Since we last met I have ridden another of those sportives. It was called the Puncheur, which is not a typo but actually means something romantic in French (although it does remind me of someone I once encountered on a cycling forum who spelled the word ‘puncture’ as ‘puncher’. Do you know anyone like that? Give them a gentle punch from me).
Anyway, the Puncheur is an early season sportive in the southeast. It’s only 65 miles long, but its USP - which here stands for ‘unique sucker punch’ - is that it ends with a summit finish on the highest mountain in Brighton’s Alpes-Maritimes, Ditchling Beacon. Southern readers will be familiar with Ditchling Beacon, it’s the hill that everyone walks up on the annual London-Brighton. On a clear day you can see the curvature of the earth from the top, and a friend told me that if you stand on the roof of the ice cream van in the car park you can see the Eiffel Tower and dancing girls of the Moulin Rouge.
Although the organisers had promised sunshine, the day of the Puncheur was cold and overcast. Still, I was hopeful it would clear up by the end so I could see Paris and especially the Moulin Rouge, as I’m a fan of dance.
But business before pleasure, first I had to do some cycling. I set out from Ditchling village hall, where the route rolled east a bit towards Lewes, before shooting north through the Ashdown Forest.
Now, although the Ashdown is notorious as the stomping ground of Winnie the Pooh and his feral gang, it is quite safe to travel through during daylight hours provided you aren’t carrying any honey-based energy gels. It’s also a beautiful part of the country, with heathland and some perfect road surfaces making for great cycling. The descent from Chuck Hill was particularly enjoyable, my speedo passed 70kph - proving that fear of fictional bears can yield marginal gains.
After approximately 33 scenic if cold miles without pause I was ready for a snack, and just in time the feed stop appeared. The stop was located just a stone’s throw from Scientology’s headquarters at Saint Hill Manor. It’s a very grand pile. Apparently L Ron Hubbard made his home here back in the day, which suggests that writing sci-fi is a lucrative line of work - at least when supplemented by part-time earnings from founding your own religion.
Although the Ashdown is notorious as the stomping ground of Winnie the Pooh and his feral gang, it is quite safe to travel through during daylight hours provided you aren’t carrying any honey-based energy gels
The selection of food was excellent, a tempting array of treats evenly balanced between good (chunks of dried fruit) and evil (chocolate cookies and brownies) supplied, fittingly, by Infinity Foods. I daintily nibbled at a healthy banana, while with my other hand I stealthily stuffed a chocolate brownie and a mystery energy bar into my back pocket for later.
Before setting off I quickly checked my phone, and found an irate message from my other half complaining that she’d been unable to go back to sleep after I left. Heart welling with pity, I clambered back on my steed and rolled off again into the chill morning mist. I was now just south of East Grinstead heading west along the 'top' part of the course. The wind, which to this point had been helping out, turned nasty as the course turned south towards Balcombe and Warninglid.
The next stretch was a struggle. Usually, knowing you're on the home straight lends an extra few watts of power - or maybe it's the finish line and prospect of a hot shower exerting a magnetic pull - but in this case any such positive effects were negated by the knowledge that a big hill lay between me and the promised pasta party back at HQ.
I finally reached the foot of Mount Ditchling and began a weary ascent. My right leg began to cramp but I kept pedalling. After a few minutes the twinges passed and I forged on, like a glacier in reverse, winching to the top.
And therein lies the evil genius of the Puncheur and the twisted masterminds behind it. It is impossible to relax in the second half of the ride; all mental energy is dedicated to the challenge ahead, a challenge which grows in magnitude with each passing mile; this in turn has a physical effect, sapping the legs and sharpening the sting of lactate in every muscle. Even the prospect of the magnificent Gallic view at the finish wasn’t enough to cheer me up.
I don't know, maybe I just need to work on the psychological side of my game. Either way, those final 20 miles were tough. I finally reached the foot of Mount Ditchling and began a weary ascent. My right leg began to cramp but I kept pedalling, gingerly resting most of my weight on my trusty left. After a few minutes the twinges passed and I forged on, like a glacier in reverse, winching to the top while across the road from me other cyclists whizzed past, job done, wreathed in triumphant smiles.
At long last I rounded the final bend and trundled breathlessly up the ramp into the car park where I slumped to the grass next to the ice cream van. I hadn’t the energy left to clamber onto its roof. Instead I took out my phone for a victory selfie, and saw another message from my beloved soigneur back home in bed.
‘She must be texting to congratulate me,’ I thought. ‘What with me just having cycled the equivalent of two and a half marathons.’ I opened the message, only to find that I was not being congratulated – I was being threatened with dire punishments that would make even Winnie and his mob wince.
What had I done?! I panicked, thinking perhaps she had found my stash of Felix English pictures for the mask.
‘Those are for RESEARCH…’ I began to text back - but then the phone rang. It turned out my crime was leaving a snickers bar in the house (she is allergic to peanuts). So I was guilty of attempted murder. With a sigh I picked up my bike and headed back to the car for the journey home. Cycling is a tough mistress… but not as tough as an actual mistress.
