From the busting streets and aggressive drivers of Guildford on to the rat runs around posh housing estates of Victorian replica detached houses with Audis parked in the driveway, thinning to country lanes with a blend of stone-fronted mansions and Grand Designs boxes with saunas and Ferraris parked in the driveway, I passed a couple running and, like me, she couldn't resist peering into every gateway for a glimpse of how the other half lived. I wonder if these people have enough time and friends to spend sitting at their cedar and glass-topped dining table on the deck overlooking Guildford city then turned off on to a bridleway offering just enough traction to trace a wobbly line across the North Downs to Newlands Corner. That was better.
I crossed the A25 twice, the busiest road on the route, but otherwise had no clue where I was as I followed a pink line on the map, up hill and down dale. I stopped to adjust my saddle once and consume a banana.
I've just moved to single chain ring gear on my bike so I have a 32 tooth chain ring and a 11 x 46 block on the back wheel. Testament to how suitable this range is (I'm rather pleased with my selection), I never once reached for the left hand shifter and where a climb demanded I shift into the bottom gear, it went in cleanly and when the climbing was over, the next gear up was just perfect for what I wanted to do without frantic shifting up.
With the suspension fixed and a new set of brakes, I was riding like I did 5 years ago when the bike was new because whilst I might be older, less fit and stiffer, the bike is now 300g lighter.
As I rode through ancient woodlands though, I couldn't help but wonder where all the people on bikes were. The obvious answer to this is from my friend Simon who always tells me, "but Trep, you do weird shit cross-country stuff. That's old school. No-one is riding that anymore".
As I push up yet another roaring downhill, I'm glad no other riders are on it and a hawk sweeps through the trees and settles on a branch to eye me from above.
Finally I recognise that I am in Peaslake. A semi-muscular, semi-flabby mountain biker is standing by his car in baggy shorts and no shirt, getting ready to go home after his morning ride. Steam is rising off his back. Down in the village I think I'll look for a shop but before I reach it I find 20-ish similarly steaming men (and one woman) hanging around the bus shelter outside the Peaslake store and pull the breaks on and lock my bike to the railings. I haven't got any mates to look after my bike whilst I'm in the shop.
I leave the bike in the company of three teenage boys playing in the leet and fetch myself a sandwich and fresh percolated coffee. I join a couple of walkers, huddled in the bus shelter with their dog. Asking if there's room for a skinny muddy one (there is), he glowers at me so I sit down and start up a conversation with the mountainbiker on the other side from Buckingham.
When he goes, I revert to the couple with their dog who, rather than being grumpy, are a bit overawed and think that we're all super-fit and riding "hundreds of miles". I try to make us sound more normal and point out that we do have mechanical assistance.
I use my fingernails to help some riders retrieve a drawing pin from the notice board for one rider to reset his Garmin that his freaked out on him. They're worried about me "breaking my nails before Christmas" till I ask, "have you
seen me?", covered as I am with muddy spreckles from head to toe.
I leave the boys to their up-and-down routes and pedal across towards Holmbury St Mary, over increasingly wide motor-way paths which cross ditches and other motor-way paths at 90 degress to my direction of travel. I repeatedly try out the suspension by rocketing down them super fast to get back up the other side still on the bike. Finally, my route takes me down one of the classic descents that came from the Surrey Moutain biking website. I am lost to trees and sweeping burms and occasionally worry that my Jones Bars are going to get snagged between two saplings.
I drop out in a carpark and ashamedly pick my way down some narrow steps, having no idea if it's a footpath or what as I seem to have become lost in myself and gone off route. I cross the road then a short time later flip off it again over to Abinger common to photograph a well.
Some more classic trails - I'm being spoilt here before the slog up to Leith Tower. A tiny child says hello to me then her sister - about 5 starts to tell me about her bike - which is just like mine. She's only allowed to ride it with her daddy at the moment but when I say, "one day you will ride it on your own" she deftly says, "yes".
With their eyes on me I made a valiant effort to ride as far up the very steep, rocky, tree-rooted trail as I can and make it to the third tree root step before sliding off sideways and pushing to the summit. There's a cafe in the tower so a teenager makes me a tea whilst keeping his eye on his friend to make sure she doesn't cheat at chess behind his back. Teens these days!
Whilst most people sit and look at the view towards the south Downs in the distance, I move around the North side of the tower towards London and St Albans distant to get out of the stiff breeze. I can drink by tea without putting a coat on.
On the descent from Leith Tower I see the only other weirdo doing cross-country, say hello then disappear down an uncomfortably steep muddy horse bridlepath and onto a road.
My next turn off is towards Holmbury Hill viewpoint but I miss the turn so decide to take the mountain bike path around the corner instead. At the bottom is the UCL institute of space and climate studies then I am rocketed up a steep path. Oncoming walkers shout hello as I throw myself and my bike up the slope, hopping off quickly because it all gets too sudden and rocky.
There's a sign in front of me about 80cms wide which says,
"BRIDLEPATH
Caution, Extremely STEEP"
Yes, they went to the effort of using red paint.
After a few metres, the couple have joined the path and he's striding up, shouting, "Hi there, hi, just to warn you, this path is extremely steep".
"Hi" I say, panting.
He's jogging now, "Hello, hi, just to let you know, it's really steep up here".
"Yes, thanks, I know",
"Oh, do you know it here?".
"No, but I can see it's really steep and I've seen it on the map".
"It's just that it's really steep".
"YEP".
Eventually I give up, "Good training for Scotland then".
"We do a bit of mountain biking, what are you doing in Scotland?" by this point his wife is behind him, hiding her face and thinking, "We don't really do any mountain biking".
"550 miles this summer"
Him:"I'm doing an enduro race, moto cross for 6 days", I've got him now. "Ah, that's cheating I say",
"I don't think so, it's 'ENDURANCE'".
"How far is endurance?" I ask.
Proudly, "About 100 miles a day".
"Cool, that's about what I'll be doing."
"Yeah, but it's, like, up and down waterfalls and stuff".
They leave me alone whilst I push my bike up the 30% mud grade. The track is worn to a narrow wedge section. There's only just enough space for my tyre at the bottom and any attempt to walk on the side-walls of the vee results in my feet sliding sideways and either me or the bike lolling on our side and falling over. I'd pick it up but I'd have to carry it on my back, touch it and when I was near the bottom I noticed I'd rolled through something Orange and sticky. It could have been earth but it could also have been dog poo.
Thankfully the wedge was narrow enough that I could just about push the bike dead ahead of me, the front wheel bouncing from side to side against the walls of the track to keep it upright so I could concentrate on putting my head down, choosing my foot placements and pushing with all my might. I have to perfect a technique for carrying my mountain bike but today, in front of him, wasn't the place.
Thankfully they didn't have time to wait at the top of Holmbury Hill to admire the view as they would have seen me toying with the idea of descending the wrong way (almost back the way I came) before choosing the right path in completely the opposite direction. Something about the altitude had done my head in.
I skirted around the edge of Hurtwood on a mixture of bridleways and lanes, looking forward to getting away from the carparks and downhill routes and back on to cross country trails that roll on and on. Just as \I thought I was going to make it, I passed some walkkers, assuming that was a footpath but ended up at a farm gate, obvously not a through route.
As I retraced my steps a posh but friendly female voice called out, "Where are you trying to get to?"
A difficult question to answer when you're following a pink line on a screen.
I explained that my map said to veer to the right but it was obviously not a through route. In fact one of the "walkers" was on the other side of the gate and the lady explained that I had been heading into "Duncan's property". I complimented Duncan on his beautiful home.
We realised that my straight line had missed the sweep around Duncan's house and they guided me "up towards that castle" although then said I would be suicidal to ride up it - people come down it, they don't go up it. Given my last encounter I was getting a bit fed up with people from Surrey telling me what I could and couldn't do.
"You should see the stuff I've been up - and down - today".
She squinted at me, "but you're... a girl, and you're covered in mud!"
Someone from the Adventure Syndicate probably has a really good retort to this statement but I was damned if I could find one after 45km hard riding so I just shrugged but she carried on
"Where is your car parked?" "I'm going back to my in-law's house in Guildford".
"But it's 4pm and Guildford is 9 miles... That way" (gesturing straight up the hill in the direction I was going). Then she had an even more outrageous thought, "So you are married then? And what is your husband doing?"
"He's gone out for a ride on the road".
Not understanding she reverted to the time of day, "It's going to be dark in an hour".
Me: "This light is very bright".
"And do you have a horn on your bike". I dinged my bell - thankfully for once, it rang out crystal clear instead of a pathetic "dunk" noise that it sometimes makes when caked in mud.
"... but you're
on your own".
"I don't have to worry about anyone else then do I?" suddenly we were on common ground. If she knew the phrase, "I hear you sista" she would have used it. Instead, her face used it.
Conversations reverted to the normal ones around dogs and houses and where are you from? Taking her point about the time of day I took my leave and set off to climb towards the castle except on attaining the castle driveway I was met by high fences surrounded by snarling Rott Weillers and a big sign saying, "no riders private road" so I hopped back on the bike (I'd been pushing some time) and descended to the trail turn-off that I had missed.
I really was on my own now. I didn't see another walker the rest of my ride except on crossing the canal at Bramley, a major dog-walking area. A highway bridlepath along the A281 brought me much joy as I sped along in my biggest gear separated from the traffic by a house and a a garden at least, all the way along its length. The busy shoppers being oblivious to my existence and my wonderful day out.
Through Chilworth I embarked on one more crossing of the North Downs, curving through trees. It was now starting to rain so I checked the map to make sure I was nearly home and texted TSK to let him now I was making the last pedal revolutions back into town. There was one more push to avoid a precipitous bridlepath drop onto a main road. I took it, extending my link to nature by about 5 minutes before joining the most expensive lane of edge-of-town property. I stopped part way down to take a photo of Guildford Cathedral at night, startling a woman walking into town for a night out.
The great joy of spending time here is knowing how to get out of Guildford without dying now. For some reason the Sound of Music had been in my head for some time and I wobbled my mountain bike over the "NO Cycles" railway bridge over the A33, singing, "Doe a deer, a female deer, Ray a drop of golden sun," My range ran out at "Tea a drink with jam and bread" and I rapped it as I waited patiently behind a walker, finishing "that will bring us back to doe" as I cycled down the ramp when he turned off to take the stairs.
Even the residents of Park Barn were accepting of my appearance as I wiggled through the council properties to spit out on the "other" side of town.
In order of preference I jet washed the bike, my saddlebag and rucksac, my boots and then, my leggings whilst still wearing them. I rinsed everything in the kitchen sink then put it straight in the washing machine, all whilst trying to appear socially acceptable. With the help of TSK and a towel, I think I managed it although I spent the rest of the evening surreptitiously clearing up muddy puddles in the conservatory.
On Christmas eve I will be dedicating the day to somewhat catching up on Christmas... before I do it all again.
Photos to follow
