John Whiteley looks back to the days when hard riders found things easier than expected..
It all started with reports in the CTC magazine, of the first London – Brighton Cycle Ride in 1980. Apart from one severe climb, which some walked, a good time had been had by all. The British Heart Foundation’s advert had convinced us that raising sponsorship was something we should all do, and in 1981, we did it. It was affordable with a special 24-hour ticket on a London train, which called at Wakefield at about quarter past midnight, and a return train from King’s Cross at about five to midnight. Sponsor forms and route sheets were received from the BHF together with all necessary information – and a warning about Ditchling Beacon, the “severe climb”.
Five of us rendezvoused in Brighouse on Friday evening, and cycled to Wakefield – Dave Regan, Big Dave Fern and Carl Kershaw and I seem to remember Adrian Holroyd as the fifth member, but it could have been Nigel Bishop.
King’s Cross Station at five a.m. is dire, but start time found us in Hyde Park, bright and eager, and assembled with thousands of others ready for the off. There were all kinds of bikes; penny-farthings, butcher’s boys’ bikes and sit-up-and-beg bikes for Dutch ladies. The megaphone-man wished us all safety – and good luck with Ditchling Beacon!
We were off, through the suburbs and past Heathrow. These were early days for Jumbo Jets, I’d never seen one before, and here one was getting airborne just as we rode under the take-off path – absolutely massive – it was like riding under a street of houses; incredible; amazing.
Gently pedalling through beautiful rolling Surrey and Sussex countryside – it was wonderful; high summer; butterflies; profusion of wildflowers in the hedgerows; birdsong, and warm breeze on our faces. En-route catering was superb; in village halls, country church halls, community centres, all staffed by local Womens’ Institutes, Mothers’ Unions, Townswomens’ Guilds and others, in their ‘chapel tea’ aprons and hats, serving up wonderful home baking with cheerful generosity and kindness at prices easy to pay. In a way, the weather made it, but what a memorable day. The talk among those riders with southern accents was of Ditchling Beacon.
At Brighton, we rode along the ‘Prom’ and to the official table. We presented our sponsor forms for signing, but we had to sign that we’d completed the specified course, to authenticate our claims for sponsorship money. But had we kept to the course? We’d missed that hill! The route information had advised to respect it, to conserve our strength in anticipation, not to be embarrassed about walking up it and to use the rest area and refreshments at the top of it. How could we go wrong? After debate we decided to come clean, and confessed. The officials took us through the route : “Did you go through this place?” - we had : “Did you pass that place?” - we had : “Did you pass the ice-cream van, tea wagon and tables and parasols with a superb view all round?” – we did. Apparently that was it, the top of the infamous Ditchling Beacon, and we hadn’t noticed it.
In those days summer rides took us over Fleet Moss at least once a month. Fleet Moss is a hill, and the one by which other hills are judged; hills were either easier than Fleet, or severe if harder. We’d been led to expect severe; steep and long. Believe me, if you live in Queensbury and ride up home from work in town, Ditchling Beacon isn’t long, if you live in Greetland and ride up home from West Vale, it isn’t steep, and if you live in Norland, it isn’t a hill.
After tea, we sought the road north to Redhill for our train to London and got talking to a cyclist from Kent who was also riding to Redhill for his train. A very helpful young chap, going our way, knew the route, on the same schedule, he made up our bunch to six, took the front with me, and off we went. Now, this Kentish lad knew how to ride, and we were off like the chain gang.Guessing at 35 miles-ish from Brighton to Redhill, and this was thunder and turf stuff, redolent of riding with the Condor or the Imps. Normally when riding like this, it’s bit-and-bit, with another two riders coming to the front every few miles to take their share of the wind, but I was on the inside and Kentish Man was on the outside, and, being our guide, he made no offer to move over. The roads were quiet, wide and fairly level, and apart from a couple of roundabouts, we kept formation all the way. I asked if he was a racing man, but he wasn’t – “West Kent DA” I think he said, so he was one of us! There he was, riding on sweat-free and cool, and there I was, sweating and feeling it.I wondered what it was like for the others on the back, but at least they were out of the wind. I was near to disgracing myself and asking if we could knock a mile off, when we entered Redhill, and rolled in to the station forecourt. I dismounted, nonchalantly, not wanting to give the game away.Kentish Man said : “By blahdy hell mate – do you northerners always ride like that? – I m knaaykered – another mile and I’d have asked you to knock a mile off. Never done that as fast before”.
None of us said a word.