In what is fast becoming something of an unwelcome 2023 tradition, Saturday morning was once again marred by heavy rain showers. This time they struck just as I started downhill and had me pull over to the roadside to drag on my rain jacket. Again. The rain meant I joined early arrivals G-Dawg and Jimmy Mac, huddled in the dank shelter of multi-storey car park when I reached the meeting point and it worked to keep our ride numbers down to just 18 brave and/or foolhardy souls. This did notably include a new rider, however, and she must have instantly knocked a decade or so off our average age. Brassneck arrived in a squeal of disks as he tried coaxing “shave-and-a-haircut” out of teeth-grinding cacophony his wet brakes emitted under duress. I suggested it sounded more like the mating call of desperate whales rather than an actual tune, but you know it was probably no worse than the squall of bagpipes, or the sound of nails scraping down a blackboard. G-Dawg started to brief in the route for the day but stumbled when he noticed Carlton amongst the assembled and attentive riders. He did a slow-double take between his bike computer and Carlton to verify that it was only 9.08 and our metronomic rider was indeed uncharacteristically early. G-Dawg apologised for his momentary lapse as our entire world was turned upside down. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to see you there and it threw me,” he explained, before pressing bravely on. He’d planned the route with the forecast of a strong westerly wind in mind, the plan being to push out as far north and west as we could, with the intention of catching a long eastwards run for home with a direct tailwind. Well, that was the theory, but as G-Dawg acknowledged the wind had shifted and was now coming from the northwest so we’d be battering directly into it on the way out, with only limited benefits when it came to the return down the long eastward leg. We decided to split into two groups, with Jimmy Mac insisting there’d be no fast and slow groupings, just two “normally” paced groups, while slowly adjusting his “Full Tuck” casquette low over his eyes and shaking out his leg muscles. Uh-huh. Yeah, believe that if you will. Remarkably, miraculously the 18 of us split into two perfectly equal groups of 9 and away we went. It was a bit of a slow start, but we picked up the pace as we struck out toward Whalton. I was on the front with Mini Miss as we took the climb out of the village, with Brassneck trailing a little behind and ransacking his dank and dark memory banks to find a good work/ride song, before settling on a minor Spandau Ballet hit (which I mainly recall for the astonishingly cringey video.) “You’ve gotta work ’til you’re musclebound,” he intoned in time to his thrusting pedal strokes as we attacked the slope. “All night long,” I sang back. “What? No,” he complained. He tried again, “Work ‘til your musclebound,” “All night long,” I once again added. “Wait! No, no, not that song. What are you doing, you’re ruining it.” “I’m singing the next line?” I tried convincing him, but he thought I was mischievously channeling some horrid Lionel Ritchie thing just to put him off. “No!” It took an intervention from Mini Miss to convince him I was right and singing the correct follow-up line. She then decided the club could do with a good army marching song. “Our cycling club talks utter shite …” I tried for starters. “But we can ride all day and night,” she improvised. Sound off! Yeah, OK, it needs a little work. At Scots Gap we were flagged down by Yet Another Paul (not to be confused with Another Paul), who’d broken a spoke and found his wheel was so out of true that he couldn’t ride his bike. He’d been jettisoned by the front group when (to absolutely no one’s surprise) things had turned a little competitive and the pace had been ratcheted up accordingly. Yet Another Paul would eventually make his way to the nearby cafe, where the owner took pity on him and kindly loaded rider and bike into his van, taking them to the nearest town to arrange for transport home. Onto the long eastern run now, which G-Dawg promised was flat. Well, except for the bit just before Hartburn. And then just past Hartburn. And just beyond Dyke Neuk too. Oh, and don’t forget the climb out of Mitford. As we approached Hartburn, Brassneck started pushing the pedals a bit harder to build up speed for the descent and get a good run out of the dip. Except we were still at least 3 corners away from the village and all his efforts were just a bit premature. We re-grouped after the climb and pushed on through Dyke Neuk. Somewhere along the way, Brassneck added to our warning call signs of pots, puddles, gravel, and car back, with a bold new entry: Badger! Not sure it’ll get much use, but it’s good to have in the arsenal. “We turn off to Mitford soon, so we’re going right just around … here.” Brassneck declared. Except his inner Sat Nav still seemed to be ever so slightly awry. No right turn materialised. “Ok. So … about here then …” Nothing. “Round this corner.” Nope. “Down here …” No. “Here?” Nu-uh. “Ok. We’re going right in a little while.” We did. Eventually. The climb out of Mitford disposed with, then it was just the longer-than-it-seems, but straight and true run to the cafe at Kirkley for coffee and cake. The merits of having a coffee stop toward the end of the ride were debated with no real conclusion. A late stop obviously delays the timing of the break, which can be bad, but means there isn’t far left to get home once you’re done and dusted, which can be a definite advantage. G-Dawg has moved on to de-caff coffee – perhaps his only concession to his recent heart issues which he’s found to be stubbornly absent and impossible to replicate ever since returning from his brief spell of enforced inactivity. He’d suggested a route back via Saltwick Hill, which I always find short and sharp enough to threaten an emetic rush so soon after the cafe, and a very real possibility of reintroducing you to your recently ingested cake and coffee. I think Not Anthony discovered the Mint Aero traybake wasn’t the ideal ballast for this sort of climb, but he managed to survive and we pushed on unscathed. The rest was plain sailing, but I arrived home to find I only had half a rear mudguard left, the other half having broken off and disappeared somewhere out on the roads. I’m assuming this happened while I was riding back alone, as no one mentioned it, or complained that the tiny stub that was left wasn’t really providing them with any protection. Hopefully, next week will be brighter and I won’t need any mudguards, but given our recent run of weather that’s not a gamble I’m confident of winning, so the only question now is how will I fare in the great Haribo sweepstakes?