Another infrequent, intermittent, and wholly erratic despatch from the club run front lines – I think we now have enough evidence to conclude that any hopes that the new unpredictability of blerg publications will add a frisson of excitement to my random ramblings are wholly misplaced.

Nothing of any great import has occurred since my previous posting. I was working a University Open Day on one of the weekends and nothing much happened on the other beyond a wholly unavoidable encounter with the deck. This occurred when a corner suddenly leapt out of nowhere and caught me by surprise (i.e. I was travelling too fast and the corner was much tighter than expected) – my wheels slid out and I came down like a bag of hammers. The road had a really good attempt to smooth off some of my rough edges and filed away anything that protruded down my left-hand side – ankle, knee, hip, elbow, and pinkie finger were all scuffed and abraded, and I developed a lump roughly the same size and shape as a small egg (UK standard/free-range, grade 5 to 7) on my temple.

Luckily the damage was purely superficial and I was able to remount and continue home, the Bike unscathed apart from two rough gouges that cut through the bar tape and down to the metal. The same couldn’t be said about my jersey, which was shredded at the elbow, or my helmet which took a ding and will need replacing sooner, rather than later. Three weeks on and I’m largely recovered, the only visible marks being the bruising on my hip which has faded to a jaundiced, sickly yellow, and the black crater on my elbow the size and depth of something you wouldn’t be surprised to observe on the dark side of the moon.

This Saturday I set out under sullen clouds that looked leaden and laden, poised to unburden themselves of their heavy rain at any moment. It had tipped it down relentlessly all night and just across the Scottish border weather alerts were in place as they were subject to over 20 cm of rain in a few hours and some very severe flooding. I was convinced we were in for an enforced soaking too, but miraculously, not a single drop fell on our heads during the ride, although we still got a soaking regardless.

Approaching the bridge, the cones were out to control parking outside the rowing club and it was obvious that some event was planned, but there were few crews, team buses, or cars about. I later learned that a Long Distance Sculling event had been planned, but was cancelled due to a high and fast river flow and resulting debris.

Despite the ever-present threat of rain, the weather was muggily warm and I’d shed the first layer, my gilet, long before I reached the meeting place. It still wasn’t quite as temperate as Brassneck would have me believe, and I never did regret wearing tights, despite his ridicule.

I watched Crazy Legs emerge from the overcast gloom, his fluffy white hair shining like a beacon. Surely it wasn’t so warm that he’d decided he had to ride without a helmet?

“Have you forgotten something?”

“What’s that then?”

I indicated his bare bonce.

“Oh, shit,” he declared and scuttled back home to get his helmet. At least, unlike the Prof, he didn’t have to raise his hands and feel all around his naked head to realise he had indeed forgotten his helmet.

Meanwhile, the Enigma cruised past, going faster than I’ve seen, but looking just as calm and unruffled as ever.

The ride briefing concluded with the suggestion that we travel in one group and a note to look after the new riders, an excuse for OGL to vent his well-worn complaint that the rides were getting faster and faster (they aren’t), and his idea we should only ever travel at the pace the slowest rider could maintain. He concluded that he’d been discussing it with his ex-racing buddies and declared that our rides had become thoroughly anti-social affairs. Brassneck countered that he found the rides supremely friendly and very sociable, where everybody looked after everyone else, but apparently, his views didn’t count because he’d never put a number on his back and raced and he hadn’t logged ‘over 600,000 miles’ on a bike.

Having delivered his rant about our anti-social behaviour, OGL rode through a red light, up onto the pavement, and down the cycle lane in splendid isolation, leaving us all trailing in his wake to catch up if and when we could.

A few mile further on and approaching Dinnington, Brassneck accelerated up to the front to tell us that a small group were off the back and we needed to slow down. We duly slowed, and the group caught up, including OGL who immediately started screaming that, contrary to all the evidence, no one ever looked back, or waited for others to catch up …

A naturally incensed Brassneck confronted an almost always irate OGL and both forcibly suggested the other should travel until they were somewhere else and far removed from their present location … and on we went, but now in two distinct warring camps.

The rest of the ride was then a pleasant, but stop-start affair as we waited at the top of the hills for the new girl and were frequently slowed to negotiate numerous, massive, road-spanning puddles. It really had rained quite heavily the night before.

At one such stop, Mini Miss explained that the service of her Winter Bike had set her back over £700 as she’d had the chainrings, chain, cassette, and various other things she didn’t know the name of replaced.

“The thingamajig?” someone suggested.

“The dinger?” I added, remembering the time that the Garrulous Kid had been inordinately attached to a still somewhat mysterious dinger on his bike.

“Hmm, I’m getting a whole new winter bike for not much more £700,” Brassneck mused.

“This bike was just £160,” I countered, indicating the shiny bike, but ultimately losing the race to the bottom to Aether, who’d bought a frame for just £25 and built it up from bits and pieces he’d found just lying around – and apparently not, as Brassneck slyly suggested, “just lying around in a bike shop.”

As we closed in on the cafe, Brassneck noted that we’d averaged less than 15mph across the ride, which he declared was sub-Bimble pace. So, no rain, but my lower half was pretty much soaked through, and a very slow pace, but I was still tired and heavy-legged.

At the cafe, Not Anthony pounced on what he thought was a mega slice of ginger cake, only to find it was actually two slices. To avoid disappointment, he bought them both.

Meanwhile, Liam the Chinese rockstar enjoyed his cake choice so much that he went back for seconds and then insisted on sharing it with anyone nearby. I tell you, this sharing of cake is not the norm for anti-social club rides. Crazy Legs noted this perverse and unorthodox behaviour and suggested the club committee would be informed immediately.

As we left, I retrieved Crazy Legs’ gilet from where he’d forgotten it, hung forlornly on the back of his chair. I reunited it with its absent-minded owner.

“Thanks. I forgot my specs, as well,” he confessed.

“Oh, where are they?” I wondered, preparing to go back inside to retrieve them.

“In the shed back home …”

Riiiiight …

We split into two groups for the ride back, which was better as we could push the pace up and get the blood flowing again. We were even able to increase our average speed until it was firmly back into full-Bimble orbit, which I think secretly pleased Brassneck.

There were still two or three more inland seas to negotiate though and they must have fully washed my bike clean of any remaining lubricant, as climbing the Hienous Hill toward home, my drivetrain was starting to chirrupp like a sack of disturbed canaries telling me it was time to stop.