Dunwich Dynamo 2005; 113 miles overnight to the Suffolk coast
I arrived at Paddington with GruB from the C+ forum, where he had
arranged to meet Naggers for the ride to Hackney. Both of them looked a
lot fitter than me and were riding lightweight carbon machines, totally
unlike my 42lb-with-kit-and-water Thorn Nomad. We set out into the
London evening traffic. Making progress was slow because of the traffic
lights every few yards, and regular London cyclists must go through
brake pads like there’s no tomorrow. Euston Road was fun in a
bloody-minded sort of way, some drunken chavs tried to roll a tennis
ball under our wheels on Pentonville Road, then it was up and down the
City Road (but not in and out of the Eagle; we were running late). I
lost the other two behind a bus in Hackney, at which point I spotted a
little side path for London Fields.
There were more than 500 riders around the Pub in the Park, with some
still arriving and a constant trickle leaving for Dunwich already. I
collected my coach ticket, bumped into Pete from Plomesgate CC, queued
for the (literally) overflowing toilet, failed to find where the
official route guides were being distributed and agreed with Pete that
we might as well leave immediately – it was 8.35. Thoughtfully Hackney
Council had put roadworks across the cyclepath onto Mare Street which
meant bunnyhopping up onto the pavement. A kind driver let us out and
we were off. Pete & Co made much better time through the lights and
past the buses than me, but I just had them in sight heading for Church
Path, at which point I executed an illegal right turn, mistakenly went
up a one way street in the wrong direction and swung into a car park
full of deep gravel in my attempts to catch them. Unfortunately, as
this was the Dunwich Dynamo so hardly anyone knows where they’re going,
about 30 riders followed me. I got out of there quickly, as I could
hear one or two of them coming to grief in the gravel and didn’t fancy
taking the blame! Once on Church Path (a silly part of the route; it’s
a slippy surface with wheel-eating gaps in the paving and clouds of dope
fumes from the locals) I caught Pete again and followed him out onto the
Lea Bridge Road. Not a nice area and certainly not a place I’d want to
break down, but I suppose it’s all going to be bulldozed before the
Olympics. Progress was very slow due to lights, buses and illegally
parked cars. It soon became apparent that TT-ing Pete was “on a ride”
and I eventually lost him at the North Circular, where it finally felt
as if I was getting out of the city.
The miles through Epping Forest were a low point. It was almost
completely dark and quite misty under the trees, with fast traffic,
nasty cycle lanes, a poor road surface and long up-and-down drags. I
also had stomach cramps from something I’d eaten at teatime, and they
were getting worse. My average speed, although I couldn’t read the
computer in the dark or even tell what gear I was in, was clearly
nowhere near the 17mph I’d been expecting, and there was a headwind.
The new Schmidt hub dynamo was also making a very faint scraping sound
now it had warmed up. Could I actually do this? My glass-half-empty
side said I couldn’t, while my glass-half-full side said I was still
overtaking lots of groups while few riders were passing me. Past lots
of very Essex Man road pubs, at one of which the A104 finally became the
B1393, and then into Epping, which looked a lot less rough than I
expected. Just after North Weald Bassett at Bovinger, another road pub
on a roundabout marked the beginning of the nice roads, as I plunged
into complete darkness and a narrow minor road. I’d promised to phone
my wife at 10pm, so I stopped at a side road and got my phone out of the
rack pack. Almost straight away a gaggle of riders stopped, thinking
I’d gone wrong and was checking my map – this was a frequent occurrence
throughout the night as everyone is terrified of going off-piste and few
bring a map. Patrick’s route notes, while very clear, are as much use
as a chocolate fireguard if you ever get off the course with no
reference points. Anyway, phone call over and everyone was still
patiently waiting so I checked my annotated Multimap screen dumps. Next
right, signs for Moreton. We set off again, with Stansted-bound planes
whistling overhead, in what became a huge group tearing round the
winding lane between Bovinger and Clatterford End. The red flashing
tail-lights were really beginning to hurt my eyes and the pace kept
speeding up then slackening for no real reason. Another low point.
Eventually we burst out onto the A1060 near Leaden Roding and the whole
group stopped. A quick check of the map and the next part became
obvious, so it was a right turn, then left at the Leaden Roding
roundabout where two people (locals?) were taking photos. I did my best
Eddy Merckx as I passed by, ensuring I was in the big ring for the camera.
A mile or so further on, and the Black Lion at High Roding was doing a
late trade as cyclists made use of the well-lit car park and stocked up
at the bar. I’d been having knee twinges, so stopped to don armwarmers
and tights. This turned out to be a good move, because not only did the
knee problem stop, wearing two layers is the best way to prevent saddle
soreness and I had no pain at all from that “area”. Some small groups
flashed by. Shortly afterwards there was an orange glow in the sky,
then Great Dunmow. There was a right turn in the town centre pleading
for me to take it, but despite the protestations of other riders I
decided to carry on and follow the “all routes” sign. I reached the
A120 junction after the town and realised my mistake after about ¼ mile.
It was my only wrong turn – or wrong non-turn.
Back on the road to Finchingfield, and the stomach cramps were reaching
a crescendo. I’d intended to have pasta for tea, but due to a lack of
meat had to eat half a Sainsbury’s red pepper quiche. Not a cyclist’s
diet and I was paying for it as the peppers repeated again and again. I
had memories of a short ride when I was about 12 when I had such bad
stomach cramps that my parents had to drive out and collect me. Not a
good option after bedtime when they live 100 miles away. The next 20
miles are a painful blur of flashing lights, taxis racing past and long
hills. I joined and overtook several small groups again. At some point
a fast group overtook us and I think I recognised Ravenbait from the C+
forum; at least, it was a head-down female riding an Orbit from what I
could see in the glow of the headlamps. At Finchingfield a short but
vicious climb away from the river brought a large group of us together
as the front riders struggled up it. I passed them, then it was more
darkness and more rolling lanes to Sible Hedingham, where I got some
encouragement from drunken locals and some useful directions for Castle
Hedingham, which has a nasty drag on the way out. A few more dark
miles, and I joined another group just as we crossed the Suffolk border
at Bulmer. From this point I felt a lot better – the cramps were easing
and I knew I was halfway.
The drop into Sudbury was fantastic – it might only have been 35mph but
it felt like 50 in the dark. Over the illuminated bridge (which,
spookily, I dreamt about a few weeks ago despite never having seen it),
round the one-way system and then up the horrible strength-sapping drag
to the last roundabout we went, still as a group of about 15. Great
Waldingfield went by and the old estate agent’s saying “If you lived
here you’d be home by now” crossed my mind, paraphrased into “If this
was 2004, you’d be eating by now”. But the feeding station had moved
and there was still a way to go. At Little Waldingfield the group
stopped for a route check, but I was pretty sure of the way so I
accelerated towards Monks Eleigh, getting back in the big ring in “smoke
‘em if you got ‘em” mood. After all, I was about to get fed. A candle
confirmed I was on the right road, then it was right onto the A1141 and
up Church Hill to the feeding station. In no particular order, I drank
two cups of free coffee, couldn’t be bothered to queue for the
unappetising bean stew so ate my remaining flapjack, met Pete again,
GruB arrived, I refilled two of my three water bottles and chatted for
45 minutes. Then I did some serious stretching (my legs had set like
concrete), had the inevitable conversation about gear ratios with a
fixed wheel nut - 48 x 19 *is* too low and he knows it – then set off
again.
The rest had completely cured my cramps, and despite a slight
sluggishness uphill I felt fresh. A sign for Ipswich - hey, that’s on
the Suffolk coast – encouraged me and the billiard-table flat road
around Wattisham airfield under the moon was fantastic. The wind had
died now and it was warmer; the only improvement would be a few candles
after the feeding station, as that’s as far as they go. A few small
villages, passing a few more riders on twos and threes, wondering if I
should get the MP3 player out for a full sensory experience. I settled
for dropping into Needham Market with outstretched hands making
aeroplane noises, to the amusement of a couple of fast guys who passed
me. Nearly missing the Coddenham road, I joined another group and led
it along the empty A14 and back into dark lanes. Driven too hard by the
riders sitting on my back wheel, I started to get twinges of cramp in my
thighs and stopped to stretch. Shortly after that there was a sneaky
right turn at which I passed that group again, and I rode on to
Helmingham where I joined two riders with maps who ensured I took the
right road for Framsden and Cretingham.
At Kettleburgh it finally started to get light, and all of a sudden it
was a dull morning rather than pitch black. At Framlingham I just
noticed the B1119 turning on the right and shouted to a lone rider who’d
overshot it. He couldn’t keep pace with me on the drag up out of the
town, where I passed an unfortunate rider taking a No.2 in the ditch
with a couple of friends trying not to watch or laugh. A left turn
looked tempting so I stopped to read the map. About 8 riders turned up,
including the one from Framlingham, and we made a joint decision that
this really was the road to Bruisyard. A nice gent on an Airborne Carpe
Diem gave me some of his flapjack, ensuring that I would complete the
last 25-odd miles with them. Another was riding a blue singlespeed and
it appeared to be a ragtag group that had formed rather than one that
had started together.
We got the tricky bit at Sibton Church right, and went up the gravelly
climb – a rather cruel inclusion after 100 miles. Then it was an easy
cruise across the railway and the A12 and through Westleton, stopping a
few times to let the rest catch up. Some were obviously near the end of
their endurance now. Three of us, including Mr Carpe Diem, drew ahead
over the last two miles of heathland and caught another rider –
amazingly, the only person we’d seen outside our group since Framlingham
– just before the Dunwich village sign. We arrived at 5.45 and the café
was open and nearly full. I ate greasy stuff and drank a pathetically
small cup of tea – I have it in pint glasses at home - with Mr Carpe
Diem. Plomesgate Pete had been there for ages, needless to say.
The best bits – no rain, moonlit roads at Wattisham, not getting very
lost, no bike problems at all, no accidents, considerate traffic,
feeling renewed after the stop, that piece of free flapjack, the sense
of achievement, still feeling pretty strong at the finish and not
needing either the ibuprofen or Scotch I’d brought with me!
The worst bits – stomach cramps unrelated to the ride, flashing
tail-lights, almost everything related to the transport back, from the 8
hour wait on freezing Dunwich Beach to the bike vans getting lost for
over an hour in London, careless removal men damaging bikes, the nasty
ride back up Oxford Street and the “gentleman behaving in an odd manner”
in the train toilets at Reading which meant we were asked to change
trains while the police interviewed him.
Would I do it again? Yes, but I’d take the racing bike for a lot less
weight and I’d ride to Ipswich station to avoid hanging about.
Incidentally, the scraping dynohub noise had disappeared by halfway.
Must have been a running-in kind of thing.
