZigZags and across the A24 towards Westhumble Station at the bottom of the first climb of the day, Ranmore Common. The descent reminded my of the last time I rode the LoS - Box at 8:30 on an autumn morning gives you nipples you could cut glass with.
On to climb one, then, the long grind that is Ranmore - a cheerless, bumpy ramp that only gets really interesting in the last 100 metres with a sharp hairpin and, today, the first sighting of my old friend Phil O'Connor, huddled under his umbrella snapping a sea of miserable faces for the SportivePhoto website.
The rain briefly relented for the speedy drop down to Dorking West and on to climb number two, Cordharbour Lane. Half way up I was passed (not an uncommon occurrence, to be fair) by a peloton of London Dynamos on their way to rendezvous for a hill climb, their fresh legs putting my wheezy trundling to shame. This trundling slowed to a snail's pace approaching the crest of the climb as I found I'd snagged a rear puncture somewhere on the way up. Thankfully, it was a quick job to swap a tube, and I saved a CO2 canister with a kind loan of a track pump at the Dynamo's finish line.
A rapid traverse of Leith Hill was followed by a cut across Holmbury St Mary to head towards Peaslake for the third climb of the morning, Holmbury Hill, and a welcome pit stop at feed station one. Flapjack, fig roll and millionaire's shortbread overdosing complete, it was then down to the course split where the less hardy went on to tackle White Down (not really a soft option) and I turned off towards Ewhurst and the descent of Pitch Hill.
Half way down Pitch, disaster struck as a pistol shot-like blowout curtailed my progress this time. Having quickly changed tubes, I was instantly rewarded by another deafening crack as the second tube burst immediately. Thinking this was just a poor-quality replacement (which I'd purchased in a hurry from a well known motor and cycle retail chain), I then inserted my third (and final) tube, only for that to go bang 10 metres later.
That was it for me - I limped to the side of the road, accompanied by my ride buddy, to wave off the kind offers of help from passing fellow sportivistas and to make the dreaded call to the race director for a broom wagon rescue. During the ensuing 45 minute wait, we were lucky enough to be offered a cup of tea and hearty banter with a local resident who'd seen my predicament and rightly guessed a warm beverage would lift my mood, as the rain increased its intensity.
Crammed into the back of a BMW X3 with two dismantled bikes and enough water-soaked clothing to fill a water butt, we gazed shamefully at the world outside - at the hills we'd missed (Bah to Barhatch, didn't give St Martha's 'alf a thought, bottoms to Coombe Bottom, Crocknorth & Box could both crock off), but more enviously at the improvement in the weather as the sky had eventually cried out.
I felt cheated, not least out of a medal as a DNF, but out of a dry ride - so much so that, if the Pac-Man in the sky plays ball, I will return to Box later this week to take on the route solo and finish the job.
To be continued...
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