I dressed into what will be another skin for the next six to eight weeks and applied various lubricating ointments to the appropriate areas.
I never normally look at Weetabix but this morning I had three, my decision informed by some remembered advert.
As we drove through Town I convinced myself that the rain is abating, wilfully ignoring the fact that it fell with the same relentless indifference on York Road, Battersea Bridge, Whitehall and Embankment successively. St Paul’s shrugs as we rise Ludgate Hill and soon enough my bike is set, my kit all on and after some brief but not easy farewells I am on my way.
The Start: St Paul's Cathedral
The first hour went very well. The rain continued to fall fairly hard but it seemed all my waterproof kit was a match for it and I allowed myself to remain hubristically smug as I left London. Due to some poor navigation I ended up on the A12 to Chelmsford and this was where my troubles began. I thought to myself that since the A road leads directly into Harwich, it must be the shortest route. I have since realised this was false logic as A roads are obviously designed for car drivers to whom a few miles extra road is preferable to a town centre. For the next 2 hours I struggled up the hard shoulder on what seemed like a never ending incline. As I entered Essex my ‘breathable’ waterproof outer layers began to inhale cold water and I was soaked through within minutes, with more than 20 miles of the same to follow.
I finally left the A12, at Chelmsford, on a slip road I have since learned is called Three Mile Hill. I tackled this with my middle gears as my hands were too cold to manipulate the gear change levers and as I crested the hill I cramped up and had to dismount. Earlier than I had planned I had to duck into what appeared to be a Harvester to warm up. Sadly (for the waiting staff) this was not a Harvester but a rather plush gastropub and I immediately felt inappropriate – saturated and shivering among the leather clad furniture and tasteful mahogany finishes. The manager, though slightly surprised, was faultlessly accommodating and after a bowl of soup and a cup of tea I regained my spirits and set out for Colchester.
This was a navigational nightmare. I do not want to check the route I actually took as I fear it will appear as a bent spring, coiling round and round that which I had planned. At one point I climbed and descended the same substantial hill twice, though it lay more than half a mile from the road I needed. After this I was pretty peeved and thankfully a kind old man directed me onto a close by road that had a sign indicating 12 miles to Colchester. This was a great relief and I hammered out this last leg, punishing myself for all earlier idiocies.
On arriving in Colchester I ignored a couple of nice looking pubs on the outskirts and I thank Providence that I did because further into the town I came upon the Fat Cat. The name attracted me so I parked up the bike and went in. Within five minutes I had a full bowl of roast potatoes with crisp fried onions before me, accompanied by a pot of hot tea. Within ten minutes I had the numbers of two people who live on my route, with offers to stay in each at my convenience. Everybody there took an immediate and genuine interest in what I was doing and ensured that I knew exactly where I was going for the final stretch to Harwich. The only bad word I heard was a gentle chiding from the kind bar lady when I offered to pay. This great little company of people picked me up and for the final 20 miles to Harwich I had a smile on my face.
I have never been so pleased to see a ferry terminal. The bland, endless tarmac and the dim lighting of the waiting facility soothed my soul and with six hours until departure I had a chance to clean up and dry everything out. Though my jacket, gloves and overshoes were soaked through, my panniers had held up manfully and save for a couple of slight leakages at the seams everything inside was safe and dry.
Distance covered 79.5 miles
