Saturday was the third Gavin Husband Memorial Ride held in remembrance of our clubmate and friend who sadly died four years ago following a cardiac incident on the return leg of a club run he’d planned and led. For the first two iterations of this ride had been set against a suitably sombre backdrop of continuous heavy rain, this time around the heavens wept all night, but quit their lamentations with the rising of the sun and we were treated to a gloriously bright new dawn.

So a potentially dry run and the opportunity to ride the chalk-white 13, relieved of time-trial duties for the time being, was something to look forward to.

The roads were still soaking from the early rain, but the sun was out in full force and turned the spray from my wheels into diamond splinters as I sped down the Heinous Hill and out along the valley. Over the River and upstream the first boat from the rowing club had just launched, a bright white against the dark waters, while downstream the river shone like polished steel.

A stilt-legged heron stood motionless in the muddy shoals along the river bank, completely oblivious to my passage above and looking like it had been planted there forever, to be revealed only when the tide receded.

By the time I made the meeting point the sky had clouded over and was looking dark and quite ominous, generating debate about the likelihood of rain and whether the weather was warm (G-Dawg, predictably) or chill (Mini Miss).

I tracked the Enigma as he cruised silently past, still sticking with his routine, still doing his own thing, and still doing it with formidable cool.

Not Anthony put in a (re)appearance after a long absence and was taken to task by Crazy Legs for not submitting the necessary paperwork and permissions, and earning himself the new name of AWOL Eric for his troubles.

We had amassed close to 35 riders as Biden Fecht briefed in one of Gavin’s old routes and welcomed any of his friends who had joined us for the ride, before reminding us of the Just Giving page he’d set up so we could support the good work of the North East Air Ambulance. We split into three groups and off we went.

I dropped into the second group alongside the Garrulous Kid, fresh from somehow having stumbled his way into gainful employment, and we followed Brassneck and Ahlambra out onto the roads.

They did a good, long turn, taking us out past Shilverton before ceding the front, just as we turned, and suddenly found the wind picking up and blowing directly in our faces. On the front, half-wheeling me wasn’t quite enough for the Garrulous Kid, nor even full-wheeling me. Nope, he had to go one better and was enthusiastically intent on full-biking me (©Deuce, the previous week). Sigh.

It was during this period that Yet Another Paul announced he was feeling a small vibration in his old crank and set Brassneck off in a paroxysm of giggles. Silly goose.

The Garrulous Kids’s bike had obviously done something to offend its rider as he started to give it a right thrashing on the approach to Middleton Bank opening up a big gap, before he ran out of steam halfway up and we caught and passed him before the top.

He was at it again on the final approach to the cafe, bustling past Brassneck in a move that surprised no one. “I heard the flailing behind and knew exactly who was about to shoot past,” Brassneck acknowledged laconicly.

Our numbers had grown even more by the time all the groups reached the cafe, where we were met by Gavin’s widow. Richard of Flanders, who’d ridden with Gavin on that horrible day, spoke a little about his memories, recalling that it was during the COVID pandemic and we were restricting ourselves to groups of six and how Gavin had been easy company and kept him entertained with tales of his early years in cycling.

G-Dawg then announced the club had commissioned a memorial trophy which would be awarded each year to the rider who best embodied the club’s most positive values, before leading us in a minute’s applause. It seemed a fitting tribute to an absent friend.

The Red Max was at the cafe and seemingly enjoying a Roi Ubu phase, but promising a return to riding with us more regularly. That might liven things up a little and add a little entertainment. (No pressure, mate.)

The right home started off as a slow bimble that slowly increased in pace until we were scattered all up and down the route. I left the group and struck out for home alone, conscious that the wind seemed to be picking up and would be full-on in my face for most of the rest of the ride.

Crossing the river back to the civilised side and what I thought of as safety, I came off the bridge at the same instant as someone seemed to detonate a small thermobaric bomb overhead. The bike swayed alarmingly as it was caught in a sudden, powerful blast of swirling side wind and I was pelted by leaves, grit, and detached bits of tree. That was a bit weird.

Having survived, I then only had to tackle the ascent back up the Heinous Hill in a howling headwind. Done for another week.