London to Brighton Night Ride

Waiting to start the ride on Clapham Common
Pics - Liz Best

Finally I feel like a real cyclist having completed my first organised event - the British Heart Foundation night ride from London's Clapham Common to Brighton.

While the distance of 60 miles didn't prove to be particularly gruelling and more than five hours in the saddle didn't really hurt, it was the landmark event in newly rekindled love of cycling that's been lying dormant for far too long that gave me the real buzz.

I've had periods of cycle mania before but they've usually been tied to different sorts of causes - such as commuting to work, university or on holidays when I've fancied getting about under my own steam.

Having cycled in the USA and Australia before I've certainly never been shy about getting on two wheels but when my pal Stuart Haystead suggested taking part in this London to Brighton event back in January I jumped at the chance.

If 2011 was about rekindling the fitness bug in me, 2012 has been about pushing on and cycling has given me that new focus.

In February Stuart and I, joined by Liz Best and Phil Crowhurst started training for the Brighton ride with a couple of 12-mile rides.

We were joined by other friends Helen, Alison and Eleanor and as the event drew nearer we started upping the miles with 20 and 30 mile rides.

I could feel the cycling bug taking hold and I soon found myself swerving the usual football magazines in favour of cycling periodicals and cruising eBay for old cycling jerseys rather than football ones.

Cycling and my first love of football share similarities for me - I love the old cycling shirts and history of the sport that it has in Europe - and I love the fact too that countries such as Holland, Belgium and Italy where I have spent most time watching continental football over the years are the heartlands of the European road cycling community.

Some of the 4,500 other cyclists who took part

But there is also a big difference.
As a season ticket holder at Norwich City I feel tied to my club in good ways and bad - I get the sense of warmth that I am part of something, yet in the same way I get no reward from the club, just more and more propaganda from the Carrow Road PR department and the chance to spend money in watching players dressed in yellow and green.

Cycling represents freedom, certainly from paying money every fortnight to watch millionaires slugging it out on the football field.

There's a huge cycling community out there that you can casually freewheel into and even a rookie road cyclist can feel the love - they really seem to look out for you - the training rides have advanced from knowing nods to fellow cyclists to offers of help if you're stuck on the side of the road. It seems they really care.

Most importantly though, as someone who drives 300 miles a week just to get to work and back, cycling is the antithesis to the modern age. Bikes may have changed remarkably over the last 30 years, but that sense of getting on a bike and using your own power to get you someplace else remains. Some feel that sense of unburdening in a car, I feel it more than ever on a bike.

I soon invested in something to keep me more motivated as the cycling bug took hold - a new Boardman road bike, the first new wheels I'd bought since the days when Mark Cavendish was still yet to see his tenth birthday and wow, I felt like a real cyclist.

A 60 mile ride with my pals proved I could do the London to Brighton distance, a 70 mile one proved I could do more. I was ready for the big event.

With my three cycling chums and my brother Andrew too we headed down to London -  destination Clapham Common.

Stuart, Phil, Liz and myself before we set off

While most of London’s streets were full of people relaxing on a Saturday night, the five of us were about to go to work. We made our way to the common and spied a handful of other cyclists. Within a few minutes we were among thousands of them.

A total of 4,500 to be precise, all pointing their bikes towards Brighton but all needing to funnel through a small starting point that meant an hour delay before the first full revolution of my wheels..

The weather was great but even in the wee small hours after a a baking hot May day, it’s pretty cold standing on an open common at 1am.

Eventually though we were away, crossing the starting line with a word of good luck from a member of the BHF crew.

The first few miles were carnage – a bit like the D-Day scene from Saving Private Ryan.

Rear lights flicked off the backs of bikes, water bottles were lost in the road and within a mile of the start, someone had incredibly picked up a puncture.

Refueling on Jaffa Cakes with ten miles to go

Brighton seemed a long way away. I made the mistake of stopping to pick someone’s bottle up and soon realised it was better to keep going. It was their tough cheese.

Urban London merged into the suburbs through Tooting and Merton where alcohol-fuelled youngsters decided to shout abuse and encouragement in equal measure.

Suddenly though, we were ten miles in, swerved the first rest stop and were on the dark open roads as we entered the Surrey countryside.

The terrain changed remarkably, small hills to climb, big ones to come down. 
One of the steepest hills saw the worst sight of the ride, a rider flat on their stomach halfway down a seriously steep hill. I remembered the water bottle incident and kept peddling. At the bottom of the hill our group reconvened and vowed that safety was the most important part of the ride.

We pushed on and two hours into the ride it was starting to get light.

We tried to ride together but inevitably spend periods of the ride on our own – but we always waited at the stops and met up.

At thirty miles in it was already light and the last part of the ride was far better than the first. The riders seemed to space out and although there was always someone no more than the tinkling of a bell away, there was plenty of space on the roads.

When we stopped at a roundabout with 10 miles to go, the sheer size of the numbers on the road started to reveal itself – there were hundreds of cyclists piling into that rest stop as I stocked up on free jelly babies, water, pretzels and Jaffa Cakes.

On to Brighton, the toughest test was Devil’s Dyke – a steep ascent just outside the seaside town. It was in three stages – a sharp climb and then a brief pause at each one of them.

Plenty were pushing their bikes at this stage but I wasn’t going to do that. The first two parts of the hill weren’t so bad even if I was literally cycling at walking pace. The third proved the toughest bit and halfway up I could feel my chest tightening and my legs stopping.

I paused for five minutes, gathered my breath and pushed on. See ya later Devil’s Dyke!

From there it was a routine ride down into Brighton. As we got closer to the finish line there was a magic moment where the four of us who’d been riding together since February formed a prefect line and, four abreast, glided towards the finish.

Brighton at 7am is a strange sight – the fish and chip shops were doing a roaring trade, there were cyclists all over the beach and a few well-wishers shouted us home, while a few more Saturday night revellers on their own way home shouted more abuse.

It didn’t matter – we’d done it – London to Brighton in about five hours riding time and a medal to prove it.

No time to stand around in revel in the glory though – there’s a 100-mile ride to take on in less than two weeks!

Destination Brighton!

• Big thanks also to Steve Turner for driving the bikes and hanging around in Brighton while we all completed the ride. It is much appreciated Steve.