We all have our rituals, from the priest laying out his altar on a Sunday to the driving test examiner carefully outlining test procedure to a nervous candidate
Preparation for my mid-winter night rides exceeds the time and intricacies of both. The requisite clothing must be rounded up. A cycling jersey will spring with glee from a mountain of cycling clothes stuffed into my corner of the bedroom wardrobe, the waterproof jacket hangs dripping next to the bib longs and, reliable as ever, my shoes are sat warming upon the boiler.
The ritual then moves on to the pre-ride "wail: Helen, my wife, turns the volume of the TV up a notch as I cry "Have you seen my gloves anywhere ?". She usually ignores the first incantation, but knows it’s unlikely that I’ll replace whingeing with actually looking for them. With a heavy sigh she rises, walks a short distance and plucks my gloves from a half empty radiator. "I’m sure I looked there ?" I offer … she gives me that knowing look.
I’m starting to gear up. I open the overloaded bathroom cabinet and a contact lens box flies out along with the detritus of numerous other holidays. Lenses are stuffed into unwelcoming eyes and spasms of blinking eventually settle them into place. A three minute rummage liberates my energy powder from the pan cupboard and scientifically I stuff a load of it into my camelback, swamping it with a random volume of water. Helen stares in resignation as I prise all of the TV controllers apart for AAA batteries for my rear lights, furiously glancing at the battery recharger I never manage to use.
I attempt to attach a moth eaten set of overshoes and notice that "over"shoes is becoming an "over"statement due to the number of holes they sport. My car toolkit is raided for cable ties and lights are attached to my full suspension bike. I take a long look at my nice clean, well maintained hardtail, but yet again fall victim to the comfort and predictability of full suspension. The Camelback is pulled over the waterproof, helmet located and jammed onto my head, gloves pulled on, then off, speedo attached, gloves pulled on, then off, drinking tube pulled over my back and into position, gloves pulled on, then off, rear light attached, gloves pulled on, then off, Camelback removed, pump and CO2 canister shoved in, gloves pulled on, then off, garage door opened, bike wheeled outside, door shut, gloves pulled on, bike mounted and I’m off.
This has taken nearly half an hour: Holy Communions are finished in this time period, you’re over halfway through your driving test in half an hour. I do this nearly twice a week, but it still takes me half an hour every time. As you can see, night riding needs ritual and careful preparation.
I’m now half a mile down the road and heading for the Ridgeway, it’s still light. I’ve learnt to leave home 40 minutes before dark thus ensuring that I get to glimpse sunset at the highest point of the ride. Sunset is an essential ingredient of a West Country night ride; whilst our landscape may be bettered, our sunsets are just as good as anybody else’s.
I’m doing my post departure checklist:-
• drink in Camelback (slurp) Ugh ! too concentrated - check,
• Creaking pedals – check
• Poorly lubed chain – check
• Worn brake pads, part functioning rear brake – check
• Poor shifting at the front – check
• Forgotten camera – check
• Twisted Camelback straps – check
• Inadequate and over thin tyres for the conditions - check
I usually survive, so I chunter on along the road and over the motorway. I often pause and look down sanctimoniously at the drivers trapped within the confines of a carriageway with little choice of line or technical challenge. My journey will be harder then theirs, it’s going to have variety and difficulty and sometimes an element of sheer beauty. If they’re unlucky their journey may be punctuated with an accident, otherwise they await white lines and featureless signposts.
I’m climbing steeply on a winding singletrack road, past the radio mast and swooping down and up again. I greet the "Calley Arms" and write myself a mental note to carry the "price of a pint" next ride. I’ve written this mental note every week for two years, one day I’ll go in.
The road gives up to bridleway, tyres sink into mud, but are below the surface by the remains of the summer grass, my heart rate soars. This section is the worst of the ride, over a mile of waterlogged bridleway shredded by horses hooves and still suffering from the light ploughing. I’m really breathing now as tyres fail to bite and the rear wheel spins in the sodden clay, I stray close to the barbed wire fence and glance nervously at the shredded right glove, testament to a recent entanglement. But tonight I’m going to make it, I’ve cleared the most strenuous section and smile as I join the gritty doubletrack and climb towards the Ridgeway escarpment.
Light is fading, I’m sweating into my three layers as I grind my way up the steep road climb to Barbury Castle. It’s quiet up here and I can hear every pimple on the tyre make contact then part company with the tarmac below. Pushing on the middle ring, the devil on my shoulder tells me that "it’s time for granny", however, my fitness angel prevails and I persevere, my reward being another dose of sanctimony as I crest the hill and head towards "Four Mile Clump".
I’ve timed it well tonight and admire the wild tapestry of colours. The sun is dragged below the Marlborough Downs leaving me encircled in the cold darkness. I clip in and follow my breath down a wide chalky descent and into the "water section". This section of the Ridgeway is often frequented by our cousins in 4x4’s. They have created a series of narrow lakes, two feet wide and almost as deep. Once I took the time to find a line above, tonight I throw caution, a bottom bracket and two hubs to the wind as I drive ankle deep through each "puddle". My waterproof socks fill with freezing puddle water and my arse ambient temperature is lowered by several degrees as the water seeps down my back and into my welcoming underpants.
Giggling, I meet the road again and turn sharp left past some old country houses and onto a steep climb. On a previous ride I followed something large, black and "cat like" down this section. The recent memory accelerates my climb towards the rolling downs surrounding Avebury. It’s a full moon and I catch an owl in my headlamps as it sweeps effortlessly up into the shadows.
A dirt track road accompanies me through a herd of restless sheep who herald my efforts with bleating and general melee. I push hard up a steep stony climb, cross a smooth grassy field and rejoin the Ridgeway. I’m alone, sweaty and very reflective.
I do a lot of thinking on solo night rides. The solitude, remoteness and contrasting environment allow me to line up the day’s thoughts and make some sort of sense of them. My latest programming problem is solved as I navigate a muddy bridleway, a long rut gives me the concentration necessary to decide how to deal with a particularly obnoxious client, a breathless climb allows me to reach a decision concerning a family problem. Tonight I simply exult in my surroundings, it’s dark, silent and I’m following the tracks of Neolithic Man. Scattered stones tell the story of part completed tombs or sites of worship. A representative of every one of the local species have taken the trouble to cross my path at least once this evening and I’ve managed to ride 15 miles without a puncture.
I hit a section of ruts. I haven’t got my light mountings quite right and am jostled off line by mud ridges, the odd boulder and a tinge of less than confident riding. However, I’m still enjoying it and let out a muted "whoop" as I leave the ruts and crank down the wide open descent that skirts an ancient hill fort and leads me back home.
I’m tired now and spin the last few miles at a leisurely pace. I’ve survived another solo night ride, I’ve been out there even though its cold, wet and the riding conditions are atrocious.
Back home the ritual continues. I push the garage door and divest the bike of all electrical gadgets. A liberal dose of water from the hose transfers all the mud from my bike to my driveway, car and garden wall. My neighbours’ curtain twitches in time with the "What’s that bloody idiot doing now ?" conversation.
My muddy sweaty apparel is parted from my body and dumped "expectantly" close to the washing machine my wife gives out another long deep sigh.
Sweaty panted, I stride into the house and the kids fall about laughing at the muddy apparition that was once their father. I look longingly at the kids fish fingers which are rapidly snatched from my grasp and presented to the children. The computer signals 15 new emails and my mobile phone tells me that I have 7 missed calls, I couldn’t care less as I drag myself up to my bedroom and fall into the embrace of warm dry clothes.
So, to reflect upon the title of this article, what is the anatomy of a West Country Night Ride ?
It’s made of mud, water, hills, valleys, roads and a bit more mud thrown in for good measure. A liberal sprinkling of sunset adds colour and cold often gives it that defining edge. It wouldn’t exist without a bike, some lights and a few pieces of rudimentary equipment. Ritual defines mine and it often produces thought, reflection and exhilaration. I’m sure that West Country night rides have a very similar anatomy to those elsewhere, they don’t need a recipe book, why not cook one up for yourself.
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