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There were bats
It's that time of year again: the Dunwich Dynamo. A bike ride from the pub to the beach - a pub in Hackney to a beach in Suffolk, as it happens, with 120 miles in between. This is the sixteenth year it has run.
Everything started in panic fettle as the new Brompton turned up with just three hours' tinkering time before I was bound into a whirl of trains and bendy buses and ended up at London Fields via Spitalfields (?). The bike behaved flawlessly and I'll be singing that model's praises later. He's got a name now: Hannibal. Daft expeditions, creepy urbane slick cannibals and a hint of elephant-on-a-circus-bike. Here's the beast in action:
And evidence that Hannibal made it:
Met up with the usual massive at the Pub on the Park and with some folks old and new *waves hello to the mythical Pennyfarthing Girl, Denise (sigh), Gerald's outstanding machine, and the Irish girl whose name I forgot 'cos I forget every name*. Gave the Brommie a final fettle over noodles and a pint, and then we were off in perfect conditions. Hannibal is a touch slower than conventional bikes (max gear: 76"), and knowing that I'd be riding solo in the grimmy dark, I'd brought along some bangin' choons for those 1am lonely-grumpy stretches before the midway stop. Mental toolkit for the win, even if the shuffler kept giving me ethereal Bjork instead of kickarse power-pop. There is a time and a place for disco cheese, and 1am with the wearies gathering around like bats is that place.
I had to just switch off my lights when all alone and ride in the full moonlight. Just me and the bats for some stretches: lots of bats this year, plucking moths from our headlamps all the way from Epping to Peasenhall. Little quick leathery chaps exploiting the bug-rich niche we were creating for 'em, and always in the distance that thin scarlet thread of blinkies to follow. There are always photos of this ride's start, and the end, and the midway stop, and riders along the way, but nobody has ever really captured that scarlet thread. It's the ineffable you-have-to-be-there substance of the Dun Run.
Special mention has to go out to Gerald who, when his road bike was stolen, just turned up on his workbike instead. Gerald, you are the Duracell bunny.
Over five hundred riders this year. Almost all smiley the whole way; there were a few dour heads and there are always a few weepy ones ("I'm never riding with you again! Wah!") but the great conditions meant that the mood was just plain happy. No idea who these guys were!
A nice relaxed break at Lavenham (nice new venue! bright! clean! many loos!) was bliss compared to the damp steamy refugee hell of the last couple of years, plenty of space to refill and chat or snooze, trade Clif bars for coffee, and off we headed into the dawn. Dunwich is two rides really: a night ride that starts out almost Critical Mass with a Gathering of the Clans vibe going on, which turns into a bit of an endurance test against fatigue; and then after the stop, a tired but joyous ride through the countryside dawn with that final seven-mile kicker.
In that weariness there was singing: this is the sort of ride where the lesbian tandem bursts into the Cup of Brown Joy rap and if you're not careful you end up trying to improvise new verses to Lily the Pink. At least we avoided S-Club 7. It wasn't until about a hundred miles in that I was happy riding the Brompton no-handed, and S-Club needs the gestures. Reach! For the stars! Fall into every hedge and / Reach! For the stars! 'Cos thats an ambulance / we called for you... and now those lights are flashing blue (da da, do do dede dada)!
I started flagging with plain old sleepiness and had to take a power-nap at Peasenhall before tooling on - but when I saw the first Dunwich sign, it was the usual EPO / new legs / big dumb grin dealio and that was it, storm the beaches! "Dunwich 7 miles" says the sign, and the dog has seen the rabbit. I just had this idiot grin for the last leg. Always do.
The bike was impeccable: Bromptons aren't really designed for this sort of thing, and given its limitations (folds small enough to conceal from a TSA body cavity search) it was absolutely great. The only issue I had was a shorts 'n' nadgers one; old tired thin undershorts + new Brooks = ouch. Still, the comfort issue was managed with a great deal of medicine and it forced me to suss out honking on the Brompton in double-quick time (you get really forward so that your bobbing doesn't bounce the suspension, and hold the beast steady). Even so, it's not a hill-climber and I walked anything steep, as much for the arse-break as anything.
And then a glorious finish, charging down to the beach and Café Annie and lots of people saying "you rode on that?". Can't end much better than that! (apart from the lift back (folders ftw!) and cake and chips and mushy peas at chez Charlotte).
And then, because they were dropped on the head as babies, some people turn around and ride back the way they came. Nutters.
And evidence that Hannibal made it:
Met up with the usual massive at the Pub on the Park and with some folks old and new *waves hello to the mythical Pennyfarthing Girl, Denise (sigh), Gerald's outstanding machine, and the Irish girl whose name I forgot 'cos I forget every name*. Gave the Brommie a final fettle over noodles and a pint, and then we were off in perfect conditions. Hannibal is a touch slower than conventional bikes (max gear: 76"), and knowing that I'd be riding solo in the grimmy dark, I'd brought along some bangin' choons for those 1am lonely-grumpy stretches before the midway stop. Mental toolkit for the win, even if the shuffler kept giving me ethereal Bjork instead of kickarse power-pop. There is a time and a place for disco cheese, and 1am with the wearies gathering around like bats is that place.
I had to just switch off my lights when all alone and ride in the full moonlight. Just me and the bats for some stretches: lots of bats this year, plucking moths from our headlamps all the way from Epping to Peasenhall. Little quick leathery chaps exploiting the bug-rich niche we were creating for 'em, and always in the distance that thin scarlet thread of blinkies to follow. There are always photos of this ride's start, and the end, and the midway stop, and riders along the way, but nobody has ever really captured that scarlet thread. It's the ineffable you-have-to-be-there substance of the Dun Run.
Special mention has to go out to Gerald who, when his road bike was stolen, just turned up on his workbike instead. Gerald, you are the Duracell bunny.
Over five hundred riders this year. Almost all smiley the whole way; there were a few dour heads and there are always a few weepy ones ("I'm never riding with you again! Wah!") but the great conditions meant that the mood was just plain happy. No idea who these guys were!
A nice relaxed break at Lavenham (nice new venue! bright! clean! many loos!) was bliss compared to the damp steamy refugee hell of the last couple of years, plenty of space to refill and chat or snooze, trade Clif bars for coffee, and off we headed into the dawn. Dunwich is two rides really: a night ride that starts out almost Critical Mass with a Gathering of the Clans vibe going on, which turns into a bit of an endurance test against fatigue; and then after the stop, a tired but joyous ride through the countryside dawn with that final seven-mile kicker.
In that weariness there was singing: this is the sort of ride where the lesbian tandem bursts into the Cup of Brown Joy rap and if you're not careful you end up trying to improvise new verses to Lily the Pink. At least we avoided S-Club 7. It wasn't until about a hundred miles in that I was happy riding the Brompton no-handed, and S-Club needs the gestures. Reach! For the stars! Fall into every hedge and / Reach! For the stars! 'Cos thats an ambulance / we called for you... and now those lights are flashing blue (da da, do do dede dada)!
I started flagging with plain old sleepiness and had to take a power-nap at Peasenhall before tooling on - but when I saw the first Dunwich sign, it was the usual EPO / new legs / big dumb grin dealio and that was it, storm the beaches! "Dunwich 7 miles" says the sign, and the dog has seen the rabbit. I just had this idiot grin for the last leg. Always do.
The bike was impeccable: Bromptons aren't really designed for this sort of thing, and given its limitations (folds small enough to conceal from a TSA body cavity search) it was absolutely great. The only issue I had was a shorts 'n' nadgers one; old tired thin undershorts + new Brooks = ouch. Still, the comfort issue was managed with a great deal of medicine and it forced me to suss out honking on the Brompton in double-quick time (you get really forward so that your bobbing doesn't bounce the suspension, and hold the beast steady). Even so, it's not a hill-climber and I walked anything steep, as much for the arse-break as anything.
And then a glorious finish, charging down to the beach and Café Annie and lots of people saying "you rode on that?". Can't end much better than that! (apart from the lift back (folders ftw!) and cake and chips and mushy peas at chez Charlotte).
And then, because they were dropped on the head as babies, some people turn around and ride back the way they came. Nutters.