8 minute read
Scrambled fried and frozen on a hard-boiled ride
I SHOULD NOT BE LEFT ALONE with an Ordnance Survey map – it results in all sorts of DIY loops, involving varying degrees of “off-roadiness”. But this was how my wife Kate and I kept our Audax dreams alive during the early 2020 restrictions. As soon as I learned that validation would recommence in April, I set my sights on doing one of the “hardboiled” Wessex series rides.
I’ve been pedalling round the area for much of my life, but it wasn’t until 2013 that I first rode the Dorset Coast – my first Audax. I had the feeling that I’d found a family of like-minded souls.
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I’m well aware that there are bigger concerns involving 2020 than my bikeriding, but having committed to a plan to tackle a Wessex rides route in preparation for LEL, I was gutted when the world came to a grinding halt. So as soon as restrictions eased I decided I should just get on and do it alone. Though it meant missing the legendary atmosphere, I’d get the spirit of the route. The result? – finding myself at 2am on a service station forecourt on a distinctly wintery April morning.
I know every inch of the Wimborne – Cranborne – Rockbourne stretch, and familiarity made me sluggish. There was a biting northerly headwind, and I crawled along, trying to conserve as much energy as possible. The Woodfords offered a little respite in the valley, the clouds lifting and letting the moon through, which made the going easier. I rolled into Amesbury and headed up to the 24-hour services at Solstice Park. Receipt gained and coffee drunk I rolled on over the A303 to the plain proper.
Over Larkhill, I watched a barn owl hunting – always a treat. As dawn broke the wind increased and it started to sleet. I’m fairly convinced that I don’t need any more character, but Salisbury Plain said otherwise. I’m very glad I lugged my extra clothing, including winter boots around.
The section off the plain and back into the lanes brought some respite from the wind, but meant some climbing. I was glad to be warm. I nearly missed a turn while staring up at Alfred’s Tower. Batcombe was very pretty for the info control and the lanes before and after were new, fun and flowing. The sleet unfortunately kept flurrying, making for some slippery road surfaces and no hope of hanging out and snacking with any comfort.
The weather finally perked up on the way across Somerset. Slowly my technical fabrics were stripped off and stashed in the saddle bag. I was starting to feel a bit feeble on the climb up to Ashcott, but then the Albion Pub swung into view. I thought about ordering something sensible, but caved in pretty promptly to a bacon, sausage and egg baguette, with additional black pudding. It went down well, but made me want to snooze on the grass rather than roll on across the Levels. These were a classic combination of reasonably easy going, but at the same time challenging riding due to road surface and navigation. I had to take a short detour after Burrowbridge due to a railway crossing being out of action. It was
Peter Trevis, frustrated by lockdown, took the chance of a 300km Wessex series ride over the hills and plains with gusto. He expected some gusts, but not the biting sleet and icy gales. This is his tale of tough return to Audax action…
PETER TREVIS
WORDS & PICTURES
The ancient Somerset Ridge
thankfully only about 10km total added mileage, so not panic-inducing.
Turning on to the Blackdown, the “Chateau Griffin” climb was a treat – grass up the middle, brick rubble in the pot holes, a thoroughly enjoyable bridleway upward. The subsequent climbing up the B-road saw the lid boil off the pot. I had to pull in at the top, soak up the view, curse my Gortex winter boots and toy with the idea of cutting my tights off at the knees. The following rollercoaster of technical navigation on new byways provided plenty of cool air. While rattling along, I tried to stuff down some peanut butter and jam sandwiches while attempting to stay out of the hedge.
My Garmin died just before Axminster, which is where I expected it to run out of battery. I knew the route home nearly off by heart. When I arrived at Axminster, I was quite alarmed to find I only had one hour in hand. I didn’t panic, as I’d intended to dawdle through to Axminster, as I needed all my minerals left for the return to Poole.
It was good and bad to be on to the return to Poole. Good, as navigation was easy, but bad, because it meant as I clawed my way towards Powerstock I could revisit the task ahead over and over again. The weather held out through until the very end of the climb up to Mount Pleasant. As if there’d been some apocalyptic event, my reward for reaching the summit, was to meet a dark and squally sky, and a lashing of sleet. By the time I’d descended to the next climb up to the Bedminster Road I was frozen.
Once up on the A-road I wrapped up before flying down into Chilfrome and Cattistock. I knew it was likely that everywhere would be shut. But I found a place selling home-cooked pizzas. A miracle! Then, when I learned there’d be a 25 minute wait, the penny dropped. I’d lost 20 minutes in the last section and still had some chewy climbs to get over. The pizza delay, plus eating time, put me into a time zone I didn’t like. I’d never had the sensation that time may be escaping quicker than I could claw it back. So, I settled for a photo as proof of passage and set off hard towards Poole. The pizza
On a roll… watching the weather sweep in towards Dorchester from Cerne Abbas
would have to wait for another time.
The climb out of Cattistock was enjoyable, as I didn’t have to go right into 4-Low. There was hope. The drop to the ford at Sydling was at warp speed. There was a half-moment where I thought I was going to be sensible and ride the foot bridge at the ford, but I had to give my winter boots some action and, after all, I needed to test out my posh new mudguards. Splashing through the ford put a smile on my face for a moment until I went back to pushing up over the hill.
Again, I dropped like a stone into Cerne, getting the brakes warm at the T-junction. I’d been riding all day with the right-hand bend of Piddle Lane in the front of my mind. It seemed to have doubled in length since my last visit, and I was completely unable to spin up any of it. The summit was only gained via some grunting and tacking. The reward was a wonderfully atmospheric sky. I stood and cooled down a few degrees while munching a chocolate bar, watching sleety squalls push towards Dorchester. I gathered myself, added some gloves and put my foot down towards the Piddle.
I wound it up from the Piddle. The roller-coaster across to Milton Abbas was windy, blowing hard into my face, but I knew the road well. But it was emptying the tank, and on the drags up towards Milton I struggled to keep a good rhythm. The last light was fading as I came up through The Street. Thankfully the dawdling earlier in the day was paying off, making the last of the hills enjoyable.
Finally, I got a push from the wind down towards the Winterbournes. Somehow, knowing the road seemed to make every section double the length. I could see the finish, and turned on Zombie Attack Mode, winding along the edge of the Drax estate and stamping up to Lychett knowing it was all down from here. I ploughed through the everquickening rain towards Upton. Even though I pedalled hard, the temperature had plummeted again. I had no choice but to pedal to keep the temperature up.
As I turned out over the bridge the full force of the northerly lifted me out of the saddle and I remained out until Asda where I controlled at glacial speed, unable to make any committing decisions – finally settling for some milk and a disappointing sausage roll. I stomped back to the car.
Hardboiled lived up to its name, description, mythology and my expectations. It was testing in every aspect, as advertised. On the way home in the car, I wrestled with the prospect of riding the Dorset Coast the following day. I decided – in for a penny, in for a pound. There would be fewer hills, and the bonus of company from my better half, and positively leisurely in comparison. So, what’s for breakfast then? Scrambled, fried or HARDBOILED…
