Contrasts

Christ it’s stunning, Christ it’s bleak. That pretty much sums up the rides to and from work one day in October. I decided to take the scenic route, so dragged the freshly re-gravelised (I hate that word but it seemed fit for purpose) Peregrine out the night before and gave it the once over.

Set up for the ‘interesting’ conditions that’ll soon be here. 38t single ring with an 11-42 cassette makes climbing nice and easy, sealed Shimano square taper bottom bracket is bullet proof and puts up with all the crap without a moan. The tyres are 700×48 Rene Herse Oracle Ridges. Jury is still out on these to be honest, but I’ll give them a couple of months and see what happens. Frame bag is a custom order from Re-strap, a frame pump fits neatly one side, the other has a waterproof and down jacket stuffed in. It’s heavy like this but it does the job asked of it quite nicely.

The weather looked as if it was taking a turn for the worse for the rest of the week at least, so I thought I’d get in one last dryish ride in along Plumpton plain. On the off chance it was going to be a nice sunrise I also took a flask of tea. Winching up the bridleway round the back of the prison, the first tinge of day had just started to make an appearance. By the time I got to the race course something spectacular had started to make an appearance behind me. The wind was up, a tropical storm originating in the Caribbean was spending the last of its effort here, so it was a warm wind, at odds with the time of year. What it meant though was that there were breaks in the cloud cover and a hint of pink was showing.

Blatt along the bridleway of doom and then on up to Blackcap. The temperature was noticeably rising as I got on to the more exposed sections and by the time I got to the trig point I was regretting the longs I had on. I hopped off the bike and walked it down to my favourite sitting spot, but when I looked back east something special was happening. There was a half decent inversion going on, the mist laying across the low weald looking fluffier than normal and the suns light had just started to make a serious impression, I took a couple of snaps than sat down and poured a cup of tea.

Then the whole world went pink.

The low, scudding clouds, the high level stuff, the mist, the water vapour in the air, the dew on the grass, it all went pink. And purple and other shades of pinky purple I don’t even have the names for. It was spellbinding and I was the only person there to witness it, the Downs were deserted.

Five minutes later it was gone.        

Drop down the scarp slope, along the entertaining bridleway, past the vineyard and up to work.

11 or so hours later, it’s raining, I’ve been straight on in to a headwind for the last 5 miles, I’m grinding up the steepest bit of Streat Bostal, my glasses are so wet and fogged up I can barely see and I can literally feel the sweat pouring down my arms inside my jacket.

Heading home, I could have taken anyone of the off road routes home without going anywhere near the Downs. There was a lot of moisture in the air, but it was warm and I’d be side on to the wind for the most part. Instead the genius idea of doing Streat Bostal came in to play. The tops of the Downs were lost in cloud, but even so it still seemed like a good idea.

Not long after that I’m at the top of Streat Bostal. Sweat is running from everywhere. What’s not wet from sweat is swiftly getting wet from the constant horizontal rain that’s pelting me. It’s warm though. Given I’m already soaking wet and figuring it can’t get much worse, I ditch the jacket. It’s the tail end of October and I’m stood on top of the Downs in bibs and a base layer, what the fuck.

My glasses are worse than useless in these conditions so they get ditched. I can’t see great, but it’s no biggy as visibility is 10-15m tops. The wind is actually pretty lairy up here. The first bits easy, SDW to Warningore Bostal, a blind man could follow this which is handy, ‘cos I can’t see eff all. Two dark figures appear out the mist. Middle age walkers.

‘You’re brave’ the man pipes up.

I’m not, I’m just daft and to be honest if I could see, it would actually be quite entertaining up here.

There’s a gate up here somewhere, I know the rise and fall of this short section pretty well, so I know when to start slowing before it appears.

Now is where it gets interesting. Visibility has really dropped, I’m skirting Blackcap and there’s no real path here. On a clear day that’s no issue, even when its dark, the silhouettes of gorse and hawthorn let me know exactly where I am. This time however I’m in the middle of a twenty metre circle of identical looking grass. I can’t get lost on the Downs for goodness sake. The gate I need to get to is just over a K away. The ground doesn’t feel right here; it’s sloping too much to my right. Ah, I’ve let the bike run away a little and started to drop down too much, a little to the left and a gust of wind clears enough to let me see my favourite tree, a lone hawthorn by the side of a chalky path. I can see where I’m going now. That better, I can see the flattened grass that makes up this path, the fog closes in again but it’s ok, I can hear the hum of the pylons and the downwards gradient should mean the reappearance of the chalk path to the gate. Bingo.

Oh great green chalk. Green chalk that I can’t see. Cracking.

The bridleway up to the racecourse opens up. The three distinct paths crisscrossing the ankle high grass look like serpentine mirrors under the glare of my light.

Drop into town and race the traffic home.