The night rider’s friends

We all have our rituals, from the priest laying out his altar on a Sunday to a driving test examiner carefully outlining test procedure to a nervous candidate. Preparation for my mid-winter night rides exceeds the time and intricacies of both. First, the requisite clothing must be rounded up. The bib longs are the easiest, they’re hanging by the washing machine after last time. Next, base layer. This is usually the hard one, with thermals varying their location from washing basket to hangers, radiators, stairwells, sports bags, airing cupboards and clothes drawers. A cycling jersey will spring with glee from a mountain of cycling clothes stuffed into my corner of the wardrobe, my waterproof jacket hangs dripping next to the bib longs and, reliable as ever, my Shimano 101s are sat warming upon the boiler.

The ritual then moves on to the pre-ride “wail”. My wife turns the volume of the TV up a notch as I cry, “Helllllllllllllen! Have you seen my gloves anywhere ?”.

She usually ignores the first incantation, but knows that, being male, it is extremely unlikely that I’m going to replace whinging with something useful (like actually looking for them). With a heavy sigh she rises, walks two feet to the left of me and plucks my Windstoppers from atop a radiator. “I’m sure I looked there,” I feebly offer. She gives me that knowing look and settles back down in front of MTV.

Now I’m starting to gear up. I open the overloaded bathroom cabinet and the contact lens box flies out along with the detritus of numerous holidays and trips abroad. The lenses are stuffed into unwelcoming eyes and spasms of blinking eventually settle them into place. A three-minute rummage liberates the PSP from the pan cupboard. Scientifically I stuff a load of it into my Camelbak, swamping it carefully with a random volume of water. Helen stares in resignation as I prise all of the TV controllers apart for AAA batteries for my rear lights, furiously glancing at the battery charger I can never be arsed to use.

I vainly attempt to don a moth eaten set of overshoes. Overshoes is becoming an overstatement due to the quantity and breadth of the holes they carry, but still. My car toolkit is raided for cable ties and Lumicycle lights attached to my Marin full susser. I take a long look at my nice clean, well-maintained hardtail, but yet again fall victim to the comfort and predictability of full suspension. The Camelbak is pulled over my waterproof, helmet located and jammed onto my head, gloves pulled on, then off, Cateye speedo attached, gloves pulled on, then off, drinking tube pulled over my back and into position, gloves pulled on, then off, rear light attached, gloves pulled on, then off, Camelbak removed, pump and CO2 canister shoved in, gloves pulled on, then off, garage door opened, bike wheeled outside (creaking), door shut, gloves pulled on, bike mounted and I’m off. The pre-ride rituals are complete.

This has taken nearly half an hour. Holy communions are finished in this time period. You’re well on the way to completing a driving test in half an hour. I do this nearly twice a week, but it still takes me half an hour every time. I see “just get out and ride” written and quoted in so many places, who are they trying to kid? Night riding needs ritual and careful preparation. Or preparation, at least.

I’m now half a mile down the road and heading for the Ridgeway. It’s still light – I’ve learnt to leave home 40 minutes before dark to ensure that I get sunset as soon as I hit the highest point of the ride. Sunset is an essential ingredient of a West Country night ride, whilst our landscape may be bettered in other parts, our sunsets are the equal of anyone else’s.

As I ride I’m doing my post departure checklist:

• PSP in Camelback (slurp) Ugh ! Too concentrated – check,
• Creaking pedals – check
• Poorly lubed chain – check
• Worn brake pads, part functioning rear brake – check
• Poor shifting at the front – check
• Forgotten camera – check
• Twisted Camelbak straps – check
• Inadequate and over thin tyres for the conditions – check

Oh well! I usually survive, so I chunter on along the road, up a short climb and over the motorway. Here I often pause and look down sanctimoniously at the drivers trapped within the confines of a carriageway with little choice of line or technical challenge. My journey’s going to be harder then theirs, it’s going to have variety and difficulty and sometimes an element of sheer beauty. If they’re unlucky their journey may be punctuated with an accident, otherwise white lines and featureless signposts guide them on their way.

Now it starts to get interesting. I’m climbing steeply on a winding singletrack road, past the radio mast and swooping down and up again. I pass the “Calley Arms” and once again write myself a mental note to put the price of a pint into the Camelbak for the next ride. I’ve written this mental note nearly every week for two years, one day I’ll go in.

Stuck in a rut?

Finally the road gives way to bridleway. My tyres sink into the mud, but are arrested a few centimetres below the surface by the remains of the summer grass. The going is soft and my heart rate soars. This section is the worst of the ride, over a mile of waterlogged bridleway recently shredded by horses’ hooves and still suffering from the light ploughing kindly administered by the resident farmer. I’m really breathing now as my 1.8s fail to bite and the rear wheel spins in the sodden clay, I stray close to the barbed wire fence and glance nervously at the shredded right Windstopper glove, testament to a recent entanglement. But tonight I’m going to make it. I’ve cleaned the most strenuous section and smile inwardly as I join the gritty doubletrack and rapidly climb towards the Ridgeway escarpment.

It’s nearly 30 minutes into the ride, and light is fading. I’m sweating into my three layers as I grind my way up the one in four road climb leading to Barbury Castle. It’s quiet up here tonight and I can hear every pimple on the tyre make and part company with the tarmac below. I’m pushing on the middle ring. The devil on my shoulder tells me that it’s time for granny. But I listen to my fitness angel and persevere, my reward being another dose of sanctimony as I crest the hill and head out on doubletrack towards Four Mile Clump.

I’ve timed it well tonight and stop to admire the wild tapestry of colours as the sun is dragged below the Marlborough Downs leaving me encircled in the cold darkness. I flick my lights on, clip in and follow my breath down a wide chalky descent and into the “water section”. This section of the Ridgeway is often frequented by our cousins in 4x4s. They have kindly created a series of narrow lakes, two feet wide and almost two feet deep. I used to take the time to find a line above these, but tonight I throw caution, a bottom bracket and two Hope hubs to the wind as I drive ankle deep through each “puddle”, shake off and prepare myself for the next. My waterproof socks rapidly fill with freezing winter puddle water and my arse ambient temperature is lowered by several degrees as the water cascades off my rear tyre, down my back and into my welcoming undergarments.

Giggling, I meet the road again at Rockley and turn sharp left past some old country houses and onto a steep doubletrack climb. In the summer, I followed something large, black and cat-like down this section. The recent memory expediates my climb through the trees and back onto the rolling downs carrying me towards Avebury. It’s a full moon tonight and I catch an owl in my headlamps as it sweeps effortlessly up and into the shadows, another creature ticked off my night spotting list.

A dirt track road accompanies me through a herd of restless sheep who generously herald my efforts with much bleating and general melee. I push hard up a steep stony climb, cross a smooth grassy field and rejoin the Ridgeway, alone, sweaty and very, very reflective.

I do a lot of thinking on solo night rides. The solitude, remoteness and contrasting environment allows me to line up the day’s thoughts and issues and try to make some sort of sense of them. My latest programming problem is solved as I navigate a muddy bridleway, a long rut gives me the concentration necessary to decide how to deal with a particularly obnoxious client, a breathless climb enables me to reach a decision on dealing with a family issue. Tonight I simply exult in my surroundings. It’s dark, silent and I’m following the tracks of Neolithic Man. Scattered stones tell the story of part completed tombs or sites of worship. A representative of every one of the local species have taken the trouble to cross my path at least once this evening and I’ve managed to ride 15 miles without a puncture.

Tonight’s technical challenge is again kindly provided by the 4×4 drivers, who have created a maze of criss-cross ruts that litter the Ridgeway and define my line all the way back to Barbury Castle. I haven’t got my lights aligned quite right and am jostled off line by mud ridges, the odd boulder and a tinge of unconfident riding. However, I’m still enjoying it and let out a muted “whoop” as I leave the ruts and crank down the wide, open descent that skirts the ancient castle and leads me back to the road for the journey home.

Bike collapses exhausted

I’m pretty tired now and spin the last few miles at a leisurely pace. A final climb through Hodson and it’s over the motorway once more and on to the well lit fringes of my home town. I’ve survived another solo night ride. I give myself a self-congratulatory pat on the back for getting out there even though its cold, wet and the riding conditions are atrocious.

With the ride itself complete, there are more ritual ceremonies to perform. The bike is divested of electrical gadgets. A liberal dose of hose transfers all the mud from my bike to my driveway, car and the garden wall. My neighbours’ curtain twitches and they have that, “What’s that bloody idiot doing now?” conversation. My muddy, sweaty outer apparel is unwillingly parted from my body and dumped “expectantly” close to the washing machine. My wife gives out another long, deep sigh.

I stride into the house and the kids fall about laughing at the muddy apparition that was once their father. Contact lenses are ripped from eyeballs and a nearly full Camelbak emptied into the sink (why don’t I ever drink on night rides?). I look longingly at the kids’ fish fingers which are rapidly snatched from my grasp and presented to the children. The computer signals 15 new emails and my mobile phone tells me that I have seven missed calls. I couldn’t care less as I drag myself up to my bedroom and fall into the embrace of warm dry clothes.

The rituals are over. For today, at least…