An early start from Molesey Boat Club with a route to Woking attracted Nor'westers as well as regular B riders.
Routing through Brooklands Heritage Trail seemed a fitting tribute to remembrance day. Brooklands Museum located in Weybridge holds deep historical significance for Remembrance Day and Armistice Day due to its major role as a wartime manufacturing and aviation hub.
During World War I and World War II, Brooklands was a massive center for aircraft design and manufacturing (such as Vickers and Hawker). Thousands of local workers, engineers, and test pilots built the planes that defended Britain, many of whom had family members fighting or lost in the conflict.
Welcome to Clive from Caterham, a new rider who rode behind Bob of Burgess Hill, and was safely backmarked by Mick from Morden on the afternoon leg.
Bob led Anne W, John A, Clive F, Mick, Chris H, Chris M, Keith, and Lillian away at 10:10 with Keith back marking.
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| Bob's team on Dodd's Bridge |
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| Team Steph approaching Brooklands |
Mick reports:
"We stopped cycling and got off our bikes at 11:00 for remembrance day two minute silence, even the traffic seemed to stop. The autumn colours were spectacular and the slippy tree routes on the path by the canal added an element of excitement. Lunch in The Herbert G. Wells was quick and efficient as usual, the martians seemed to be active across the road rearranging the Woking architecture. After lunch our group gained Sue C and Carolyn but Keith defected to Bernard’s group. Bernard’s group were delayed because of two punctures. More fun was had along the canal, winding paths and back lanes.
The 10:10 and 10:20 groups coalesced by Walton Bridge riding the last few miles as one group. Many of the group forked off for home but a few reached The Peasantry in Bushy park by 3:00pm, as planned, before dark."
I was conflicted over the 5 minute interval between groups as I wanted everyone moving off quickly to get round and back and indeed all groups hit Wetherspoons before the lunch rush so we were all served quickly. I didn't take account of groups stopping for photos/punctures so there was some friendly intermingling. By the time we got to Walton Bridge I wasn't completely sure who was behind me but the ever dependable Tim C accompanied Anne; Chris H headed for a tarmac route and various others arrived at Bushy Park behind Tony who, knowing the route, guided the final punctured party on the last few miles.
Thanks Davie and Julie and Sabina and Keith for seeing Bernard through his roadside repairs.
~ Steph
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| Hi Ho, Hi Ho ... |
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| ... It's off to work we go ... |
Bernard writes:
We parked our bikes outside the Molesey Boat Club by the Thames. It was raining and cold. The ground was mud and grit wet. The Thames was still and flat and quiet. It shone a steel colour.
I walked up wooden steps. The room was large, long and wide. There were wooden tables. I scanned left to right. There were only a few people. Some were chatting and others looking at their phones. Two or three in yellow jackets were at a table to my right, cyclists.
More cyclists arrived. A new face, “hi”, we shook hands. There were questions about the route. I tried to give answers. The coffee was bitter on my tongue. It was time to start the ride.
We cycled along the Thames and then the river Wey towards Woking. Shards of stone and flint and slate slashed at my tyres. My tyres dug heavy into the drenched track. The mud spat at my legs. Then I felt the metal rim of my front wheel cut down hard onto stone. The vibrations sliced through my flesh knocking on bone. “I’ve got a flat... have to stop”. This was at Dodd’s bridge on the Wey. It was cold and riders were hungry and they had appointments. “We’re nearly there...” “We’ll follow the group in front”. Some stayed.
I took my gloves off. I pulled hard at the release lever, and it bit deep into the soft tissue of my palm. I pressed down on the tube valve and released the remaining air. I tried to push the tyre inwards off its ridge on the wheel, but it was taught and the strength in my fingers gave out. A fellow cyclist helped, “that's tight, real tight...” On the bridge the riders were talking and smiling. My fellow cyclist and me took it in turns to slam the tyre glider under the tyre’s steel edge. With my left thumb I pressed the tyre to the other side of the wheel rim and raised it up, a millimetre or two, and with my right hand shoved the glider’s sharp blade down and under and wedged it there firmly. But I couldn’t get the glider to slide. “It won’t budge”. The tyre snapped back and spat the glider out. Again, we repeated the process and again the tyre spat the glider out. Another attempt but this time I held the wheel tight with my left hand feeling the cold, heartless steel of the rim and spokes pinching and biting my tendons. With my right hand, the solid, rigid, cast-iron of the plastic glider gouged the gentle soft crook of my hand made by thumb and forefinger. I pushed down and felt a slight shift. I inhaled and my lungs were filled. I pushed down again, really, really pushed. The glider’s sharp edge hurt, too much, and then it gave and it skated free and along the edge of the wheel releasing the tyre.
I looked up at the bridge. My fellow riders were there, chatting. I rushed to replace the old tube with the new. We resumed the ride and my tyres felt good and rode smoothly. Beyond the bridge and still on the dirt track. Across Pyrford Common with bits of twig, thorn and splinters scratching and grabbing at my tyres. We reached the tarmac roads of Woking and shortly before arriving at the Weatherspoon pub I felt again the sudden strike of metal on stone. We parked our bikes. On the other side of the road there were huge diggers tearing at the rubble of a downed building.
Outside the pub a man stood alone, smoking. He looked at the diggers across from him. He said nothing.
I stayed outside with my bike. I repeated the earlier process except this time I looked for the source of the puncture. The inside of the tyre was dry and hard. I carefully felt for something sharp. I felt the point of the tiny shard which had cut into the tyre. I bent the inside of the tyre out and this enlarged the cut and I saw the splinter. I pushed it back out with the tip of a small plier. It fell into my palm. It was so small, not even a millimetre in length. It must have broken off a larger stone. I felt for other spikes in the underbelly of the tyre. There were none.
The afternoon ride was back to the Pheasantry cafe in Bushy Park. We rode along the side of the Basingstoke canal. I saw ducks, moorhens and swans. I saw a ripple made by some fish taking an insect. My bike rode smoothly. The tyres were full of air and cushioned the rough track. The sun was out and gave the greens, blues and greys a golden and orange tint. Rusty coloured leaves were gently falling and layering the ground about us. The canal was still and clear and I could see the stones, plants and earth beneath.
At the Pheasantry I sat with my fellow riders. We had coffee and tea. We talked, “it was a great ride”, “a glorious day”. It was getting dark as I got on my bike to go home. It was colder than it had been all day. The sun was going down. I rode home and thought about how I would clean my bike for the next ride.
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My fellow riders were: Sabina, Carolyn, Sue, Julie, Fixie Dave, Ian and Keith. This great route was provided by Steph. Thank you to Julie for superbly back marking.
~ Bernard
