Ships Log: High Hopes and Low Gears - North Downs Hillfest.

After a few weeks of juggling rides, family Easter chaos, and pretending to be a responsible adult, I finally returned to something vaguely resembling a proper training regime. There was a hill climb challenge the following weekend, but thanks to the perennial British rail engineering works, I couldn't actually get there — so I figured I'd bodge together my own mini version on the Thursday beforehand. DIY spirit and all that.

Worth noting: I was operating at peak sluggishness after a wedding weekend that saw me consume more beer in two days than I had since January. In short, I was in ideal shape for a climbing challenge.

The day’s additional spice: my off-peak train ticket meant a surgical start at 11:11 and a brutal cutoff to make the 15:21 train home. Miss that, and I’d be sitting around Croydon for four hours — a fate worse than mechanical failure.

I'd set some "mitigation strategies" (read: desperate contingency plans) in place, like cutting the final climb if time ran out. A fine plan, completely undermined by my own stupidity: while cycling to the station, I realised my front mudguard was flopping around like a dying fish. Turns out I’d attached the seat-tube guard by mistake. A frantic, expletive-laden dash home and back just barely saved the mission.

Flapjacks were a distant memory, so fuelling today meant Nutella sandwiches and some golden syrup cake — a diet so sophisticated it could only have been dreamt up by a seven-year-old at a petrol station.

Mercifully, the train to Merstham went smoothly. Then it was straight into the nonsense.

First climb: Hilltop Lane. 1.12 miles, 6.1% average, 20% max. Felt fine, mainly because I hadn't yet remembered what suffering was. Nice little hairpin near the top to make me feel like a budget Chris Froome.

Next up: White Hill Lane. This was where the day’s chaos really kicked in. My Wahoo (presumably in protest) failed to make it clear I needed to descend all the way to the base before starting the official climb. So instead, I half-climbed, realised I'd messed it up, had to ride a full mile downhill, then start again properly. Joy. This one felt harder — either because I’d just unnecessarily done the steepest bit, or because I was now powered purely by caffeine rage.

Third climb: Chalkpit Lane. Apparently it’s quite famous, though I must have been mildly hallucinating by that point because I barely remember it beyond spotting the white chalk face looming up. Good sign? Who knows.

No time for reflection because immediately after came White Lane: a short, nasty lump with a 0.38 mile rough road surface and a 12.8% average gradient. Brutal but mercifully brief. By now, I was actually starting to enjoy myself — which probably meant the sugar was kicking in.

Quick stop in Westerham for a Nutella sandwich, a celebratory Coca-Cola, and a nod at the unnecessarily enormous statue of James Wolfe.

The countryside afterwards was a bit of a dream — 10 easy miles of trees, fields, and dangerously misplaced optimism — until Toys Hill loomed into view. 1.6 miles, 8.5% gradient, allegedly a monster, but by now I was pacing myself like a man who’d seen some things. Survived it fine. Smugness levels: moderate.

Refuelled again on syrup cake, blissfully unaware of what was lurking next.

Yorks Hill.

YORKS. HILL.

If the road to Yorks Hill didn’t kill you (single track lane, potholes, and drivers operating purely on vibes), the climb itself might. A never-ending wall of tarmac, it genuinely had me wondering whether this was the day I'd actually have to get off and walk. Heroically (and very nearly vomiting), I clawed my way over the final brow. Was congratulated by a passing walker, which was frankly the only thing keeping me upright at that point.

The view? Picture a rollercoaster track tipping over the edge into the abyss. Majestic.

At this point, I sensibly decided to scrap the final big climb (Star Hill), but squeezed in the minor one (Brasted Hill) instead. It was lovely — open fields, easy gradient, and a general sense that my legs hadn't entirely mutinied yet.

The final push was a slightly stressful race towards and through Croydon — including a brief moment of sheer bravado where I followed some cars onto the tram tracks because, hey, they were doing it, and I didn't fancy detouring through gridlock.

Made it to East Croydon with ten minutes to spare. Collapsed onto the train with aching legs but a weird sense of satisfaction. Only 48 miles ridden, but with 5,167 feet of climbing. Definitely worth it.

Next up:
A 100-mile Nottingham special with a similar elevation-to-distance ratio to CTS. What could possibly go wrong?