Another day, another ride. I’m making up for lost time, having had no access to my road bike since pretty much the start of the year. I’m absolutely bloody loving it on the carbon frame rolling out around deserted Estuary Wilds lanes.

Thursday lunchtime felt like the first ride of the autumn. It was blustery and the leaves were falling. The sun was making an appearance but it was hardly heatwave weather.

Confirming my autumnal awareness was the bloke picking blackberries on the run-in towards Alresford. He had the entire stretch of a hedge to himself.

TUCK IN!

I saw a couple cycling in the same direction, roughly 500m in the distance. They looked like leisure riders.

I didn’t want to take them on but I thought I’d set myself a challenge of at least catching up with them before we meet the turnoff out of Alresford.

I pressed on a little more with the pace but it wasn’t exactly time trial speed. Much to my surprise the leisurely couple weren’t that leisurely. They were soon out of my sight and off to Gawd knows where.

I reached some of the fields where lawn grass is grown before being sold on. It’s got to be better than astroturf, right? Finally there is a very light green tinge appearing across the fields selling the sods.

I got blown off course towards Great Bromley. The cross winds were ferocious out across the fields.

A little further along and the village hall had set up shop as a polling station for the day. Not another one, etc. I’ve absolutely no idea who was being elected or why.

The remotest part of the ride was a little surreal. I was convinced I saw a Tardis in a field. It wasn’t a Tardis, it was a solitary blue portaloo.

Chapeau!

My road bike started to develop a slight clicking noise towards the end of the ride. This was most disconcerting. It appeared to be coming from somewhere down by the cranks.

Oh dear.

I tried various different pedalling techniques and also changing up and down the gears, but nope, the bloody annoying clicking noise was still there.

I noticed on the final hill climb of the ride that when I was dancing on my pedals the clicking stopped. Ah, even though it sounds like it’s coming from down below it might be something to do with the seat as there’s no pressure on it.

Back at base and a little Chat GPT online investigating led to the suggestion that my seat was a dirty and the seat pole needed cleaning.

I whipped out the WD40. Whenever you are in doubt about life in general, then WD40 is usually the solution. I gave the seat pole and the clamp a bloody good clean. I managed to reassemble them without everything falling apart.

I gave the road bike a very quick road test up and down the local streets. The clicking sound had gone. That’s my achievement for the day.

A new month and whaddyaknow? A new cycling club to join.

Chapeau!

On Tuesday morning I rolled out in search of the North Essex branch of the 40+ cycling group. I fit into that demographic quite comfortably. I was still the youngest rider that rolled out on Tuesday morning.

The description of North Essex is quite a wide ranging terrain. Rather than meet up in one central location each week, the branch rolls out from various changing rendezvous.

On Tuesday morning I set my Beeline Velo plot a route heading out to Cressing Temple Barns. I’ve been here before. It’s a fantastic and deeply historical place, but from memory it’s also a bloody pain to get to.

There was a slight September chill in the air shortly before 8:45 a.m. The meet-up was 10:30 a.m. I had planned to leave at 8:30 a.m. What could go wrong?

Sunny Colch could go wrong of course. I’m fine navigating my way around the most remote lanes in North Essex. Trying to find the best route around the centre of the half town, half city can be a right bloody pain in the arse. This delayed me by around 15 minutes.

It didn’t help when a dickhead motorbike rider tried to overtake me like an absolute twat. Not only did he close pass, he then insisted on riding along a bicycle path.

Oh dear.

I confess to getting a little lost en route to Cressing Temple. The Beeline Velo had plotted in a bloody horrid route. It took me along the A12 - or rather the pathway adjacent to the A12.

It’s completely safe as there is no other traffic to share the space with. It’s just that for 4 km you have the constant thunder of HGVs speeding past you. No thanks.

A quick shifty at the watch and SHIT THE BED. I had half an hour to make up around 20 km or so. This ain’t gonna happen right?

I time trialled the run into Cressing Temple. This was a bicycle ride in itself. I was pretty knackered and 40 km or so were already showing on Strava.

I knew that I would miss the meet up, and then by pure chance I caught half a dozen or so riders around 2 km or so out of Cressing Temple.

Chapeau!

This was the 40+ group. I knew one of the riders anyway from the Cycle UK Sunday Club rides. Some introductions were made and I was happy to continue riding for the rest of the day.

We were heading roughly in the direction of St. Pauls. I had no bloody idea where St. Pauls is but I was happy just to tag along for the ride. The nearby fields were fresh with the smell of the corn crop that had recently been harvested.

This was s a pacey ride. I later learned that two sections of the 40+ group had rolled out. I had latched on to the fast group. It definitely showed.

By now I was well into the longest ride of the year for me so far. We hadn’t even reached the lunchtime stage.

I trembled a little when the ride leader gave out the sign for the big hill coming up. Not surprisingly I BONKED big time. I was flat out and all spent on energy. Having only some yoghourt and an apple for breakfast didn’t help.

I was reassured when I was told that the lunchtime staging post was within touching distance. We were now deep into thatched cottage territory. It was really quite picture postcard pretty.

Luncheon was reached. I’ve learned from past experiences that all North Essex bicycle rides stop at a garden centre for lunch. This is really quite a weird phenomenon and it’s one that’s totally passed me by. A garden centre is a garden centre for me. Back in the day you go there to buy your rose bush.

But nope, the garden centres of 2026 are pretty much a hybrid of rose bush buying and TUCKING IN to a fry up. Usually I would skimp on this and have a cup of tea and be done with it, but I was in desperate need of some substance. Quiche and chips did the job for me.

There was fighting talk about riding on to the afternoon tea stop and then back somewhere towards Sunny Colch but I was completely spent. I knew there was still around 35 or 40 km for me to head back to base.

Another rider suggested that he was also going to skip tea and make a dash for it. I rode along behind him pretty much all the way back into the half town, half city.

The highlight of the afternoon session was passing some hedge in the middle of bloody nowhere that had been trimmed meticulously into the shape of Thomas the Tank Engine. It even had a smiling face attached to the front.

So that was my first 40+ ride. Without hesitation I signed up as a member whilst recuperating back home. I’ve even got a 40+ long sleeve cycling top waiting to be checked out in my online basket.

Retirements were made for cycling.

YEAH.

A wifey Bank Holiday boner bicycle ride for Monday. Bank Holiday Mondays are always the best for riding, especially when you roll out early. The roads are deserted.

This ride saw the first wearing of the gilet for the season. It was a little windy out there.

The first obstacle was to dodge a couple of darting squirrels who came close to my front wheel. I suspect there was a bit of boy/girl action taking place there.

This was soon upgraded to a lone pheasant who shot out in front of me, eyeballed me, and then thought better of hanging around. SEE YA!

There wasn’t a lot of pace taking place to be honest. My cycling partner had decided on a more genteel ride, despite rolling out on the roadies.

Our progress was curtailed considerably when we reached the descent into Dedham. This is normally a stretch where you hover with your hands on the brakes, but hope for the best as you dart down the hill at around 45 km/h.

A couple of horse riders were midway through their descent. This meant an incredibly slow ride towards the town.

Dedham was a little more lively. There was some church jumble sale action taking place. I did think of stopping by briefly but it was full of tat.

A toilet stop did take place once we had left the town. I was wearing my cycling bibs, which always makes for something of a faff when it comes to the correct manoeuvre. I was happily going about my business when I noticed a couple out walking across the vale, around 200 or so metres away.

MORNING!

The stench of the ride soon turned to onions. Despite being a Bank Holiday, the young farmers were out in the fields harvesting their crop. You could write a blog post about onions being harvested and put into a bag.

An hour and a half or so later and we were back at base. A decent enough ride with quiet lanes and something of a pedestrian pace.

A beat the rain ride on Sunday morning. Usually it’s a BIG FAT BOLLOCKS to the BBC weather app; but the blackened skies up above the Estuary Wilds told me it was time to get a shifty on.

There had been some serious rain overnight. This was the first time in a number of months I have had to avoid puddles whilst pushing the pedals.

My rough direction of travel was over towards Lawford. This involves around two minutes or so on an A road. For once there was a considerate motorist who was happy to let me slip off onto the slip road without taking me out from behind. Thank you, Madam.

I reached the lanes. Consideration scales soon started to diminish. Some dickhead driver in what looked like a Land Rover couldn’t resist revving up behind me, and then close passing, leaving a thick dark dirty black plume right in my face.

You dirty dog.

Finally I had some quiet around the lanes. It was tranquil apart from the other riders. Sunday morning seemed to be something of a Last of the Summer Rides around these parts.

The terrain got more remote as I ploughed on through. I did stop to allow an approaching car to have the road on a particularly barren lane. As I stopped I noticed something flapping around by the roadside.

Oh dear.

A closer inspection revealed a rook who looked like his days were done. To my surprise the motorist also stopped and out stepped a big old Essex geezer.

He was actually wonderful and knew how to handle the situation. He managed to pick up the rook and feel the strength that was remaining. The diagnosis was the feet were gone, there was still a little flapping left in the wings.

We both agreed on a dignified end to what was a very sad situation. He placed the rook somewhere quiet in a nearby field. At least that would mean no other passing motorist would finish off the poor bird.

We both stepped away and then looked on from a distance for a couple of minutes. The rook was still flapping and fighting for its life. It looked like a bit of airborne action might happen. We both decided to cut our losses, shake hands, and head in our opposite directions.

The rest of the ride was uneventful. I barely changed gears. It felt like I was riding on a fixie.

Inspired by the la Vuelta Time Trial rollout the night before, I set out on my own personal race against time on Sunday morning. It wasn’t quite the Monaco backdrops that the pro riders on la Vuelta were able to enjoy. Instead I had Great Bentley and surrounds.

It’s been a few weeks also since I rode around this patch. The first sightings of the Invasion Colchester posters have started to appear. This is an annual event where sci-fi and cartoon characters appear around the half town/city as part of a charity event.

The riding conditions were fresh for me this morning. I wasn’t chilled and I wasn’t overly warm.

In my nostrils was the smell of freshly cut grass coming from I’m not quite sure where. Good luck in finding any fresh grass in which to cut around these estuary wilds parts of late.

I felt a lot stronger throughout the ride. I’ve gone many months without riding the roadie. This is now slowly building up.

Strava, the old bastard, tends to disagree. It clocked me as being a four seconds slower when compared to the exact same route of a week ago.

A brief pre-match ride ahead of Forest’s first home game of the season against DIRTY Leeds on Saturday morning. New season, same old pre-match nerves. Running was out of the question because I’m a crock. Likewise for swimming with a dodgy shoulder.

I can just about managed to get all the mechanical parts of my body functioning that are required to turn the pedals on a bicycle. I rolled out in search of a little serenity along the Estuary Wilds lanes.

Less than two minutes in and I had the first dickhead close pass. What a silly cow.

This was no genuine mistake. It was clear a car was approaching in the opposite direction but nope, Madam Twatty Face Driver just had to jump ahead of me, narrowly avoiding the other car and even narrowly avoiding me.

When in doubt then cyclists are always the easy moving target. A dickhead close passer doesn’t want to crash their crappy car into another crappy car. They would rather take me out. What a silly cow.

Hey hoe.

I pressed on. What could go wrong? Oh the skies are starting to darken. Maybe my pre-match nerves were being better resolved sitting at home listening to some jazz. Whatever.

Finally I found some peace along the lanes. I also found a mild headwind, which slowed me down slightly.

The company along the roads out in the middle of bloody nowhere soon became quite appealing. I had to slow down as I overtook a very friendly coach being pulled along by a couple of horses.

I then also had to swerve the horseshit along the lanes for the next mile or so.

The dickhead motorist was soon forgotten when I had a little dance with a dragonfly. It must have been close to 10 cm in length. It clearly longed for companionship. It floated along incredibly close to my helmet, almost drifting in my midstream.

Or was that the other way around?

I was back at base in time for Forest. Pre-match nerves had been settled. We are going to absolutely BATTER dirty dirty Leeds United, right?

Erm…

And drivers wonder why cyclists ride in middle of the road

via road.cc

I think I’ve just about reconnected with all of my existing bicycle ride routes post the great reopening of access to the Tendring Peninsula for me. Boy, I miss riding out around those parts. Being cut off at source, as a link road which leads to nowhere was being built, was no fun.

Sunday lunchtime was the final missing piece in the jigsaw. It’s no great shakes. It’s the old Bobby George BONER route with the added Great Bentley little offshoot circular add-on.

I have been able to ride this route before, but the road closure during all the rebuilding work meant I was forced along a pretty shitty detour that involved cycling a very bumpy, gravelly little path right alongside an A road. No ta.

Sunday was pretty much bliss. To my surprise there were also some wonderful new stretches of tarmac along the roads I have not ridden in over a year. We are talking proper black, deep, thick tarmac here as well.

Essex County Council went through a phase of thinking that road rebuilding meant spreading a layer of glue along the road and then dumping a truck full of shingles all over it.

It didn’t take long, however, for the new tarmac to already have a Stone Roses style paint job along one particular stretch. Someone has had fun with a very large pot of white Deluxe.

The lanes became more enclosed and quieter as the ride progressed. I then realised I was actually riding the Ride of the Falling Leaves, albeit a couple of months too early.

Mother Nature really is fucked.

Have access to a road bicycle, will travel. I’m making the most of these dry days when I can be out freewheeling on the roadie. Having been blocked from accessing most of my bicycles since Easter because of scaffolding, now is the time to ride.

Ride to live, live to ride.

The bicycle Brucie bonus is that the gateway from Weird Wiv over into the Tendring peninsula is finally open. The road works and the link road that isn’t a link road are allowing access for cyclists. Just ignore that sign that says CCTV in operation, right.

I headed over on the Lawford route. I’ve not ridden this in over a year. It felt good to be out along some of the extremely remote country lanes on Saturday morning.

I wasn’t alone enjoying the new found road freedom around these parts. The first sighting of fellow cyclists was a magnificent-looking electric tandem.

Chapeau!

I was also experimenting with my own cycling fashion attire. The sun was failing to break through. The meant that I could wear short sleeves and my new Brixton Cycles cycling bib. There was little sun to penetrate through my fresh black ink beautifully painted on my body.

Elsewhere around the lanes there were a few horse riders also enjoying the early morning solitary leisure activity. I made some slow progress as I approached one particular horse who looked a little nervy from behind.

The lush lanes that I’ve not ridden for a year have taken something of a hammering. One particular stretch close to Lawford appears to have seen a wildfire breaking out along a stretch of the ditch. It’s completely gutted and is still smouldering.

I reached Dead Lane. It was as joyless as ever. It’s an essential little link lane which allows me to cut through a housing estate currently being built, and then on to the return leg for the round route.

The onions in the field look dead on their feet - or should that be dead on their roots? They were exposed and already semi-fried, simmering away in their rural setting.

Back at base and Strava says I was a minute off a PB for this route. Not bad considering I’ve not ridden it in over twelve months.

Another day, another MAD DOG bicycle ride on the roadie. It’s been quite liberating having access to my road bike once again. Have bicycle, will travel, etc.

And so that’s exactly what I did, rolling out shortly before midday in the general direction of the Tendering Peninsula.

I was feeling especially brave crossing over the Borough boundary on the morning of the victory that wasn’t a victory for the dickhead Farage.

Great Bentley Green was reached first. Great Bentley Green wasn’t exactly very green.

By now I was absolutely bloody loving the road bike. It is able to generate such speed as well as being incredibly agile with its handling.

The next location I sped through was Ainger’s Green. The village still has crappy, tatty St George’s flags flying at half-mast from various lampposts.

Who died?

Oh I see, it’s just little man syndrome. You couldn’t even get your poxy flag to the top of the lamppost. Never mind.

The wind turbines around the coast then became within my sight. These were absolutely lifeless.

It’s been six months or so since I last completed this route. Another housing estate has started and has now been finished since I last passed through.

I allowed myself a brief stop for a drink along my favourite stretch of this route. The water was warm. The road surface was sticky.

Back at base Strava tells me I was two minutes behind a PB on this route. Not bad for a heat wave.