London to Whitstable (in two stages) cycle route 1

Cycle route 1 runs from the Shetland Isles down through Scotland, through England to Dover. At some point we have the crazy notion of riding all of it but for now we are content to ride it in smaller chunks. We did the London to Dover section in two chunks as it is 113 miles long. The route does not run directly it kind of meanders along the Thames and through the Kent countryside. The first leg of the ride was London to Whitstable, a more manageable 80 miles

We set off from home very early at 5.00am as we had to do a little bit of work in London first but with that out the way, we were ready for our departure point in Denmark Hill SE5 for a little after 10.00am.

Now the easy route to Whitstable would be just to burn out of town on the main roads using the bus and cycle lanes across to Blackheath and then weave our way through the Kent countryside clocking up 55 miles. Easy? Not for us, we had been studying the map and wanted something more challenging, we figured we could ride a route along the Thames using cycle paths, picking up the National Cycle Route 1 and follow it down the Thames Estuary to Whitstable. The distance is a lot further - pushing eighty (80) miles and much of it would be off road using routes we had never ridden, what could possibly go wrong? Well read on to find out...

Here we are getting ready to depart Denmark Hill, London SE5. We were not sure what the best bike for the terrain would be, so we took a road bike and a mountain bike as a test, I rode the roadbike, my friend Gordon rode the mountain bike - one of us made the wrong choice as you will find out... Some last minute checks of the route and we were off into the badlands of Sarf London innit.

A couple of short cuts through some alleys and into some dodgy looking estates saw us flying through Peckam Rye and across a couple of little parks. London is full of these little green oasis, with characteristic black railings and wooden benches, most of them have a cycle path cutting right across them which breaks up the urban sprawl and concrete.

Typical narrow London streets bought us into a busy street market, piled with all kinds of junk, from old chairs to street signs and a great reggae soundtrack to ride to, we weaved our way carefully through, the bullet proof locals hardly giving us a glance.

From here it was past some "under the arches" type enterprises, complete with fierce dog on a chain and over a rickety bridge onto some wasteground with Millwall football club's infamous "Den" dominating the view. I should have got a photograph as it is quite impressive but my riding partner was a lifelong Arsenal fan and I didn't want to offend him by photographing his rivals from over he water. In hindsight I should have taken the shot, but hey ho, another time.

Within no time we found ourselves on the river, where the atmosphere changes completely, the light is different, the breeze picks up and the air is (mostly) fresher, people are strolling and the river itself is busy with barges and water taxis scurrying and chugging about their business.

I shot this with a camera phone and on distance shots it is a bit grainy, but you can make out central London and the City in the distance with Norman Foster's "Gherkin" characteristic outline in the centre as well as some of the redevelopment that has changed London's skyline significantly over recent years. After our pause for a photo opportunity it was onwards towards Greenwich and its famous observatory, reminiscent of school trips from years gone by. Sure enough as we weaved our way through parties of schoolchildren it was apparent that not much has changed and it is still a rite of passage that local kids still make.

With both of us swivelling around like a bunch of tourists seeing London for the first time the inevitable happened - I rode clean into the side of Gordon, with me landing in a heap with one foot still in the cleats and a knee that hit the ground with a thud. A quick dust off and we rode on with our dignity just about intact, flipping hurt though...

We were riding parallel with London Docklands on the Isle of dogs with its gleaming skyscrapers, a far cry from how it looked 20 years ago. I remember working in the area when the first tower was being built on Canary Wharf - 1 Canada Square and watching it go up at the rate of a floor a week, topping out at 800ft it was by far the tallest building in London and visible for miles around, it is now joined by towers with signs for Barclays, Citibank, HSBC and others, who would have though that twenty years ago these bright young city types and money men would be working on the Isle of Dogs and all its historic grittiness? I still think it looks great though.

The picture above shows the collection of buildings in Docklands slowly emerging from the foreground as we ride parallel from the opposite bank, to reveal themselves in their reflective splendor in the picture below

Our next landmark was the o2 arena or Millenium Dome as most people know it. The usual view of the o2 is for me from the Blackwall Approach, heading into London, so it was amazing to ride right up to it and see it from a completley different angle. We were seeing familiar sights from a completely different perspective, crossing London by bike you see and feel much more and cover ground much quicker than you ever could by car, hey we were enjoying this!

There were a few diversions in place which took us around the peninsula in a slightly disjointed way and we started to make some good progress on the deserted cycle paths that lead you further up the estuary, we weaved through the queue for the Woolwich Ferry and the smell of burgers from the greasy spoon van in the carpark that has been there as long as I can remember on on into Woolwich Arsenal, to the most surprising view of a very smart new development of apartments and some really interesting statues by the artist Peter Burke. I am ashamed to say that we felt the need to customise the artwork by including our bikes into the sculpture.

Time to get the hammer down and it was head down and speed towards Erith and its fragrant industrial odour of fertilizer, plastic, aggregates and errr sewage, it felt more isolated here compared to the bustle of the city and the marshland opened up before us to reveal the Queen Elizabeth II bridge at Dartford.

This is another memory for me as I worked in Essex for a while when this was being built and watched it grow day by day, week by week, again I still think it is a good looking structure, not up there with the Norman Foster bridge over Millau in France, but sad as it may sound it is a nice looking bridge (note to self: bridge spotting is not a healthy hobby)

Dartford, that jewel of a gateway to North Kent was the location for our glamorous lunch stop on a trading estate on the outskirts, time to fuel up and get on, just time to notice that my shoes match my bike - nice.

With carbs, protein and fluid on board it was time to push on, we still had 40 plus miles to go and needed to get on. It was about now that we realised that this was turning into a bit of an epic ride and we would have to start eating up the miles if we had any chance of making Whitstable on time.

The terrain changed...

From nice smooth tarmac and concrete to gravel path, I was on a twitchy lightweight road bike, mile after mile of bumpy pot holed gravel were beginning to take its toll on me physically, there was no give in the frame or forks and I was feeling every bump and pothole as the shocks shuddered through the frame - this bit was not fun and I was getting my old problem of cramp in my left shoulder, that I knew would only get worse.

We pushed on and ticked off Dartford, Gravesend and Hoo (love that name) and got used to riding along the Medway rather than Thames. Then. We hit real problems. real big problems.

Lottery money or some Millenium fund or other had stumped up money for a new cycle path, so a very straight path had been laid using type 1 aggregate. Type 1 is great big lumps of hard white stone that kind of settles down over time to become a fairly smooth pathway that drains nicely. Trouble is the council looked like they had laid it yesterday and we had the job of compacting it for them.

This is the point that we discovered that a road bike with its fragile and skinny tyres was the wrong choice, 100 metres in the rear tyre was completely flat. Not that kind of spongy let's try some more air flat. this was ride on the rim flat.

Off with the wheel, fix the puncture, no problem. No problem until we counted the seven snake bite punctures...

I banged in a new tube, Gordon got patching on the old tube, off we go.

100 meters - back on the rim again, completely trashed tube.

No road nearby, no more spare tubes, in the middle of nowhere and 7 miles from the nearest bike shop in Rochester, we were in the sh*t and we knew it.

The plan was for me to start walking whilst Gordon went ahead to the bike shop and rode back with some new tubes, so that is what we did. The type 1 path from hell lasted another mile and gave way to tarmac. Gordon had had a brain wave...

Why not see if we could stuff and stretch one of his spare mountain bike tubes into my super skinny race tyres? With little other options we gave it a try. Now if anyone reading this knows Gordon at this point it is best to just stand back and let him do his thing as special tools appear from bags and pockets and he becomes a blur of activity. Its best to shut up too at this point as he concentrates, otherwise he will tell you off, especially if your bike falls on him, as mind did - sorry Gordon.

Well we found out that you can stuff a mountain bike tube into a road bike tyre - just - and it will stay inflated.

So onwards once more with me imagining a blow out any second, as the miles flew by and with confidence growing it was over the Medway bridge and a quick stop at the cycle store in Rochester High Street for a pair of spare tubes before they shut.

We ticked off Chatham, Gillingham and off into another country park to the well signposted Rainham and then off into the countryside for our next target - Sittingbourne. A bit of a signage problem found us way out the way at the Sheppey bridge so it was a bit of a detour into the delightful town of Sittingbourne with its friendly young people that gave us such a warm welcome of cold hard stares expletives and a police drug bust (I kid you not) that only East Kent can do so well.

At this stage it was starting to get dark as we pushing towards 7 o'clock and without lights it was getting dangerous so we called in the Duffbus to come and get us 20 miles short of our destination. We had racked up 67 hard miles and learnt a lot about the route and the preparation we need for our next attempt before the event at the end of May.

Damn good ride and a very interesting one, thoroughly recommended - but take the right bike!

Update... I have since completed this route twice, once on a singlespeed (ouch) and last time on a geared mountain bike. The geared mountain bike was best! It was just over eighty miles and a great day's ride. If I pick things up from the account above where we bailed out at Sittingbourne the town after Sittingbourne is Faversham and the track becomes more of a shale kind of track that is nicely traffic free. From Faversham it is on through the Graveney marshes and Whitstable is visible in the distance with the sea on the left. It is strange riding towards such a familiar landmark having started riding nearly eighty miles away, having made it across Whitstable it was down to the beach for a well earned beer and barbecue, perfect.

Now for the second leg... Whitstable to Dover

As I live near Whitstable in Kent it was decided that a group of us would ride the cycle route 1 to Dover and then loop back making for a ride of 75 miles. Leaving Whitstable you ride along a disused railway line that has been converted into a cycle path. The route is called the Crab and Winkle as reference to the trains that used to run from Whitstable bringing seafood to the people of Canterbury. The route is a shale type cycle path and is traffic free. There are a couple of road crossings but these are across very quiet roads. You enter Canterbury at the Kent University campus and thee route passes through the campus. The city of Canterbury sits in a natural bowl, so there is a steep descent into the city followed by a steep ascent back out. Canterbury has a beautiful cathedral and medieval street network. It also has a horrible ring road, but cyclists are provided for with a handy dedicated lane/ path that cuts most of the traffic out.

Heading out of Canterbury you pass through the town of Fordwich, which apparently is England's smallest town and was once navigable by sea. There is a very steep climb up a very narrow lane that heads you out towards Stodmarsh and winds you through quiet Kentish lanes and eventually onto the quaint town of Sandwich. The route crosses a toll road (free to cyclists) and through the golf course, next to the sea. It is quite exposed here and you can expect a fairly strong headwind to work against you. Departing Sandwich you will arrive at the town of Deal, which has some nice old regency type buildings and a rather ugly pier. Cycle route 1 then heads out through Walmer with its famous castle and onwards towards the White Cliffs of Dover.

Approaching Dover with the castle in the centre of the picture and the English Channel to the left

This part is really quite pleasant and traffic free with a gentle climb onwards to Dover with spectacular views of the lighthouse and castle. You enter Dover through a series of gates owned by the National Trust with fantastic views of the docks and boats as they come and go between Dover and Calais. The only real disappointment is the final descent down to the docks which has a large number of steps which means carrying your bikes. Once down at the bottom the cycle route leaves into the town of Dover along the seafront.

Overlooking the docks at Dover with ferries shuttling to and fro

The return loop to Whitstable was a made up kind of Garmin assisted route through the Kentish lanes. All in all a great ride, clocking up another 70 miles in total for the round trip, certainly one to repeat.

Two wheeled carnival video

Been a bit AWOL this week, making a whole bunch of new videos. All shot with my phone so I apologise for all the missed calls as I can't film and phone at the same time!

Here is a little video that we made, some of you may recognise some of the scenery!

Woodland ride video

Romney Marsh, Emus, Napoleonic war, abandoned churches and a man with a cravat

The spirit of the two wheeled carnival is growing, so much so that one of our group (who is known for his outstanding organisation skills) suggested "doing something different". When he added "we will just have a rough plan and see what happens" we knew it was going to be a great ride.

The rough plan was to follow the Military Canal from Hythe and see where it takes us, that was it, how much trouble could we get into by following a canal?

The four of us arrived at Hythe in the stealthy black van with bikes and gear on board, the atmosphere was of a distinct military nature as not only were we following a military canal but we had parked alongside the live firing range of the British Army with a backing group of high velocity snipers practicing shooting things.

We soon spun along to the start of the route with a cheerful toot, toot from the little steam train that chugs across the marsh. Within five minutes we were being berated by a local for daring to share the same piece of the planet as hers at he same time she wanted to use it. We cheerfully greeted her and left her raging and bewildered and probably writing to the local paper as we speak.

The cycle path here is the standard issue of gritty shale type paths so beloved by local authorities with a bit of lottery cash to spend. What was not standard issue was the Emu on the right. Yes, I did say Emu, a full size, live Emu pecking about in the Kent countryside, something to do with the Port Lympne zoo we figured out, still an Emu!

The gritty trail soon petered out as no one expects people to ride more than about six miles so from here it was a bit of cheeky freestyle through the countryside aided by Garmin hi tech satellites.

What did we spot in the distance? Obelisk. A big one. Right up on the hill. Be rude not to go and have a look. A quick detour had us at the foot of a very impressive column of stone with a gold pointy bit at the top. It was literally in the middle of nowhere, just sitting there obelisking at no one in particular. It was erected in 1834 in memory of Sir William Cosway and has a pretty impressive view of the surrounding countryside.

Onwards and weaving through a gaggle of ramblers without incident we pick up the canal once more and push on through fields of skinhead sheep, long grass and errr sheep shit, which sticks to tyres like errrr sheep shit does.

Then... Portaloo. In the middle of a field near an old church. No houses. No people, Just a field, a church and a Portaloo. Unusual. Then... a Marquee. Something must be up, we are miles from anywhere in the most open and desolate spot deep on Romney Marsh, Why is there a Portaloo and a Marquee here? A bit further on we find enlightenment in the form of a charming old gentlemen who is wearing a cravat and cordoning off a portion of field. A quick conversation reveals  that this is the site of the annual raft race at Bonnington and this is the preparation for the big event taking place tomorrow. It is quite a star studded event by local standards as Julian Clarey and Paul O'Grady live nearby and both are due to attend. The day just gets more surreal.

With some helpful directions from our new found friend with the cravat we carry on alongside the canal, crossing fields of wheat instead of skinhead sheep.

From here we encounter the ever popular right of way that goes through someones garden. You know the type that buys a house with a right of way passing through their garden and then spends the ensuing decades making it look private and forbidding stressing themselves into a frenzy if anyone merely looks in the direction of the path. We crossed the garden past the beware of the dog signs, through 14 gates and chains (slight exaggeration) and safely out the other side.

Then we found the church... It looked like it was abandoned, the weeds outside were shoulder height and the gravestones had been absorbed by a mini New Romney rain forest. An abandoned church in the middle of nowhere, who would not want a bit of an explore?

The first door was locked, as was the second and third. A small door on the North side was worth a try. The handle turned and the door opened. I expected a flock of bats to fly out followed by a wide eyed wild haired woman with bony fingers and a scythe. What we found was a perfectly preserved, beautiful little church, complete with altar, pews and organ. Really, really unexpected, we respectfully had a quick look around and left, quite in awe of what we had just found. A quick bit of research revealed this to be the church at Snave, known as "the remote church" dating from the 13th century and declared redundant in 1984. It has since been maintained by the Romney Marsh Historic Churches Trust. Awesome church, just need to cut the grass a bit more.

A bit more Garmin assisted navigation led us across some bumpy wheat fields and onto some little lanes, where we caught and passed a guy riding what looked like his twelve year old daughter's bike. The surprising thing was he sped up and kept on our tail for about 2 or 3 miles. They breed them fit out there on the Marsh, must be all that fresh air and high winds or nuclear spider bites or something.

With the ride almost over it was a quick stop in Dymchurch for a bite to eat and a drink and then a  fast spin back to the van and civilisation. What more can you ask of a ride that gives you, live military target practice, angry woman, Emu, Obelisk, man with cravat, abandoned churches and a high speed pursuit by a man on a girl's bike - you could not make this stuff up! Thanks Gor, great suggestion, we should do more of this :)         

Zen and the art of Cycle Maintenance.

Zen and the art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a book we have often discussed on our rides. Though not for a while now, but something happened last week that reminded me of that special problem solving approach you need when trying to identify mechanical misbehaviour.



Zen and the art of cycle maintenance.


Easy to diagnose a loose crank arm...it squeaks and rocks on the bottom bracket spindle when you jiggle it from side to side. I was a little agitated that I would round off the inside of my pedal arm so that it would never ever fit properly again. So I stopped at cycle shop mid ride for a running repair (kindly carried out for free) by a geezer in a cycle shop in Sandwich. I had tried to tighten it myself earlier in the day to find it was already tight? So I asked the geezer to take off the arm, clean up the faces and tighten it back on......no worries....went back on and it seemed nice and tight. But soon after continuing on home the noises increased and a baggy pedal arm got worse and worse. So much so that any thoughts of silver foil to pack out a 'little play' seemed hopeless. The gap in the pedal stroke felt as big as a missing tooth in your mouth. My colleagues kindly suggesting that hairy string and gaffer tape would make a handsome repair in keeping with the rest of the accessories on my bike. Which would not look out of place leaning against the milking shed in 3 inches of silage!  

I had resigned myself to having a confrontation with the supplier of this pedal arm, as it was brand new along with a whole transmission replacement. I took it into the shop and and explained what was wrong. He tried it on a handy bottom bracket and concluded nothing was wrong and the wear on the inside of the arm was in no way proportional to what I was describing. I don't think you need you need an arm at all. Put it back on your bike, and bring it back so we can see.

The long and short of it is.........is actually long. After hands on experiments the conclusion could only be that the bolt which tightens the arm to the spindle is a fraction too long. It tightens but hits the bottom of the threaded hole in the spindle just before firming up the arm, so your tightening sensation is there, but not onto the interface between crank arm and spindle! So a shorter bolt is now fitted and all that is required is a test ride? Haven't done that as yet, on my to do list.

ZEN like powers of perception required.... as a new pedal arm was a fag paper away from being purchased for only the problem to repeat again, as I would have used the same bolt to secure it. 
Robert Persig wrote the book and its sequel Lila, and I heartily recommend them both to this house, and my right honourable friends, who for the moment can keep their tape.

carniGor is now posting two wheeled love to the spinning masses

                                    Is this what you mean by a Two Wheeled Carnival of love?.

Well I seem to be the filling in the sandwich whilst Bazza was yet again trying to tell us that tubeless was the new way for the noughties.

Hmmmm well he was enjoying all the pumping as I seem to remember and we got to get a rest break every 20 yards.

Quick release Michaelmas Daisies

Saturday arrived as usual, after Friday in the natural rhythm of things - perhaps it would be interesting, once in a while, to mix things up a bit and maybe cancel a Friday or add in an extra day called Spareday, just to break up the monotony of the seven day sequence. This may upset the religiousists, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. The sad reality of this fantastic commercial world that we live in any Spareday would be sponsored and re-branded PepsiMaxfillyouupwithsugarandmakeyourheadspinroundday  and there is just no more space in my life for any more big company intrusion, so let's scrub round that particular idea.

No. I have thought some more about this - why do we give the days names at all? Not very logical really, why not use numbers? Start from a point in history, say the dinosaurs  and number each day sequentially from there? The dinosaurs were around about 250 million years ago give or take the odd million years, so that would make today 91,250,000,000,000 or 9125 to the power of 10. Now that is a really big number, admittedly not as big as Graham's number, but probably a bit too big for day to day use. As a positive we would not have to bother counting years anymore, which would be quite neat. Probably better is to find a point in more recent history, say when the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper album came out, which was 1st June 1967. That would make today 16,666. No that is still not working for me, I can see now why they arrived at names now, there was some thought put into things after all. What about some more descriptive names? No, let's just leave it, we could never agree with Crapday or Staybedday or even worse - Golfday, shudders...    

So, Saturday, being Saturday, the day that follows Friday, in the conventional sense, means bike ride day. And bike ride day means rounding up as many like minded souls for a bimble around the lanes bringing our version of carnival to the good people of the villages and towns we pass through. This week's round up yielded... One! The other roundees offered a myriad of excuses, including "the dog ate your text" and "I have fallen over whilst fetching a pint of milk" a couple of real keepers for sure. So Rob and I rolled out of Herne Bay, over the bridge of enlightenment and headed for the well ridden route of Cycle route 1. Cycle route 1 is a marvelous route that runs from the Shetland Isles to Dover, or maybe the other way round - I guess the Shetland people would say it starts in Shetland and the Dover people are all too fat and feckless to ride bikes so could not care less. I am going to go with "it starts in Shetland".

Of course we were not going to ride the whole of it, just a little itty bit that runs to Deal, via the town of Sandwich, nice and flat see? Our specific destination was the cycle centre and bike racing track at Fowlmead, for the local delicacy of a "Miner's Muffin" (sausage, egg and a slice of slimy cheese in a bun) stupid name, but let's not go on about the names of things again, it really does not matter.

No really it does, sorry I can't just let this pass. It is called a Miner's Muffin because the site is on top of an old colliery. Now this is wrong in so many ways:

1. The café sign says "Miners Muffin" no apostrophe see, the pedant and OCD that is sadly and deeply rooted inside me smugly goes "that's wrong"
2. The bun is made of a kind of "Mother's Pride" bread and is definitely NOT a muffin
3. They must have thought - hey, we want something catchy let's call it a Miner's something as we are on top of an old colliery, Ooohh, that's clever, I like what you did there with the miner - colliery thing there, very subtle, hmmm let's use alliteration, that will make it sell, hmmm word beginning with M, what about Muffin? Well it's not a Muffin. Hmmm, can't think of another one, let's go with Muffin, people are pretty stupid and won't notice. OK "Miners Muffin" it is then. What about one of those apostrophe things? Hmmm, should it go before or after the "s'. Hmmm, don't know, let's just leave it out then, people are pretty stupid and probably won't notice. OK, chalk it up then.

Now another cycling venue, that obviously gets the cycling thing, does a similar type of sandwich bap thing (better ingredients) and calls it a M.O.A.B (Mother of all Breakfasts). This works as cyclists get the reference to Utah and a tasty snack. Anyway, having thought about it and saw them deep frying the sausages at Fowlmead I decided that I would boycot the "Miners Muffin" this week and have tea instead. Didn't stop Rob though, he tucked in and used the magic of brown sauce to counteract and neutralise the cheese nastiness that lurks in the errrrr thing.

Back to the ride - the weather was great, beautiful May sunshine, clear skies and a bit of a breeze, the miles clicked down quite quickly at nice steady pace. Steady that is until a local club swept past us in a local business sponsored peleton, kind of like a fast moving Thompson Local. Now I have known Rob for nearly ten years and I have learned many things from him, from Pink Floyd to Aboriginal art. But there is one thing that I do know about Rob as a rider is that he is what I call a "chaser". Rob will chase anything, from a milk float to a double decker bus. Never mind that he never catches them, it does not seem to put him off one bit. The mobile Thompson Local peleton that swept past us was too much temptation. Way too much. The eager greyhound that lurks inside Rob woke up suddenly, pricked up his ears and raced off after the hare, landing amongst them, to continue the dog metaphor, like an excited Labrador puppy. The peleton closed around him and there he was, enveloped. I sat at the back to see how things were going to pan out, I never tire of watching Rob chase down his prey. These guys were probably in their early twenties, if you added the speed we were doing to their age you would arrive at a number closer to our respective age. The ratio of speed to age was a nice symmetrical number (my OCD likes them) say 25:25, we were giving away 25 years and trying to maintain 25mph. I did not feel in a good place, Rob was certainly in a much worse place, enveloped in the 25mph peleton. We needed a dignified way out. Mine came in the next fork in the road, I needed to go left, trouble was the peleton envelope with Rob inside went right. I think it took him five miles to catch me up.

The peleton despatched we spun through the lanes and through the little town of Sandwich, which passed without event or altercation, probably because Bazza was not there. With Sandwich behind us it was through the toll road, over the golf course into the backstreets of Deal and onto Fowlmead. The back way into Fowlmead means you pass through a gate, the sign on the gate says "this gate closes at 8pm". Why? How? It makes no sense and off goes the pedant again - This gate is closed at 8pm, how hard was that? Does it matter? Not really. Is it important? Not really, I probably should get out more.

A quick lap around the circuit gratuitously overtaking Apollos and Tesco bikes feeling pathetically superior but really looking like a couple of sad middle age wannabees had us back at the café for the now infamous Miner's Muffin. A quick scout around and a look at the deserted pump track and we were on our way homeward discussing of all things Corten steel, a material much beloved by artists including Antony Gormley the Angel of the North artist. The conversation turned to why Corten does not rust like other mild steels and the answer is interestingly:

"Weathering" means that due to their chemical compositions, these steels exhibit increased resistance to atmospheric corrosion compared to other steels. This is because the steel forms a protective layer on its surface under the influence of the weather.
The corrosion-retarding effect of the protective layer is produced by the particular distribution and concentration of alloying elements in it. The layer protecting the surface develops and regenerates continuously when subjected to the influence of the weather. In other words, the steel is allowed to rust in order to form the 'protective' coating.

Thanks Wikipedia.

The route home was a bit of a freestyle navigate through the lanes that got us to Wingham which was decked out like a 1950's chocolate box with bunting and flags out, something to do with a jubilee thing. I try and stop images of guillotines on The Mall, at least there were no signs to read.

A bit of climbing dispensed with the Wingham 1952 timewarp and it was on to Grove Ferry where we picked up the peleton on the way out. More climbing, a bit more climbing and then some more got us to the outskirts of Herne Bay, note to self: move somewhere where it is not uphill all the way back.

And we are back in the room - being Herne Bay a ride would not be complete without some abuse being hurled at us from a car and today's ride did not disappoint.  What is it with fat women in cheap, nearly new, crappy little hatchback cars that feel obliged to toot, wind down the window and deliver an incoherent rant at a few cyclists? They are so full of anger and hate and probably make all those signs that so jar my sensitivities. I can forgive you for the signs, just please stop yelling at me. Peace.

  

      

It's about Geography - or is it?

Not the kind of geography that Mr Higgins used to teach back in form five, none of that terminal moraine and nimbus stratus stuff, although I guess that kind of comes into it. No, I am talking about the sense of where you are both geographically, topographically, perhaps even where your place is in the Cosmos.

Basically a sense of where you live and what is around you. One of my co-contributors to this blog, OK, at the moment the only co-contributor to this blog, lent me a great book called "the Lost Art of Pedestrianism by Geoff Nicholson (must remember to give it back). The book is a rambling collection of musings and well rambles, both mental and physical in which the author details his need to walk as a means of getting in touch with where he is and derives a great sense of self and contact with other human souls.

Biking for me is very much like that, we live in an area on the North Kent coast between Herne Bay and Whitstable in Kent. The area we ride in takes in a wide area from Wye, high on the North Downs, to the dense forest that embraces Canterbury down to the marshes that run from Fordwich over to the small town of Sandwich.

By riding the lanes, the highways, the byeways and the terrain and experiencing the weather first hand from freezing winter to balmy summer you get a real sense of place, nature and topography. The rides add a different dimension in the many conversations that riders in the carnival have, from the chit chat about work to the outright wacky, and dare I say it, often made up, philosophical meanderings from Nietzsche to Aristotle and every bit in between - the conversations provide a kind of bullshit kaleidoscope through which to view the ride unfolding - wouldn't have it any other way.


I have grown to love these rides, they have become, without exaggeration, something that I have to do, each one weaves more knowledge of where I live, building up into a fabric that places me precisely in my locale as well as the universe itself. To twist the words, very slightly, of the great man Mr. Armstrong, "it is not about the bike" and also Mr Higgins, it is not about geography. No, it is bigger than that, far, far bigger.