A few weeks back I got an email from Velopace about their Spring Classic Sportive. "What a superb event the 2015 edition of the Spring Classic was," it began, "So many elements came together on the day to make it a truly unforgettable event."
Well I rode that sportive - or at least, part of it - and if memory serves the two key elements that came together on the day were gale force winds and driving rain. But there was also an element of fortune, both good and bad, that combined to save the day from becoming a mere meteorological footnote.
Keep watching the skies
The Velopace Spring classic took place on the Sunday before Easter, which was a particularly grim weekend for cycling as our other reporters on that day faithfully noted (see Surrey Hills Cyclone and Cotswold Veldrijden reports). High winds and rain made a mockery of 'Spring' themed sportives on a day when staying in bed was, yet again, the sane option.
Event HQ for the Velopace Spring Classic was Herstmonceux Observatory near Eastbourne. With its copper-clad observation domes the place has the look of a steampunk Victorian SETI programme. Just as well its telescopes point to the skies; as I drove the car across a soggy field to park next to a small marquee, clinging on by its fingernails in the teeth of the wind, there was little evidence of terrestrial intelligence among the few earthlings on site.
Late as usual, I hurried to the starting line where the organiser, Kim, welcomed me. After a quick briefing about the feed stop he sent me on my way with the warning that I was last, the yellow jersey rider having just left.
"Don't worry, I'll catch up" I called, as I clipped in and rolled down the driveway into the wind. Three seconds later my chain dropped as I tried to change gears, forcing an undignified dismount within sight of the starting line. Of course it's sensible to test your bike works before a sportive, especially when you've stripped it down and rebuilt it in the days before. But where's the fun in that.
As I wiped my greasy fingers on my tights and set off again, two thoughts went through my head. One, dismay at the grinding sounds emanating from my drivetrain and the rubbing of brake pads on my newly fitted "summer wheels". Two - what did he mean, "yellow jersey rider"?
I only had to wait a mile for the answer to that. It was near the amusingly named village of Wartling when, having turned off the road, I ended up in what looked like a farmyard. Clues included a couple of massive tractors sitting parked by a farmhouse, and a harem of dairy cows lined up under a tin roof chewing hay and watching me carefully. A few yards in front of me was a lone cyclist, who turned around as I approached.
After a brief confab we decided that, what with being in a farmyard, we'd probably taken a wrong turn. Just then a car pulled up with a yard brush tied to the back: it was the organisers in the broom wagon. Through the rolled down window they pointed out the signposted left turn we'd missed just a couple of yards behind us. They agreed to give us a few minutes head start, and we set off.
Yellow Jersey
As we rode along I discovered that the "yellow jersey man" was in fact Simon, who is not even from Jersey but is one of the guys behind Yellow Jersey cycling insurance.
It emerged that we followed each other on Twitter - the modern world is a small one - and as we huffed and puffed up the early hills in the wind and rain Simon explained a bit about the background to the company.
Run by three passionate cyclists, Yellow Jersey offer what sounds like a uniquely well thought-out insurance plan for keen cyclists. Alongside standard protection against theft etc, they'll even collect you from the roadside should you suffer a mechanical. And drive you home. A deal that sounds almost too good to be true, and surely leaves them open to abuse from the likes of, well, me.
Simon was not only good chat but also, it turned out, in good shape. As I struggled in his wake up the early climbs, it became clear it was going to be one of "those" days in the saddle. I pulled over at the top of one bracing mini-climb to twiddle what I suspect is a placebo knob that Campagnolo fit to their rear derailleurs. I ate a banana, and then realised as I patted my pockets that I'd left my phone back in the car.
Missing a phone is a minor disaster at the best of times, but especially ill-timed on this occasion as my partner was expecting a baby any day. I'd only been allowed out of her sight on the promise that I'd keep tabs on my phone and abandon the ride at the first signs of my heirling. I was confident it wouldn't happen - surely baby would know dad was busy on a sportive? Still, I wasn't 100% at ease and again had cause to regret my slapdash preparation.
We ploughed on a little longer, the weather still in our faces like an aggressive bore in a city wine bar. Already the talk was of taking a shortcut to return to base early. Simon had to be back at his stand to do da business with returning riders, while I was keen to get out of the stormy weather and take care of my own "da business".
While I wavered, in two minds as to whether to plough on or abandon, events took a decisive twist as we reached the town of Mayfield, 37km in. What happened was, we suddenly realised we'd run clean out of signage. In sportive terms, it doesn't get much worse than this.
With no map or any idea of where to go, we pulled over at the roadside for Simon to consult his phone maps. This small hint of a mishap was all the cue we needed: we agreed to cut the ride short and head for home. But as I wheeled my bike onto the road I heard the familiar hiss of air escaping an inner tube - my front tyre, a brand new Vittoria Open Pave CG III, had picked up a wicked little flint and was slowly deflating.
"What a memorable day!" I don't recall thinking, as I set to wrestling the stupidly tight new tyre off the rim. With Simon's help we finally flipped the tyre off, and my spare tube went in. But, when it turned out that the fresh tube I'd brought had a broken valve, the game was well and truly up for the Velopace Spring Classic.
At this point I sincerely regretted not having taken out Yellow Jersey insurance an hour earlier. After borrowing Simon's phone to call Kim for rescue, I persuaded him to carry on without me and settled down in the drizzle alone to compose my thoughts and formulate a plan. I had money, but no phone and an unrideable bicycle. I realised I'd forgotten to tell Kim that the phone I'd called him from wasn't my own. He had my number, but of course my phone was in the car. It dawned on me that rescue could be some time in arriving.
After a few minutes I decided to try my luck in a local shop in case they sold those old fashioned puncture repair kits. Standing around in the rain wasn't doing me any good. Also, I'd noticed that I was waiting outside the gates of a Catholic girls boarding school; I fancied I could feel the eyes of the Mother Superior boring holes in my sinfully tight cycling garb.
Serendipity and salvation
Of course the shop didn't have puncture repair kits - a fact I verified with the girl behind the counter, who was serving another customer. I left the shop and stood in the street feeling a bit sorry for myself. But then the lady customer who'd been in the shop came out. She had overheard me ask about the puncture repair kits; did I need help? It turned out she lived just around the corner; her husband was a cyclist. She was sure he wouldn't mind if she took me home...
Really? I imagined my own reaction if my girlfriend dragged a random cyclist home from the shops on a wet Sunday morning. Still, I wasn't about to say no to the offer. Two minutes walk and we were back at her house. "Wait here," she said, and sure enough her husband, Ben, appeared at the door in surprisingly good mood.
Ben turned out to be an absolute gem. Just back from a club ride himself, he took me to his garden shed where a beautiful Italian steel bike hung alongside neatly ordered tools and gleaming wheels in immaculate gumwall tubs. He gave my bike a quick appraisal, then set about quickly and efficiently stripping out the tube with the faulty valve and patching up my punctured tube for me.
While we waited for the patch to set, his wife brought out mugs of steaming tea and we chatted about bikes and cycling. Ben was heading off to ride Flanders the following weekend with his club mates, an annual pilgrimage. He told me about the custom steel bike he rode, and the benefits of tubulars - but he was interested in my carbon fibre Bianchi. "I've always wanted a Bianchi," he mused. "That looks about my size. Do you mind if I...?"
He slotted the repaired wheel into the forks, then hopped aboard and tested the fit. I could almost see the phrase "N+1" pass through his mind as he dismounted and handed the bike back to me.
Ben sent me on my way with a handful of repair patches, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the endless generosity of the cycling fraternity. And sorority, of course, I hastily muttered to myself as I clipped in with a glance up at the narrow windows of the convent school.
But have you tried the food?
The rest of the ride was relatively uneventful. I still had no idea where I was going, and I was soaking wet and shivering, but I now had two solidly pumped tyres rolling beneath me and the warm glow of having met excellent and kind people. I followed road signs for Eastbourne, and that was enough to point me in the right direction - well, that and a quick stop at a Travelodge near Upper Dicker, where the bemused teenager at reception was good enough to print me off a map with instructions to Herstmonceux.
When I finally rolled back into base camp it was into a relentless 30mph headwind that reduced speeds to crawling pace. Kim was waiting for me with a raised eyebrow; he had tried to call, and the broom wagon had been cruising around Mayfield looking for me. I apologised.
But what about the ride, and the food - had I enjoyed it, Kim wanted to know? Velopace events put a lot of effort into their food stops, but I had to confess I hadn't made it as far as the feed station.
Not satisfied, Kim collared a passing cyclist who was crossing the finish line having ridden the full distance. He looked on the verge of hypothermia, with a face like a dropped pie. "Did you have the food?" demanded Kim. A faraway look came into the poor man's eyes.
"Food?" he asked. "Oh, yes, I had food. It was very good," he reminisced wistfully. "I should have had more..."
I thanked Kim again, and expressed regret that I hadn't sampled the Velopace catering. I didn't ask whether someone had eaten the missing signage around Mayfield. Instead I took an event goody bag as compensation, and hurried back to the car to check my phone. There were several missed calls from Kim but, thankfully, nothing from home to suggest I'd missed a defining life moment. I would live to ride another day!
Next time the elements threaten to put me off a ride, I'll remember the Velopace Spring Classic with a smile. And then go back to bed.
More events from Velopace
Fancy riding your luck on a Velopace event? Check out their programme here. While I didn't get to ride the full course of the Spring Classic, Kim and the Velopace team are passionate about their cycling events and invest much ingenuity, hard work and attention to detail to ensure that riders have a great day. And Haribo and free beer at the end means that even when things go wrong, it's all right.
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