This is a somewhat posthumous recounting of a trip long since passed. Way back in the so-called summer of 2012 six of us attempted to ride a varied array of bicycles across the undulating 100 miles of the South Downs Way – better known as The South Downs Challenge. Stretching over the South Downs from Winchester in Hampshire to Eastbourne in East Sussex the off road trail climbs and descends a gruelling 4,150 meters in total and offers some of the most stunning views in the south of England.
The majority of our peppy peloton chose to ride mountain bikes with, at least, front suspension, although the braver soles amongst the us opted for Hybrid bikes. Carrying supplies for the three and a half day excursion meant a mix of panniers and backpacks amongst the riders. For myself, I'd opted for a combination of my Trek 3800 (Hard-tail) and a lightweight backpack. Packing with weight limitations in mind proved to be the first of my challenges, I started obsessing over footwear (with size eleven feet even a plain pair of trainers can prove a weighty space taker so I was found sporting a rather fetching pair of canvas espadrilles most evenings whilst riding in SPDs). Lightweight pyjama style trousers, three clean T-Shirts and three pairs of padded pants may have made for eccentric evening attire but was a godsend when it came to carrying it all up the pretty gnarly hills of the South Downs.
Andy O' had done a sterling job of organising our accommodation with bookings at some of the finest B&B's along the route. The first of which, our start point, a rather tidy little hotel in the sleepy market town of Winchester. Our rendezvous was to be a post work boozy meet in a recommended pub – the Black Boy. After cycling to work in Hammersmith that morning my own plan was, upon finishing work, to cycle across West London to Clapham Junction and catch a train down to Winchester to meet the guys.
The chaotic city streets were unforgiving and the commute was a stressful bus dodging charge through Putney and Wandsworth to Clapham Junction. I'd pre-ordered my ticket but that didn't make getting the physical ticket any less difficult, particularly whilst juggling a bike and luggage through rush hour in Britain's busiest train station. Eventually up on the platform I enquired as to the rough whereabouts of the 'bike' carriage to no avail. Hazarding a guess turned out to be surprisingly close but when the first Winchester train arrived I had no chance of getting onto the rammed train with rushing commuters pressed firmly against the glass of the door. The second train was not far behind though and I think it may have been an even faster train with less stops. I shared my carriage with a grumpy old fart and a bike rack probably not quite fit for purpose forcing me to brace the bike for the entire journey.
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| Hotel Parking |
Disembarking in Winchester was decidedly calmer. With fading light I tried to get my bearings and set off in search of my hotel. It was easy enough to find and down hill the whole way. The staff couldn't have been more helpful. After insisting that I leave my bike at the end of my bed in the room they gave me a map and clear directions to the pub. Other than Rob O' Brown I was the last to arrive and I think it would be fair to assume that the rest of the lads had enjoyed a relaxed afternoon moving no further from the bar than a matter of meters. Suffice it to say their level of intoxication was verging on ridiculous as I entered the pub to cry's of "UNCLE STEVE!!!". None of the group could be described in any way as my nephew and some, as a matter of fact, I was meeting for the first time. Nonetheless it was going to make for an interesting evening.
Over the course of the ensuing few hours a collective crush on the bar maid developed whilst our inebriation evolved into the realms of daft. Although the debate over her actual name probably precluded any risk of Holly or Polly taking any of us drunken idiots seriously she continued to poor us pints of glorious Sussex ales unabated. Eventually we succumbed to our appetites and retired to a local curry house. Although not quite as drunk as the others I was certainly questioning what effects the nights activities might have on tomorrows riding and I remain quite confused over why there was quibbling over a one pound discrepancy in the bill. Ultimately though, a good night was had by all and the task ahead seemed quite far from our thoughts for the time being.
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| Under the influence |
Muddy hell! 4 May 2012
As you might imagine our start the following morning was a hazy blur of lethargy. We barely scraped together the enthusiasm to search out the much needed bacon sandwich and strong coffee. Eventually, after some mindless wandering around the town centre we happened across a burger-van style café. The weather was pleasant enough to dine alfresco so with muted minds we tried to regain our vigour with a greasy breakfast bap and sugary hot drinks. We were joined by Nick, an ex-Para keen to share his life story, who was apparently starring in a documentary about himself no less! Don't get me wrong, I have an enormous amount of respect for our armed forces and the work they do but I was not really in the mood to hear an entire life story over breakfast. Particularly as I'd soon be able to watch it on Channel Four anyway – it was just a spoiler! (I never did see the documentary so can neither confirm nor deny whether it was, in fact, ever aired).
Conscious that time was ebbing on we headed back to the hotel and got ourselves ready to depart. Checking out quickly and efficiently we congregated in the car park and set off as a group. I can't speak for the others but I for one was suddenly struck with the enormity of what lay ahead leaving me feeling a little nervous to tell the truth. Directions out of town were hazy and rather than use a map, instead, relied on Andy O's recollection from starting the same journey several years back. In next to no time we climbed a little hill and soon found ourselves on a bridleway heading out of town. As we fell into a natural rhythm the nerves abated and we chatted as we merrily plodded on.
Obviously, an intrinsic feature of the South Downs Way are the climbs and by way of illustrating this 'UP' was the order of the day from the get-go. Over the course of the next few days this was going to feel relentless. On this first day, dehydrated and nursing fuzzy heads it felt particularly demanding. 2012 had seen an unusual amount of rainfall – it would seem that the majority of it had fallen on The Downs and we'd often find ourselves slowly plodding through endless swamps of deep mud. The trail is popular with cyclists and walkers alike and we'd pass plenty of mud sodden ramblers battling through the same sticky sludge. Our tires would collect the brown mess, compacting into weighty useless lumps. Andy O' had done better than most of us at 'spinning up' but by the top of one onerous climb his wheels were so coated that there was a solid wall of mud stretching from his wheel rims to the hub. The weight of this volume of mud alone was enough to cause us to reflect on the madness of what we were attempting. One hundred miles of this was likely to be very difficult.
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| Lots and lots of mud |
We eventually reached the top. Exhausted but happy to have achieved the summit at long last. The view afforded us a beautifully typical Downs landscape, verdant green stretching away into the distance. From this point the trail gently undulated along the peak line as we passed exhausted walkers, sharing pleasantries. As the trail dried out it also widened until it was almost a gravelly lane. Two motocrossers were enjoying the byway (greenland – officially an unpaved road) on one bike, taking it turns to spank it up and down the rutted, bumpy lane. I must admit, it looked much more fun with an engine by this stage in the day.
The day's exertion, on an empty stomach, proved too much for Rich here and he admitted to feeling positively rough. I think the professional cycling fraternity refer to it as 'bonking' but a bran bar, gel and some fluids soon had him back in the land of the living and ready to press on. Thankfully our route was now a swooping fast road descending down to the small village that hosted our second night's stay. It felt strange to be on tarmac again but far more effortless than the muddy swamps we'd battle through for the majority of the day.
At the B&B they allowed us to wheel the bikes around the back and hose them down – simultaneously blasting as much of the accumulated crud from ourselves as we could before getting in our digs and enjoying a warm bath. I think it would be fair to say that we were all ravenous with hunger so it was just as well that the menu offered an array of tantalising treats and a veritable feast was consumed within seconds! I had the most amazing Chicken Pie which I swear, evaporated in my throat somewhere without touching the sides. Bravado was hastily set aside though and most of us settled for an early night after a couple of leisurely pints. True to form I suspect Andy O' and Rich may have stayed up later drinking into the night but my eyes were drooping by the time I'd eaten so I was ready for sleep. Almost a shame that Rob O' Brown's snoring was to be my awkward bedfellow for the night really.
An epic effort, 5 May 2012
Day two on the trail was likely to be the most arduous. At just under 40 miles and including some serious climbing only a fool would underestimate this one. As with any mammoth challenge the first point of call would be fuel, so after a hearty breakfast (… and by hearty, I mean heart stopping greasy fry up of epic proportions – it was AWESOME!) we nipped over to the local shop to stock up on bran bars for the day. I think I'd managed to munch my way through my entire stock on day one!
As with all of our stop overs the village sat below the South Downs Way so the inevitable climb back up to the trail would start the day's effort. I was already struggling with this so held little hope for my performance throughout the day! There was no end in sight as hill followed hill and climb followed climb. Every effort depleting any shred of energy amassed. In an attempt to stay hydrated I'd finished my water bottle off pretty quickly but luckily there are drink stations along the route. The opportunity to refill was not missed and we chatted merrily to a couple of hardy ramblers braving the trail on foot – sharing similar experiences of the boggy first day. The landscape was different today somehow, there was mud but it was nowhere near as muddy. Instead, much of the trail had been replaced with perilously sloppy chalk.
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| Dave's little swim |
Following a rutted ridge-line I heard an odd cry from behind and turned to see Dave sat on his backside, chest deep in a puddle. He'd clearly had a tumble and landed in this soggy crater. Being quite early in an otherwise overcast day, this was looking like a damp and uncomfortable day in the saddle for my brother-in-law. A little later Rob O' Brown experienced a similar slide – although, on his slick hybrid tires it was less of a surprise to the rest of us, I think it knocked his confidence a bit though.
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| Rob O' Brown in a bit of a mess |
The change in terrain led to some fast yet terrifying descents. Especially being clipped in (I was riding in SPDs which was a relatively new experience to me) I found the extra speed really quite hair raising yet a welcome break to the endless climbing. North of Arundel, just over the A29, we were faced with another wide open gravelly descent. I let the bike go as fast as I felt comfortable, standing up on the pedals and flying down toward the Arun, as Dave came flying past me as if I was standing still,
"He'll be in a heap at the bottom."
I joked to Rich, although he didn't make it that far. As we rounded the next corner we were met by Dave, sat crumpled by the trail side with his bike quite some distance ahead of him. He looked mildly confused and had some bumps and scrapes over his face (first blood!). His helmet had obviously taken a knock and was now perched on his bonnet at a jaunty angle. I'd like to think some valuable lessons were learnt… but I doubt it.
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| Oops |
If I'm brutally honest my second pint may have been a mistake for the ensuing hill. Working on the tried and tested theory that 'what goes up – must come down' and visa-versa spinning up this tough little hill was proving more than my intestines had prepared for and I was seriously considering a 'tactical chunder'. At the top we got our first proper view of the English Channel though, something that should have, in theory, been an ever present sight as the SDW runs parallel to it.
I don't mind admitting that I was struggling though and I don't think I was alone, over the next few hours' Sisyphean climbing we saw Rob Sewell 'Bonk' quite heavily. Rob O' Brown took his rucksack for a while but the accumulative weight of that and his own panniers saw him weaving wildly out of control. I think we were all praying for an end to it by then and we were all running short on supplies. That said, we could now see Brighton – the next notable landmark.
We sought solace and strength in the team, pulling together and encouraging those struggling ever onwards. Stopping just before a road section we chatted with a couple of serious looking mountain bikers sporting the flashiest of gear and riding very expensive looking bikes. They were obviously planning to enjoy the trail in a very different way, less endurance and more speed I suspected. That being said, the sun was well past its zenith so some speed was what we were going to be needing. In the distance we could see a thick plume of smoke rising from a village and we hoped that it wasn't emanating from our next B&B. As it happened, the fire was in Steyning, the village we passed through to get to our final destination for the day. With our lights on we flew as fast as we dared down the road in our diminished physical states.
Once again many of us reverted to our now modus operandi and after a hearty meal and a couple of pints headed off for an early night. Again, I suspect Andy O' may have remained up drinking with the locals – what can I say, the man is a machine!
Climbing, 6 May 2012
Over breakfast Rob explained how ill he'd really been. I felt pretty confident that none of us had escaped the gruelling nature of the past few days but he'd pretty much spent the night on the toilet! Between that and Dave's notoriously loud snoring that had to have left him feeling horribly weakened to say the least. Understandably he chose to avoid the enormous fry up unlike myself who has yet to ever pass up the opportunity to indulge in a full English.
It was a slow and laborious start with leaden legs. After five minutes of road out of the sleepy village under greying skies we began the infamous climb up Devils Dyke. By way of distraction from this onerous incline we were joined by an organised fell run (I'm reluctant to use the term 'fun run') for about five miles of the route up to the peak. Rather disconcertingly many of these runners were actually passing us as we wheezed and whined our way up into the closing weather. The crappy weather mooted any chance to enjoy any view from our newly gained elevation but at the summit is a café/bar where we stopped for a well earned drink, although, cokes and coffees rather than beers this time around. It was so lovely and warm as we sipped our sugary drinks by the fireplace – the fine drizzle had soaked through to the bones leaving a damp chill, none of us wanted to leave this comfortable sanctuary.
None of the Downs' peaks are tidy little pyramids though so along with more ridge line there ensued more climbing – it was feeling relentless and Brighton, which was still clearly in sight, didn't seem to be getting any closer. As the trail zigzagged around the fields and countryside of Sussex we encountered many pleasant characters including one particularly jovial chap sporting an incongruous pink lunch box. A burly young man checking out the route in bite sized pieces in preparation to complete the whole route. We joked with him for a while, noting his brightly coloured lunch carrier, he was in great spirits – in turn lifting our own moods.
By now it wasn't just my body feeling the effects of all this effort. My Trek 3800 was starting to sound like R2D2 having a row with a fax machine, creaking and squeaking along as the gears clunked and missed, frequently trying to spit off its chain. (Some time after the trip I found that I had in fact managed to crack the spindle within the hub which is why my rear wheel could be seen to visibly weave and wobble around). Descending into Lewes the route became far less obvious and we soon found ourselves a little lost. We weren't alone in our confusion either and managed to pick up an extra three riders doing the same thing. We skirted around a farm court yard and stables before finding ourselves in a deeply rutted boggy lane. It was heavy going and at the back of our minds we were still unsure whether we were going the right way. Even one of our newfound bike friends fell heavily in the muddy confusion.
The confusion over the route led to us using the road to get to Rodmell and our next point of reference. This also provided an aptly timed lunch stop at a small but rather posh looking pub. A Lamborghini adorned the car park along with, rather bizarrely an Ambulance… with a puncture! It was still cold so, although caked in mud, we traipsed into the establishment. Luckily nobody seemed to mind and we ordered impressive Sausage and Marmalated Onion sandwiches and some much needed drinks.
Much as I'd tried to ignore it, the niggling ache in my knee was now progressing into a fully inflamed pain as we now pressed on. Climbing once again it was sore enough to be an engrossing and constant thought by now. I had to focus on finding a rhythm and plodding on regardless. Riding in my 'zone', trying to tune out the ever present and growing pain. Back up on the bleak ridge line a Peregrine Falcon hovered and swooped into the hill side, hunting, it was stunning. Effortlessly hovering on the thermals. Para gliders were also attempting to harness natures power but a little less successfully with repeated failures to launch as we watched on.
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| Failure to launch |
At least the downhill's were feeling a little more comfortable as I appeared to be picking up a bit more speed on them now as my confidence grew – off course that might have just been my subconscious just trying to get the miles done. Rob S was obviously feeling better too as he was hitting jumps and making his whoops again. It proved to be a false sense of security for me though when my knee 'pinged' on load whilst starting a climb. From then on, any pressure on that peddle felt like a nail being driven through my knee. It was very tough going. We rode the road from Alfreton to our evening's digs in Seaford, the day was waning and everything felt like a real effort. Not wanting to be caught out by the setting sun though meant employing a little expediency but our journey insisted on throwing in yet more climbs. By now my creaking bike was adding to my misery as my gears refused to work, my SPDs (at least on one side) refused to re-engage and I was forced to clip-clop along a winding country lane to the top. My heart was in my throat as I rounded every blind bend just wishing for the day to end. We passed an awesome white horse carved into the hillside but little could distract from my general discomfort by now.
Our host for the evening was a real comedian, whilst her apparently mute husband watched on with resigned humour, she quipped over my evening attire – a line of conversation much exhausted over the past few days – that said, it made for a funny start to the evening and I DID look a prat to be fair. We retired to the Plough Inn for a few pints (being our last night on the trail we were now glibly throwing caution to the wind) before moving on to a local curry house for some spicy nourishment. The meal was lovely and we were all back at the B&B by half past eleven to turn in before our final big push over the Seven Sisters.
Eastbourne, 7 May 2012
Our landlady had not lost her sense of humour over night; even if she had failed to find any new material. I had to forgive her though as our final breakfast was gorgeous, with pots and pots of tea and coffee, toast and all the trimmings. Being the butt of her jokes was a small sacrifice in the face of girding my loins to this degree. Feeling unhurried and with the end in sight we slowly got ourselves organised and ready to depart… Only to find I'd picked up a puncture overnight. Rather than mess about with a repair I opted to swap out the inner tube not wanting to be the one holding anyone up.
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| Seven Sisters |
The start of our detour turned out to be a pebbly wobble along a small tributary stream. It was a narrow thorn adorned trail up to the coastal road and it was also busy with pedestrian traffic. Once over the road though we had space again and, other than the frustration of having to lift the bikes over a few sties (more of a problem for the guys with panniers – turning the process into a two to three man job), meandered through some gorgeous woodland. It was milder, cooled by breezes from the sea and blowing through the shade of huge pines. We fell into a steady rhythm as the miles fell beneath us, the woodland slowly opening up into open sandy Downs' peaks and there it was, off in the distance – Eastbourne. From soft pine needles and plush foliage the terrain now changed into a windswept hard packed sandy trail with hardened salty grass verges. The trail was wide with plenty of room for us and the handful of hardy ramblers. There were little bumps for jumping over, the excitement bringing out the inner child in us all. As we approached the road that leads into Eastbourne we stopped on a bench to savour the moment. I felt weather worn and generally beaten up but I could sense that happy joy of completion looming.
It was a fast, winding, sweeping road down into the town. Traffic along the front seemed alien and I could barely muster the wits to deal with it. Finally, and almost unbelievably, we congregated at the pier for a final group shot. Looking at my slightly mad looking grin in the picture it's difficult to imagine the extent of how broken I was. Had I the strength I could have quite happily thrown my bike over the railings into the choppy English Channel. Instead me, Rob O Brown and Andy O went for a cold lager whilst awaiting a lift back to Crowborough where my wife was waiting for me. By now I was a smelly gibbering wreck of a man, social etiquette and general small talk were far beyond my means but had anyone braved the stench and engaged me in conversation I think I could have been mightily proud of the Thousand Yard Stare they would have been met with. That look was earned through blood, sweat and tears. You don't know, you weren't there man!
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| Success |
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| My knackered Trek 3800 |
