Saturday was the final Cycale outing of the year, the traditional ride out to the Harwich Winter Beer Festival.
The weather gods again smiled on us, a cool and dry day, and a decent turnout with a couple of new riders. The roads must have been wet, though, as the bike was particularly filthy by the time I got home. Harwich, it has to be said, isn't my favourite town (it has that depressed, run down, end of the line feel that is common to so many east coast towns), although it does have a certain charm, and the festival has a pleasantly understated, relaxed feel.
Almost as soon as we began the ride, it was apparent that this was going to be very slow going indeed, with one rider again much slower than the rest of us. Keith, as befitting our Cycale supremo, took the executive decision to split the group in two, some going ahead, and some escorting our slower rider at a rather more pedestrian pace. Matt and myself volunteered to escort, and not for the first time I found myself on B****sitting duties. Now, I don't mind doing a bit of B****sitting now and again, and pedaling, freewheeling, stopping and generally cycling slower than I can ever remember doing was actually quite relaxing, if a little chilly.
I do have enormous sympathy for those that find themselves struggling to keep up with a group - it must be dreadful to know that everyone is waiting or stopping for you, especially in a group such as ours that doesn't go particularly quickly, and is more interested in spending time at the next pub rather than speeding along. I love to see people doing stuff outdoors, be it cycling, walking, playing sport or whatever, and I especially love to see folk who aren't particularly strong striving to improve their fitness and get out there and do something. That's why I spend so much time loitering and B****sitting at the back of our cycling group, keeping an eye out for those that aren't so fast. We've always had cyclists of varying speed and fitness, and none of us have ever minded. We aren't in a hurry, we just go out for a ride and a few drinks in the company of our friends.
However........there surely comes a point when one realises that
1. "I can't keep up, I might be spoiling these rides for everyone else"
2. "Perhaps I could accept with some grace the help that others are giving me"
3. "Maybe I could do something about this, by putting in a little effort to improve my fitness - it will be so much more enjoyable for me and everyone else"
Sadly, I just can't see that happening.
On a rather more positive note, the ride back was completely different. While most took the option of more beer and the train home, Nigel, Matt, Mark and myself cycled back to Colchester. Normally, a post-beer festival ride would be a sedate affair, but not this time.
For reasons that I can't really fathom, we absolutely caned it on the way back. By common consent, it was the the most effort we'd ever put into a Cycale ride, into a headwind all the way, utterly different from our usual rides. I think it was my fault, I led the way into the wind for the first five or six miles, wondering if the others behind were as knackered as I was. I pulled over, and, sure enough, they were. Mark and Matt took long turns on the front and we reached Wivenhoe, grinning, in record time. Nigel mentioned something about "hanging on to coat tails". Fantastic. Post ride, I felt that warm glow of tiredness as I dozed on the settee, the sort of tiredness that you only get when you've really put in some effort, and legs and lungs have been properly stretched.
On the way back we stopped off at the Black Buoy in Wivenhoe, newly refurbished and reopened as a community buyout, the money put up by a consortium of locals and regulars. The pub was full, and the beer was good, so the future looks good for at least one of our pubs.
Today is a glorious winter's day in Essex, low sun and deep blue sky, not a cloud to be seen and not a breath of wind. In fact, it's the perfect day for cycling. Ordinarily, I'd be out on the bike or walking. However, this morning I pulled a muscle in my ribs, bizarrely, while getting up from the toilet. Don't ask. It's just as ridiculous as the time I had to cut short a holiday in the Lake District, having pulled a muscle in my back while reading a newspaper at the breakfast table. Anyway, that's why I'm sitting here typing this, between hobbling around like an old man and listening to Rob the kitchen fitter dispose of the rest of my savings, instead of doing something really important
