Yet outside lurked a ghastly sight—pink vomit shining in daylight bright. We pondered long what caused the hue: Milkshake? Gin? Or VK brew?
 |
| Hmm Pink Vomit (said the Pinkerton) |
Next day young Moo joined the trend, pink evidence she too did send. No chips or shakes, so I infer, a secret VK Dare occurred!
Another ride, a Garmin sync, Dynamo plans to re-think. Indoors again with Phantom, my squirrel grew—now full and clear.
So raise a glass (of gin, perhaps), to cycling goals and furry caps. Through miles, mishaps, and Garmin lore, the squirrel spirit rides once more!
On a surprisingly Snowdrop morning, in the soft pre‑dawn light, The Phantom rolled up to my house, adventure feeling right. We’d ridden this audax many times, a well‑worn, treasured theme, about 120k of lanes, my eighteenth Snowdrop dream.
But halfway down the tarmac roads, my stomach gave a lurch, I’d left my helmet, shoes and kit back home upon the perch. A swift U‑turn, a laughing curse, a frantic “back we go”. Good job we remembered Carina; we were running slightly slow.
To Whitlenge tea rooms then we drove, our starting rendezvous, we rang up Meekon on the way to tell him what to do: “Order thirty‑three hot cups of tea, some sausage baps as well,” the sort of pre‑ride breakfast tale that cyclists love to tell.
At the start the gang assembled, all in various states of cheer, old companions, fresh from winters, ready for the year. There was Meekon with his niggling back that wouldn’t quite behave, and Clive the Dr, now retired, with LEJOG tales we gave.
With Clive I’d crossed from Land’s End up to John o’ Groats in ‘09’s breeze, with Dave Cross and Mr 'Odge, I did it once again in 2010 with ease. Now Dave’s a fully‑fledged sweep of chimneys, soot instead of Lycra’s sheen, but on the Snowdrop, blackened lungs or not, he rides like a machine.
Red was there with tri‑bar wisdom, calm and softly spoke, “Keep those bars super close together,” was his fitting joke. Carina rode as lone woman in our rolling, rowdy crew, strong and steady on the pedals as the countryside we flew.
Jamie joined for his first spin of this brand‑new cycling year, though miles and past adventures mean his legend’s crystal clear. His girlfriend K was out as well, but cruising t’other way, while we pushed on through lanes and hedge, a crisp late‑winter day.
Chris Hodge had travelled from the South to share our Worcestershire ride, and Michael, doctor, distance man, with stamina and pride. The Phantom, ever faithful, remained within the bunch, a menace in black, who’d later earn his well‑deserved post‑ride lunch.
Through Elmbridge lanes to Droitwich first, we traced the rolling thread, then skirted east of Worcester town where quiet hedgerows bled. To Upton upon Severn next, our first control, our pause, where cards were stamped, and legs were stretched, and tales had time to cause.
At that first stop we met Mark Rigby, stamp in steady hand, The Snowdrop’s quiet ringmaster of this wandering band. And Phil was there, with “dodgy ticker”, wary of the test, planning just a shorter loop, avoiding his old nemesis.
For there ahead lay “Phil’s Hill”, Pig Hill to some who climb, a brute of a bank that steals your breath and laughs at any time. He chose to duck that steep old slope, that spiteful little rise, while we ground up in huffing ranks beneath indifferent skies.
From Upton east we rode again, past Bredon’s gentle crown, through pretty lanes and tidy homes and villages of brown. The miles unspooled like whispered yarns the tarmac long had told, as winter sun turned hedges bright and took the bitter from the cold.
To Raphael’s by the River Avon, Evesham’s shining bend, our hungry wheels at last rolled in to meet that welcome end. We queued and ordered mountains high, enough for any feast, the calm before those later hills, a banquet to say the least.
Chris and I, in dubious wisdom, chose chilli on our chips, a fuel that burns in legs and lungs and rises from the hips. We joked that if the gradients bit and all our strength felt gone, at least we’d have enough spare gas to blow us up each climb.
Then North once more through gentle waves, past Hanbury’s softer folds, the road rose, fell, and rose again, like stories often told. We crossed above the M5’s hum, near journey’s closing page, our legs now humming, hearts content, more comfort than fatigue or rage.
Just before the finish line, with daylight holding fast, we stopped to share a cheeky half, a perfect riders’ cast. The pint was small but spirits big, the laughter loud and free, The Snowdrop’s magic in our bones, exactly where it should be.
The weather played a kindly hand, no snow, no savage rain, just middle‑winter’s fragile sun along our winding lane. An awesome day with friends and roads that never quite grow old, each year the story starts anew, yet somehow feels retold.
One absence hung about the group, a quiet, teasing sting, for Jonny Mitchum ditched his mates and never spread his wings. We’ll rib him when we see him next, with grins both sly and wide, about the Snowdrop fun he missed, the perfect seasonal ride.
 |
| Phantom and Doo decided not to tandem on this occasion |
So, here’s to Phantom early starts and helmets left at home, to chilli chips and Pig Hill’s spite and where our wheels still roam. To LEJOG pals turned chimney sweeps, to backs that still feel sore, and to the Snowdrop Express next year—we’ll ride that route once more.
