There's a certain scientific similarity between me and a bumblebee - biologically, we couldn't be further apart, but for the fact that neither of us, by any logical stretch of the imagination, were meant to fly. The bee, through the air and me, up hills. But fly it does, and I do my own version. OK, I admit that I don't exactly fly, but I get the job done. The only two things I insist on are: 1) I do it at my own pace and 2) I never, ever get off.
Encouragement to abandon rule 1) could potentially jeopardise rule 2). That's not to say I don't try. It must baffle and frustrate my cycling buddies, particularly my good friend Nick, when they tear up the inclines, pushing into the red and ending up at the top, wrung out and heady with adrenaline. Physics dictates that, for now, I have to be satisfied with slow-but-sure. They say the secret to climbing is your power to weight ratio - I think I have the power sorted, judging by the way my front wheel consistently lifts off the tarmac. It's just the weight I have to sort out now...
It may come as a surprise to many, however, that I'm more than happy to face my nemesis (gravity) by signing up for events like The Hell of the Ashdown. This year was our fourth, places secured last October in a flurry of late-night internet activity as entries for the increasingly popular early-season hill-fest opened up for masochists from all over the south of England.
No matter what the weather is like in early February, just like Bonfire Night feels like the coldest night of the year, the Hell seems to summon up the frostiest of starts. My Gatwick RideIt the previous week had no such issues and visited some parts of the Ashdown Forest we would be riding through today.
That, however, was over 50km away - the route, starting as always at the Charles Darwin School in Biggin Hill, winds up and down through the North Downs and south towards East Grinstead. Last year was blighted with icy sections, causing delays and crashes throughout the day. This time, caution was the watch word as the start was delayed by 30 minutes for those that had planned to be out of the blocks early. As usual, the riders all had the rude awakening of a cold-legged climb up Cudham Test Hill, but partial consolation came in the form of a relatively panic-free descent of Hogstrough.
Ice was still everywhere, however, and we were guided by the excellent marshalls and members of the NEG around the worst areas safely. There were still some hairy moments where I lost traction on my back wheel climbing one of the many unclassified hills on the route, but as the route wound further south they became less of an occurrence. By the time we'd reached Weirwood Reservoir, the roads were merely wet and the sun was out. I was beginning to believe that the worst (of the weather) was over. However, as we climbed up towards the first feed station, the trees thinned out and the wind chilled us stiff.
Not even copious amounts of tea and malt loaf could prepare for the queen climb of the day up Kidds Hill, the speed of the twisty, fast descent scrubbed off immediately in a frenzy of high-cadence trundling. You can lose 15 degrees centigrade on an alpine climb, even in the summer, and that's what it felt like cresting the top of the Ashdown Forest.
After The Wall, the hills continued to come thick and fast, through Groombridge and back towards the steaming tea-and-cake carrot at the end of the stick that is Ide Hill. With a mere 13 miles to go, many consider this to be the end of the tuff stuff, but the course has (at least) one more attempt to break your spirit up the seemingly unending slog up Star Hill, forcing smiles for the brace of SportivePhoto photographers, and the possibly cloned Phil O'Connor (that fella is everywhere on the course).
It was here that Hades stung the last 100 or so riders with a furious winter downpour which made me in particular resort to warming myself up using NSFW out loud swearing - science has proven this to work - as the humidity inside and outside my jacket rose to saturation point. There were still marshalls out on the course, happily waving us poor wretches through, their red flags an early warning as visibility got worse and worse. Finally I cruised along Jail Lane to the finish, only to be thwarted by some temporary traffic lights 50 yards from the finish.
Once more the memories of previous Hells had been erased and a new reason not to do it again inserted in their place - this one sure to be consigned to 'mere discomfort' by the time entries open again in October. Expect me to be one of the first online to book my place again...
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