There was a brisk freshness to the air blowing in through the bedroom window as the alarm went off at 6am.
“I thought it was going to be a scorcher,” Anthony remarked, stretching as he made his way to the bathroom.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Kat replied, “just give it a couple of hours.”
Decked out in our mustard yellow T-shirts, numbers pinned on the front, we set off into the streets of North London. They were empty. Barely a car on the road. We could even hear the clicking and whirring of our chains as we pedalled along.
“We should come out at this time more often,” Kat commented.
“I am usually out at this time,” Anthony sighed, “while you’re still tucked up in bed.”
Kat huffed.
“Yeah but not at the weekend.”
The ride began at 8.30am at Battersea Power Station. The sun had started to burn through the clouds already. We felt the beads of sweat slipping down our backs as we all crowded into a funnel, a sea of yellow, as they started releasing groups of cyclists across the start line, staggering the start.
A grin crept across Anthony’s face.
“Have you seen that?”
“What?”
Kat followed Anthony’s gaze and saw a lady not much younger than us. She had split her regulation yellow T-shirt up the back to reveal a large, flowery tattoo on the small of her back, just above the waistline of her shorts.
“They should do a photo of that and just put a caption above it saying ‘The Definition of Narcissism’” Anthony whispered.
Although she’d rather ruined the look by taking the split up a little too far, the band of a grubby white sports bra peeking through. Not the ultimate fashion accessory.
It wasn’t the last alteration we saw to the T-shirts. A couple of minutes later we rode past a girl in her mid-twenties, her blonde hair in two pigtails, who had tied her shirt in a knot at the front, with a white T-shirt emerging out below it.
We gave each other a knowing look.
“I guess some people are just going to annoy us today,” Kat said, as we cycled past another couple of riders who had cut the arms of their T-shirts, and hacked at the neckline.
We’d only gone about half a mile when the jostling for position started. Two cyclists on carbon fibre race bikes shot down the outside lane in the traffic, shouting a warning for everyone else to keep out of the way as they flew by… and then screeched to a halt at the lights. Heavens above, they weren’t even wearing yellow T-shirts at all! They had their own cycling tops on and had their numbers well-concealed.
“Idiots,” Anthony hissed.
But our slight irritation at the worst aspects of our fellow riders and their manufactured attire subsided as we got into a rhythm. The early burst of testosterone in some of the participants seemed to have subsided and a good-natured, convivial atmosphere had materialised.
Pedalling through the quiet streets, taking in the river views, we crossed Blackfriars Bridge, made a loop through the city and headed out east. We motored our way forward on the many cycle paths, all the way out to the Thames Barrier, the most easterly turn-around point.
“You’ve got to love Docklands for cycling,” Kat sighed, “there’s nothing and no-one here.”
“There’s nobody here because there’s nothing to see,” Anthony observed.
He was right. We absorbed the entire grey, dusty, panorama, with its elevated rail system and concrete flyovers. The only people we noticed were crowded around the Excel centre, a large, swarming pack, with an apparent purpose that was and would remain a mystery to us. And there was one lady out jogging, slowly, labouring along in the heat. But that was it.
We stopped for our first break at the King Edward Memorial Park in Wapping, eating a banana and a couple of bars, and topping up our water. Then the route headed west on the north side of the river, through the City and along the embankment all the way to Chelsea. Negotiating the streets of Fulham and Putney, it wasn’t long until we crossed Hammersmith Bridge and found ourselves in the heart of Richmond Park.
It was a spectacle of lush spring green. Recent weather in London has had every proud gardener boasting that his flowerbeds are looking so good that they should have had a spot at the Chelsea flower show. And the parks are looking just as enchanting.
As we neared the Richmond Gate, we could see a few people gathering around with cameras. A herd of fallow deer was resting under the shade of a large oak tree, about ten or perhaps fifteen of them, a mix of young and old, male and female. A typical Sunday family outing. They were perfectly still, save for the twitching of ears to rid themselves of the odd fly.
The westerly turnaround point was at Ham House. Built in 1610, it’s a beguiling example of a Stuart house. Neither of us had seen it before and we were quietly awestruck. An impeccably restored redbrick building, with pristine gardens and, we expected, beautiful interiors. We would have liked to take longer and have a look around but, after a quick break, and Anthony chomping his way through a packet of every flavour of Walkers crisps available, we were back on the road.
It was a short hop to the end, returning past the pretty duck pond on Ham Common, and then tracking the perimeter on the other side of Richmond Park. Negotiating the busy streets of Putney, we emerged on the Chelsea Embankment, which by now was heaving with soft-top sports cars full of bon-viveurs heading out for a champagne brunch.
Fifty-two miles later, significantly hotter and more weary, we arrived back where we had started. We celebrated with a lunchtime beer and a greasy burger on the baking forecourt of Battersea Power Station, proudly wearing our finisher's medals.
“I’d forgotten how absolutely exhausted we used to be in the evenings after our rides,” Kat mumbled to Anthony that afternoon, waking up after a quick nap on the sofa.
“Yeah, well we did do seventy miles today, with the ride there and back.”
“True, and at least we don’t need to write a blog at the end of the day, or plan tomorrow’s route.”
Ahem.
Well, here’s the blog anyway.
Us x
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