"If I had a blanket mate, I could sit here all night"

 

Thursday 23^rd July 2021, 6:45pm. I’m marshalling at my club’s (Great Yarmouth Cycling Club) 10 mile time trial. I’m at my usual spot, waiting for the riders to come through in around 20 minutes. My phone pinged, it was Jules Claxton. “Still up for an evening ride tomorrow? I’ve just cancelled my work for the weekend”. Excellent! “Hell yeah! No offence I was going anyways lol” I replied.

Throughout the week I had been talking with Jules and Johnny Lincoln about a long ride, probably a century, from early evening into the night. I soon found out Lincoln couldn’t make it due to work commitments. It was a bit hit and miss with Jules regarding his work. I had told my wife of my intentions, great if these intentions were with two or one of my best mates, but if not it was going to be me, myself and I.

I had decided to ride my trusty old winter bike, my Beone Briza, my most favourite bike and one of the least financially valuable bikes in the fleet, but the most sentimental bike for me. A bike that I got from Chain Reaction back in 2008. I call it Trigg’s broom. If you like Only Fools and Horses then you may be able to guess why I call it this. Basically, it’s not the same bike that I had in 2008, it’s the same frame and forks, but everything has been changed over the years. Watch this video at for a better explanation;

Anyways, me and Jules decided on Cromer. I came up with a route, and as always he agreed. You just point that bloke in a certain direction and he goes. If I aimed him at a brick wall he would probably ride into it!

After a quick bit of Google Mapping, I calculated that the route would be just under 100 miles, no way was I finishing at 97 miles or something stupid. We agreed to meet at 6:30pm on the Friday. I left early and rode for 8 miles to our meeting point and not the direct 3 miles. I didn’t want to be making miles up in the middle night, I’d rather go a long way round while fresh.

The forecast was great, 16C, a north easterly wind, clear skies with a full moon, wonderful! What more do you need for a night time ride.

We met up, talked about the route, a rough idea of our stops and estimated the times, Cromer for 10:15pm was the estimated time of arrival there, a decent stop and back in Lowestoft for around 3am. Jules laughed at the amount of frame bags I had on the bike and I laughed at how much stuff he had rammed in his jersey pockets. For some strange reason I started to justify my seemingly excessive amount of bags, I started to explain what was in each one and why I needed it. We left Lowestoft and headed towards Somerleyton and then Haddiscoe. Passing a newly cut field of hay, a farmer was bailing his precious crop with an old style looking tractor. Simultaneously, we both commented how brilliant it looked in the evening sunshine, a quintessential view of a British harvest.

We spent quite a bit of time talking about Jules’ adventures, primarily his ride in 2012 from the UK, through Europe into Africa and finishing in Rwanda. An awe inspiring journey of trials and tribulations, a feat of endurance not many will make. I didn’t know Jules then, but I wish I did. Finding out more about this journey over time makes up for not knowing Jules back then. Follow the link below for some of Jules' fantastic work;

http://www.julianclaxtonphotography.com/

We pulled up at Reedham Ferry and got on near enough straight away, excellent timing! We got off the ferry and joked about just staying at The Reedham Ferry Inn all evening drinking beer and forgetting the idea of Cromer. All of a sudden there was a huge rumble, not from huge towering cumulus thunder clouds but from somewhere in my anatomy, this wasn’t a hunger rumble. “Jeez! That doesn’t sound or feel good!” I said as I then explained my thoughts to Jules that won’t be repeated here. Thankfully this feeling soon wore off.

We headed through Reedham and onto Freethorpe and agreed to keep spinning and having a stop at Wroxham for an ice cream at one of the many tourist type places in the town . We said how we were making good progress, we weren’t going exceptionally fast, we hadn’t stopped chatting about anything and everything , but the miles were spinning by quickly. Before we knew it we were in Acle and heading towards South Walsham. Although this area is far from new to me, Jules’ knowledge of the roads was far greater than mine. He suggested to deviate from my suggested route a little, “It’s alright mate, I’m always out here!”, a saying that we kept laughing at as Jules had said numerous times already this evening, although he’s rarely in these places, just more often than myself. This would also interfere with my cross bar list of villages and towns that we were passing through.

We passed Woodforde’s Brewery and commented how great it looked. “I’d love a pint, but I know that would be an hour gone” I said. We said we would return on another ride.

Nearing Wroxham I looked around at some recently built houses. They looked about as interesting as a carpet shop with the personality of a gnome, absolutely gorgeous to the gullible and ridiculous to me. Anything to make the banks more wealthy I guess. Without any verbalisation of my thoughts, Jules came alongside me “Look at the state of them!”, I laughed at once again our thoughts were the same.

We arrived in Wroxham at 8:30pm. We said how quickly time had gone. The touristy food type places that I thought would be open and packed were actually closed. A chippy, Chinese and the McDonald’s were open. We had talked about chips, but not yet, we decided to wait until Cromer for those.

Roy’s of Wroxham was open, a department store with near enough everything you need for daily  living at the highest price possible. I clip clopped my way through the store like a lady in high heels, the cleats on cycling shoes do make anyone sound rather feminine on tiled floors. Looking for something random for Jules, I ignored my thoughts of buying over priced slippers or a beige cardigan and opted for a mini-cucumber, again! Buying him cucumbers seems like a regular occurrence. I headed to the till with the cucumber, two flapjacks and two cans of Fanta. “Out for an evening ride?!” the lady said as she scanned our packaged calories and Jules’ random gift. I told her about the ride, she obviously thought I was a compulsive liar and thought I was talking absolute gibberish, like Jay from The Inbetweeners but in Lycra. It’s funny how rides like these blows some people’s minds and others don’t batter an eyelid.  

Huddling the packaged calories, I returned to Jules, “Well at least you haven’t got me a bloody cucumber this time!” he commented, as I reached into my jersey pocket and then pointed the mini cucumber at him! I can’t remember what obscenity Jules called me but of course we laughed…….again! 

By now the light was fading and the big lights were clipped into their brackets on the bars.  A quick look at Google maps and my ETA in Cromer was 10:15pm.

We headed north out of Wroxham towards Scottow where we joined the B1150. Jules wanted to go on another road, he argued the case and so did I. I told him his choice would take us to King’s Lynn and mine would take us to North Walsham then Cromer. Funny enough I won the argumentative discussion.

The average speed so far was bang on what we wanted, 17.5mph. As soon as we hit the smoothness of the B1150 we picked the pace up, each taking our turn on the front. We were dipping into tree covered parts of the road where what light there was, totally disappeared and plunged us into darkness, a good job the big lights were on the bikes.  We rolled into North Walsham and wiggled our way through the junctions before getting out of town and picking the pace up again on the A149.

A sign said 8 miles to Cromer, blimey. 10 minutes later another sign said Cromer was 9 miles. Either Highways England were near enough asleep when they put the signs up or somehow we had turned round without noticing. “It’s like a 2-up TT!” Jules exclaimed as we both naturally started taking our turns on the front again. A couple of minutes full on and the other comes through. Just to wind Jules up, I started singing. My usual song at these kind of moments is Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues, “I hear the train a comin', it's rolling round the bend. And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when”. And then for some reason, Catatonia’s 1998 indie hit, Mulder and Scully. Soon I was out of breath and I shut up, but the bear had been poked and Jules started to really wind it up. The road just steadily kept going up, a long steady slog. I knew at some point it started to dip down, a great descent into Cromer. But by this point I had lost my bearings and had lost track of how far we had to go. Eventually the road dipped down, I over took Jules and disappeared down the slalom type hill that has speed reducing  chicanes but are straight for a bike, what a buzz!

We headed for what I thought would be the busiest bit of Cromer, the touristy type part, but it was pretty empty. The lights of Coast Pizza and Kebab drew us like a seagull to a dropped chip.  Clip clopping my way upto the counter I slipped on the greasy floor, years of fatty foods being dished out left it like an ice rink. Cromer was exactly our half way point, we had previously discussed how the coast road that we were going to ride after here would have nowhere for us to get anything to eat or drink, well, not until Yarmouth which is about 35 miles away. The nearest 24 hour garage was just north of Yarmouth. Hitting the wall/needing food out there in the early hours wouldn’t be good. Even if we weren’t hungry we would have to eat here, an engine always needs fuel. 10 minutes later I left the makeshift ice rink with a portion of chips each, covered in salt, vinegar and ketchup. Cans of full fat coke and bottles of water. We rolled down the ramps down the cliff onto the promenade, “Fancy a go on the Helter Skelter?” Jules asked. It was shut, I didn’t fancy getting caught for trespassing. Passing the hessian sacks behind the fencing, I had to fight the childhood urge to wiggle through the fences and run up the steps and launch myself down the slide, I didn't fancy a run in with the rozzers.

Riding onto the pier I looked down at the gaps between the wooden slats, trying to decide if they were wider than my 23mm tyres, a guaranteed recipe for a disaster if so. I decided to wobble my way along the pier going against the grain of the slats before getting off and pushing the bike. The wind was near enough easterly, being practical blokes, we naturally decided on a wooden shelter with a bench that faced west, out of the wind and facing the faintly lit sky. 

We sat and gorged on our chips, a much needed intake of fuel, they didn’t last long. Jules recounted a memory of his from his Africa ride. After a long day in the saddle he was feeling weak and craving food, a sign advertising chips appeared at the side of the road. A totally unexpected, westernised menu choice. 4 portions later and Jules was replenished.

Back to Cromer, I drank a whole bottle of water pretty quickly, knowing that I hadn’t drunk enough on the way here. The signs of dehydration were clear as a certain something wasn't (if you know, you know). I text the wife saying we had arrived in Cromer okay and we were heading back soon.

One of Jules’ lights had died. I had a powerbank in my frame bag and was going to charge it up, Jules’ first impressions of my over the top set up were diminishing, I think. I said to Jules that one rule that I have for cycling is to never stop over a drain/manhole cover, for very obvious reasons. I wasn’t going to start to fiddle around with the stuff in my bags as I knew that something would fall through the cracks and join the world famous crabs.

We made our way to the base of the pier, noticed a poster for a Morcambe and Wise tribute and posed for a tribute to the tribute, to which I sent to my dad. He didn’t twig what we were doing until I pointed it out the day after. 

With a dodgy USB connection on Jules’ light, my roll of insulation tape came out and I bandaged the light into position on the powerbank so it could charge, I may not travel light but I know what things are needed. The wind had a bit of a chill to it so we decided to get going, we headed along the promenade and turned up a stupidly steep slope. My front mech wasn’t exactly changing well and I was basically stuck in the big ring. I stepped off the bike, Jules was still climbing at about the same speed that I was clip clopping up the cobbled slope, “It’s like the Koppenberg!” he gasped, the legendary, Belgian cobbled climb.  “I’ve got a chain tool and a quick link, but please don’t break your chain” I said, to which he stepped off.  We headed out of Cromer on the coast road, it’s a bit bumpy, not hills. We started to settle in after the initial protesting of the legs when we heard some loud music, someone was doing an horrendous cover of Leonard Cohen’s/Jeff Buckley’s song, Hallelujah.  But the contrast between tranquil coastal life and lights and music seemed very inviting, whether we were invited or not.

“Jules, a party! Let’s go and have a look” as I spun round. According to Jules I was a bloody idiot as I back tracked towards the music. Unbeknown to me at the time, it was Overstrand Sports Club, there were quite a few people around for a rural place like this. It ended up being some kind of music festival, there was quite a big stage in the distance but this music was coming from under a gazebo, I say was, because as soon as we arrived it stopped . Soon enough the bikes were propped up and I headed to the bar, concentrating on not lifting the arms as I was starting to smell, nice! Patiently waiting I looked around the sports pavilion/club house. Decades of posed photos of various sports teams lined the walls, documenting past wins and relegations. “Can’t beat a cool, mid ride beer!” I said as the barman lined the beers up on the bar. I was trying to make conversation but it was a bit one sided.

Standing outside, looking around, trying to figure out what was going on and just generally people watching, we spoke about how no one really battered an eye lid at two blokes turning up in lycra, on bikes at 11pm at night. Not that we wanted attention, but we thought that we stood out, obviously not. We joked about how many people were local or Londoners. We wondered what music was going to be next, an impromptu jam started with some blokes, one playing an acoustic guitar and about 6 singing, it sounded like a sea shanty song gone all pop and trendy. It was catchy and it name checked local tourist hotspots, one being Cromer Pier, which in retrospect was quite apt. I tried to get the hang of the chorus, the melody and the words so I could join in, anything to embarrass Jules. As soon as I got the hang of it, it stopped. “ I bet you they’ll play Wonderwall next” I quipped. A few minutes later we laughed as a lady sitting near us shouted out “Wonderwall!” in a lull between songs.

A young bloke with big wavy hair, drain pipe chinos, pointy shoes and an inspector gadget looking coat appeared, wandering around with a swagger like Jagger. Trying my hardest not to stereotype, I mentioned how he had the look of a singer/songwriter type of musician. We joked about his name being Tarquin, it ended up being Ollie, I didn’t ask, someone called his name. I used to be a band many years ago, an electro/rock outfit, we weren’t cool or trendy and that’s probably why not much came of it in terms of success. But I was surrounded by people like Ollie in the original music scene, trying their best to look like how The Melody Maker and NME wanted them to look and sound, 15+ years later and it looked like the look hadn’t changed. By now we were getting our stuff together, I turned round and my assumption of Ollie’s artistic dreams were assured, as he said to some people who were leaving “Heeey, are you coming back to see me tomorrow!?” while doing some pointy gesture towards them with his hand.

Some people who were leaving at the same time as us asked us where were going. We told them where we had been and where we were going. Unlike the Roy’s of Wroxham lady, I got the sense that they didn’t think that we were lying, just a little odd, as we swung our legs over the bikes and went on our merry way.

The further we got from Cromer and Overstrand, the quieter the roads got, it was beautiful. The full moon was now up, shielded behind some high cloud. Night riding is fantastic, but the lay of the road can catch you off guard. Even with really good lights, you can’t see an upcoming bump or a descent, usually you have to go by feel. Although I’ve driven and ridden this coast road many times, there was no way I could remember what was coming up next, not all the time anyways, the darkness can make you disorientated , but it didn’t matter, just keep riding. 

We talked about the wind, the forecast was for it to be a north easterly, the further round the coast we got, the greater the push, well, in theory. In practice, the wind seemed to be a direct easterly, straight in the face. It was picking up, but nothing that bad. We were getting away with it lightly, there was a ridge of low pressure hitting the south coast of the UK at this time, with gales and torrential rain.

We passed through Bacton gas terminal. A huge place of industrial engineering and not a soul to see, although I’m sure the security guards were triggered by our lights and our laughs of ideas of how to get their attention, thankfully these did just remain as ideas. If I had my stove, this wouldn’t have been the place to light it.

We talked about having a stop soon, I fancied one of my Titan bars, basically Aldi’s version of a Mars Bars and Jules had some homemade biscuits. We stopped at Walcott, I scanned the beach with my light, not really knowing what I was looking for, but just being nosey. We sat on a bench with the warm wind blowing from the east. Not far from us was a herd, shoal, flock, convoy, colony, gathering, whatever a group of motorhomes is called, parked up just down the road. £30K vehicles and still too tight to pay £25 a night for a pitch in a farmers field. But in all honesty, I’d do the same.

We sat and said how beautiful it was. Our eyes got used to the light, the hazy moon lit up the sky and the stars twinkled. “Who can see a satellite first?!” I said, looking up at the night sky.  I talked about a recent camping trip I had with my family and how I saw a huge shooting star. I told Jules how I’ve heard them before, the “whoosh!” as the space debris hits the earth’s atmosphere. We argued about this, Jules adamant you can’t hear such things, me saying I’ve heard it. I started talking about an Icelandic band called Sigur Ros who I love. It’s really atmospheric with huge crescendos. Many times I’ve sat under the stars listening to their music. It’s a weird genre to music to try and explain, the best way is to just listen to it; 

“If I had a blanket mate, I could just sit here all night. Just nodding off, waking up, nodding off...... lovely!” Jules said and I couldn’t disagree. Once again, the nothingness is everything. Writing this blog a couple of days later, I’m thinking about those people who have craved night clubs and music festivals over the past 18 months and haven’t been able to go. Some complaining about how their freedom has been restricted and how this is such a release. Ask a prisoner at your nearby prison about their lack of freedom and their far away release date, then consider how your freedom has been restricted, perhaps the comparison will trigger some reflection, one you don’t need a mirror for. The world, nature, the simple things have always been there for us to enjoy. No pandemic and government guidelines have ever stopped us enjoying this, it’s just that some don’t see that, each to their own I guess.

We set off, Jules was always up the road before me. I guess my bike was heavier, it took a while to wind it up. We talked about how the thighs were starting to burn and how the eyes were starting to play tricks. Although I didn’t feel tired, the brain wasn’t computing some things very well, neither was Jules’, “Blimey! That was odd, I looked in a window to the restaurant we just passed. There was a manikin and I swear the head turned as I looked at it”, obviously I laughed. Again, we talked about how night riding is so different to the day, for many reasons. Primarily, the lack of amenities or more importantly shops. There’s a bit more planning involved compared to the day. Those lovely little tea shops, newsagents and overpriced cafes aren’t going to be serving in the early hours.

I said to Jules how Hemsby couldn’t be that far, he politely pointed out that we still had Happisburgh, Sea Palling, Waxham, Horsey and Winterton to go. Ooops, we’re definitely not as far as I thought.  Riding past the Welcome to Happisburgh sign, I immediately thought of the Lighthouse. It’s the stereotypical, Idyllic type of lighthouse. Red and white stripes, wrapping around its perimeter. Once again I started singing, this time it was the theme tune to the 90’s kids TV programme, Round the Twist, a programme about a haunted lighthouse. “Have you ever, ever felt like this? How strange things happen, are you going round the twist?!”. If I was, then so was Jules has he joined in with the singing, knowing exactly what I was on about. After all this, I never actually saw the silhouette of the lighthouse across the fields. 

A fox ran out of the hedgerow from our left infront of us, not really close but enough for us to brake and make us jump. We said how we should be careful heading into Horsey as there’s marshes either side, with Chinese Water Deer and Muntjac everywhere. I’m not sure what being careful looks like to avoid the local wildlife, but we were now being careful. A hare ran infront of us along the road, not knowing where to jump into its field, it kept running ahead of us as we laughed, it then leapt into the undergrowth and disappeared, poor thing.

An ongoing joke we had is that you always have to stop at a thing. Whether it’s a gate, a corner, a bridge, a gap in the hedge, a post, whatever it is, it has to be a thing. The thing we decided on stopping at was Winterton Church, we propped our bikes up against the church yard gates. We were starting to flag a little, it couldn’t be much flatter ,but the wind was in our faces and we had now ridden about 70 miles, a good enough reason to feel a little sore I guess. We stood and chatted quietly as we were surrounded by cottages and funny enough there wasn’t many people around at 1am and we ate some more grub. I just wandered down the road, reading a sign advertising a bric-a-brac sale and book sale at the church at 9am later that morning,  “Hey Jules! If we stay here another 8 hours, there’s a bric-a-brac sale and booksale in the church at 9!”. Once again, Jules declared that I’m a bloody idiot, he’s probably right.

Into the night we went again, I was craving something savoury, I was fed up sweet, sugary stuff. Passing through Hemsby we saw a rarity, a vehicle. We talked about what people may think seeing bikes out here at night. Guesses that someone has had their shed broken into or there’s a couple of blokes doing a charity ride from John O’Groats to Lands End, the long way round. Towards Caister we discussed which road to take, Jules suggested the bypass, it was a good call. There was hardly anything on the road, the odd car now which was to be expected the closer we got to civilization. Past Caister and into Great Yarmouth and more importantly, towards the nearest 24 hour garage on the Caister Road. It was open but we couldn’t see anyone in there, I then spotted a bloke crouched down, stacking the shelves. I didn’t want to make him jump but wanted to make him aware of my presence. Just standing in his field of vison, he jumped up and appeared at the kiosk window pretty quickly, waiting to converse through the gap at the bottom of the glass.  Here we go, time to talk as if we’re talking to someone who doesn’t talk English, we all know that the louder you speak the easier it is to understand!!!

The bloke serving us obviously wasn’t a member of Overstrand Sports Club as he looked scared and nervous in equal amounts, the hare in our headlights on the coast was less scared than him.  I don’t know what he was excepting from two sweaty blokes on bikes, but all I wanted was a cheese and onion pasty and a couple of Mars milkshakes. He looked like I’d asked for something illegal, surprised and wide eyed, he disappeared and returned with our demands.

I made the mistake of sitting down on the garage forecourt floor, it wasn’t very easy to get up, it’s better to stand. Knowing that I detest rubbish more than Love Island and peanut butter put together, Jules often throws rubbish on the floor to get a reaction. He always picks it up in the end, but my initial reaction of calling him something rude never fails, not even at 1:30am in the morning on a garage forecourt. Into Great Yarmouth then Gorleston  we headed, still on near enough deserted roads, the odd taxi here and there. A few people walking along in a world of their own, ear phones in, chomping on a kebab.  We talked about which route to take from here, we argued about which would be the best way, argued about who said what, tried to convince each other that our ways were the best. “That way is definitely better! For a man that has cycled across Africa, you have a crap sense of direction!” I laughed. Argument over, Jules won and we started on the slightly longer route. Looking back, it was hardly anything, but funny all the same.  Keeping an eye on the Garmin, it was clear my guess about mileage was correct, at this rate I would just about be over the 100 miles when I get home, Jules would be just under. I cared about this, Jules didn’t in the slightest. Towards Lound Lakes, through Lound and past Blundeston, we talked about the feeling of excitement about being near home and the sense of accomplishment after a long ride. Home always seems different after a long ride, the sense of safety, food and fulfilment and something a bit silly for us, and a world away from others and easy for the few. Jules shared in my feeling of home feeling different when you return after a long ride, I knew he would.

We stopped in the back end of Oulton, told each other how much we both enjoyed the ride and wished each other well. Jules said to let him know when I got home and he actually sounded like he meant it, jeez! 10 minutes later I was home, 2:50am, 102.95 miles at a steady 17.3mph and I felt pretty good, no more tired than any other day at this time of the morning. Perhaps endurance is more my thing than pesky time trialling. Also, not a bad guess regarding times.  Bike in the front door and put in the living room for the night, I couldn’t be bothered with faffing about in the shed. “Home mate, safe and sound! Loved the ride mate, I love having friends as weird as me!” I text Jules.  A shower was out the question at this time of night, I’d wake everyone else up in the house which would be a bit rude. A quick baby wipe shower was ideal, the TV power light was flickering which was odd, I pushed the power button the remote to try and sort it and up came the Olympic Mens Road Race. I’d forgotten about this, I had seen that it was going to be on in the middle of night. Feet up I started to drink the last of the water from my bottle as I couldn’t be bothered to get anything else and watched the race. I fell asleep, woke up at 4am to birds singing their dawn chorus and went to bed. Well done Carapaz, I would have watched your win but I was a bit knackered and it didn’t finish until about 4 hours later.

Another great ride. Okay, I've stated some statistics, but try measuring a ride in smiles, not miles, a measurement your Garmin can't compute. If your cheeks ache from laughter, result!

I didn’t even plan to write a blog about this ride, but I’m glad I have.