September, time for the annual pilgrimage to the Ronde Picarde, a sportive in northern France. Having been rash enough to book some hotel rooms back in February, I found myself canvassing interest and trying to bring together the rest of the arrangements too. We ended up with a group of 10: me, Mick, Harv, Nigel, Geoff, Mark B, Dave G, Kevin and special guests Paul Hicks and Phil Callow. This was the perfect number because we couldn’t have easily fitted any more people or bikes into the cars or Mark’s van. And no one had to share a double bed; although I think one of our number was a bit disappointed about that…
Despite all the planning and a punctual departure on Friday morning, we managed to end up on two different ferries, and because it was so early Mick missed out on the fish and chips he’d been banging on about for ages. At least this year we all found our way to the sign-on in Abbeville without driving randomly around town for an hour. Unfortunately the numerous (ahem) facilities at the Ibis Budget hotel did not include a functioning checking-in machine or a full-time (or anglophone) receptionist. This led to some anxiety at the prospect of sleeping in the vehicles. Most of us decided to bring forward our planned leg-stretcher ride to kill some time till the desk was manned, while Kevin, Mick and Dave went for a coffee (or beer) in town.
I’d planned a little route out through the village of Saint Riquier, whose prettiness was somewhat overshadowed by the headwind and hill on the way. Still, 20 miles later the Picardy novices Mark and Phil were appraised of what to expect on the main ride: small villages, open fields, undulating terrain and some wind. We felt we’d fully earned a lovely hour admiring the scenery in town. Then, after a long wait for Harv to get ready, we all had a huge meal in McDonald’s, nutrition optional.
Saturday morning was just about perfect weather-wise, at least until we got out of town and found ourselves enveloped in mist so thick that the TV mast above Limeux and the tops of the wind turbines were hidden from view. We were wearing matching kit (I’d lent Phil a jersey) for easier identification amid the cavalry charge from the start line, but it was futile. The crazy pace, a pinchpoint at a narrow bridge and the sharp climb out of Bellifontaine had us scattered all over the road. Harv came past me and shouted to join a group being led by half a dozen pink jerseys from DigestScience, a French team of mixed ages. They were strong and we rattled along comfortably in an ever-growing peloton for 30 miles, picking up Mark and Geoff who’d sent Paul on ahead, and often cruising at 25mph+.
I’d warned Mark “get on the small chainring when you see the sea” and was in the middle of questioning whether he’d done so when my chain came off. That was on the sharp climb at Ault and meant I got sympathetic applause from the crowd at the top but also a long chase back to the remains of the group in front. Each rider I passed jumped on my wheel and when I finally got back to Geoff and Mark the three of us, with a lone Frenchman, towed a growing group into a stiff headwind until we reached the shelter of the sand dunes and suddenly the passengers were happy to go to the front. Geoff nearly came off in a patch of sand. Harv had stayed with the pink jerseys but waited for us at the feed station, 60 miles in, where Geoff marvelled at the automatically-flushing toilet and the rest of us gave it a wide berth once he’d used it. We were on schedule for the target time of 6:11 (the 50-59 Gold standard) that I’d arbitrarily set. It didn’t last.
There’s no mistaking, the second half of the ride was really tough, particularly as the sun had come out and there was little shelter. Once again we found ourselves doing most of the work in a large group, and a smaller one after the short-routers turned off. Mark took a long turn as we climbed to cross the motorway, but unwisely dropped right to the back of the group and found himself on the wrong side of a split. We didn’t realise he was in trouble until Harv stopped for a natural break in the Crécy forest a few miles later. Not long after that I popped too. I managed to keep Harv and Geoff in sight while I waited for two gels to kick in, battling a sore knee, a cramped-up calf and utter dejection. After what seemed like hours but was in fact only the most uphill 10 miles of the entire route I managed to close the gap and they basically towed me to the second feed station and then over the sadistic hill at Long to the finish, 115 miles on the clock. If I’d been able to contribute to the pace we might have made the 6:11 target; as it was we were around five minutes short, albeit averaging over 19mph excluding stops. Meanwhile Mark had rallied a guy from the Tonbridge area who was ready to quit, and Phil caught up with them at the feed. They rolled over the finish line close together but didn’t see us lying in the field chatting to Paul who’d finished ages before, so got back to the hotel before us. Nigel, who on his two previous visits suffered a crash and a puncture, had his shifter come loose and after an emergency repair from the Mavic guy at the first feed, took the short route with Mick, Dave and Kevin.
Against the clock after the mishap at the finish, we crammed four of us into one room to shower and change but got back to Calais without incident and even managed to catch the same ferry this time. A considerable quantity of food was consumed in the name of recovery, we could all still walk and some of us weren’t sunburned. What more could anyone want from a short expedition to foreign fields?
