Hubris In High Gear - A Chase the Sun South 2025 Chronicle

So this was it: the night before The Big One . The culmination of hundreds of miles, several chain lubings, and at least one spiritual reckoning with a jelly baby. Final kit check complete.  Weather forecast: unhelpfully hot. Morale: medium. Dinner? A tragic downgrade from Charlie Bigham's artisanal splendour to Sainsbury’s microwaveable mush, on account of the chalet’s medieval amenities. My wife, in a twist of either affection or sabotage, had also secured actual Bassett’s jelly babies. This would later prove controversial. The bike was freshly chain’d, rear wheel swapped due to a sheared spoke, and everything was theoretically functioning. Spirits lifted, I boarded the train south, joined gradually by a rising tide of cyclists until the HS1 carriage resembled a budget peloton. I met a fellow rider and, high on optimism and ignorance, told him I was aiming for a 16-17mph average. Reader: I did not achieve this aim. After a successful check-in and scenic trek to my digs on th...

Cherished readers (I believe we’re now a bustling crowd of three), this was the final training ride . The last dress rehearsal. The final time I could pretend it wasn’t all becoming a bit too real. After the Streatley Epic, I’d dialled things down to mere mortal levels: a couple of 30-40 mile jaunts, just enough to keep the legs ticking over and my anxiety levels bubbling gently. But then I got twitchy. Tapering too early felt like rolling the dice on residual fitness. So, one more medium-distance ride, a low-stakes sortie to test the engine, oil the war machine, and see if I’d become noticeably rounder in the process. Target distance: just shy of 80 miles. Terrain: moderately undulating, with Bison Hill thrown in for good measure. Route: out through the lanes, over to Spoke Café (site of sacred toasties), and then a meander towards London with optional bonus hills, depending on mood, wind, and emotional resilience. Let’s talk wind. The meteorological kind, not the digestive. It’s ...