April is festooned with classic cycle races, not least the Paris-Roubaix, a crackpot of spitting cobbles, equivalent to running the 800 metres bare foot over burning coals. Not on the pro calendar... yet... surely only a matter of time, comes the Leigh Challenge. This is a little known (very little... in fact not known at all) one day tour into the burning furnace of the Surrey Hills. It attracts riders from all corners of the... (globe?... no...) all corners of... no... better said within a few miles of Leatherhead, perhaps... anyway riders who have been on holiday somewhere, anywhere, or not, who knows. In any event, whatever holidays we had been or were going on we all lined up for the photo shoot. All of us with killer instincts, ready to devour any opponent who so much sniffled in our direction. Bernard Hinault, ‘The Badger’, snarling as always, Eddy Merckx, ‘The Cannibal’ smiling with sadistic intent and Luis Ocaña with a fixed straight line stare ready to tear away never to be seen again.
“How’s your write up coming along? You’re a little late with it” Sabina called over to me as I sat typing away, one finger at a time, cigarette hanging from mouth, in a dark corner of a rundown café in the backstreets of Paris. “Non, Je ne regrette rien” sang a lonely heartbroken soul in deep guttural French barely rasping the smoke laden atmosphere. Think of a black and white photo, creased and torn at the edges, of a pensive Jean-Paul Sartre and you will have a pretty accurate picture of the scene. “I hope you’re not getting carried away and letting your imagination run away with you... remember it’s a cycling club and people will want to know how the ride went and some information about the route!” “Yes Yes...!” I replied. The artist’s genius is forever pierced by the trifles of everyday mundane life. But there’s a kernel of truth in what she says... a bit of info’ about what actually happened wouldn’t hurt and would act as a backdrop to the thrust of this piece and so here goes; we started off at the café in Nonsuch with a couple joining us at The Old Moat (Dawn and Carolyn). Altogether there were about 20 or so riders (the record books will have the exact number... who has those, I don’t know). It was cold and grey and we were all wondering if we had made the right choice in coming out when we could have remained warmly tucked in bed. There were one or two hills (Church Lane and Trumpets Hill Road) to ratchet up our appetites in time for our arrival at The Plough (no pre-ordering required) in Leigh. By then the sun was out and we were all in good spirits. Back on our bikes, one last mighty climb up Tilehurst Lane and then the long flat straight into Leatherhead. The weather held for us and those of us who had not peeled off home enjoyed coffee and cake at Charlie and Ginger. A final run back to Nonsuch and the ride was done. Just as well since the morning nip in the air had returned. And now back to the ‘real’ report...
And then he went, without warning... Ocaña shot off recklessly with no thought of what lay ahead... pursued by hired assassins, Merckx and Hinault and behind them the pack of hyenas, known in polite circles as the peloton, baying for blood. At the foot of the first climb this group of three had broken the peloton’s chains... wrought iron, forged in the cycle furnaces of France, Belgium, Italy, Spain, Ireland, England and others where uncontrolled flames lashed and spat the steel of which now cut into the muscles and sinews of every limb on every rider. Then, suddenly... “You’d better submit your report or people will have forgotten the ride!” This was pressure, the pressure every writer comes up against... the dreaded deadline. It tore at my soul but reality had struck hard. A deep cutting gash of a wound. I had to tear myself away from the road to literary greatness and get the report on the blog. Then I heard his whisper in my ear, Hemingway, “There will always be a blank page waiting”. He was right and he should know. A quick read over and the report was on the blog. No one would ever know who won this year’s Leigh Classic but a local upcoming reporter, Norman Mailer, informed me that they were still racing... it was not over... those greats of yesteryear are still out there, riding, racing, hurting... their spirits live on forever.
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I hope everyone had a great and enjoyable ride.
My fellow cyclists were; Sue B, Lorraine, Karen, Anne C, John C, Ken J, Lillian, Dawn, Karl, Carolyn B, Paul, Justine, Jackie, Sharon, Robert, Colin L, Rob, Stuart and Sabina.
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All of us at the start, barring Dawn and Carolyn who joined us The Old Moat
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