Cycling Adventures in Sussex

I am a timid cyclist. I love being outdoors and I love seeing new places and because I am married to an adventurous cyclist who is not at all timid, I get persuaded to try excursions that would otherwise never enter my mind.

Such as yesterday: I had an idea to take Sam to watch the B&H gymnastics club competition. I’d figured we take the bus. AC gets involved and soon after we’re riding our bicycles to the very edge of our Sussex map to visit Bramber Castle and Shoreham, some 30 miles total distance.

How does this happen? I have a weakness for castles and historical sites. And I really do want to be an adventurous cyclist, even if my timid nature makes that a difficult–and often ridiculous–pursuit.

First stop: a friend’s house in Hove to drop something off (hi, Maria!) This was my first time riding in traffic in Brighton and I was nervous. It’s not so much that I’m afraid a car is going to hit me, as that I’m afraid I’m going to lose my balance and fall into a car. Or a bus. Have you seen my pictures of double decker buses? Those things are massive!

Despite my wobbling we made it to Hove safely. Then it was on to Portslade. After we crossed the train tracks (twice–after a map consultation)

it was up and off road. This was the part of the ride I’d been looking forward to: beautiful countryside and views, away from traffic and noise and massive buses.

Turns out I’m a naive cyclist too.

But for about 10 minutes the delusion remained, and I was happily cycling up through the grassy trail into the views, the countryside, the cows. I can do this, I thought. I’m an adventurous cyclist!

Then we came to a stile. I love stiles but something was wrong. There shouldn’t be a stile on a bridle path. Stiles are for footpaths. So we had to turn around and find the bridle path we’d missed.

We found it. But do you see how rocky it is?

That’s nothing. That’s an easy path of small, bite-sized chunks of chalk. Yet still I swayed, slid, spun out, and spilled onto my side, the bike on top of me.

That’s OK! I’m all right! I dusted myself off. I’m an adventurous cyclist. Let’s continue!

We came to a fence that stymied us for a bit until AC realized that there was a gate. Opening the gate entailed taking part of the fence down, but hey, that’s no sweat for him, because he is an adventurous cyclist.

While we waited, Sam said, “Mommy, why did you fall down?”

I think I gave her a reasonable explanation about my tires slipping on the chalk, and at the time I thought, “Oh what a valuable lesson for my daughter to see her mother fall and pick herself up again and be OK.”

Boy am I insufferably smug when I think I’m an adventurous cyclist.

Then it was onward to Southwick Hill. I could manage this, but it was slow going and Sam and AC traveled several yards ahead of me.

At the top of Southwick Hill we took a rest and had a snack. Here were lovely views of the sea to the west:

And to the east:

Equestrians came our way and I briefly thought how charming it is to see people ride on horseback through the English countryside.

Refreshed, we proceed onward up via the Monarch’s Way. Doesn’t it look lovely?

Do not be fooled. This was the Way of Pain.

It was a rocky, bumpy, thumpy, rutted, manure-riddled path through gorgeous farmland and chalkland grasses and I could not stay on my bike for more than 30 seconds at a time to save my life. Moreover, there always seemed to be an audience for my spills: oncoming hikers (lips pursed, red-faced trying desperately not to laugh), other mountain bikers, sheep, cows, my family. The worst was when I was trying to avoid a jumbo cake-sized pile of horse dung in the middle of the rutted path and so I swerved to the narrow right-side rut only to weeble and wobble and topple down across the path, and all I could think was, “If I land in horse shit I am going to hurl this bicycle down the hill and stamp up and down on it until it’s dust.”

I didn’t land in the jumbo manure cake. And anyway the bike is too heavy for me to hurl. But I did slam it down hard (after I pushed it off of my body) and let loose a few strong feelings that had been bubbling up inside me.

Poor Sam came running down, to give me a hug apparently, but I ordered her back onto her bike. “We are going on. And I don’t want to hear a word about this!”

I pushed the bike up the rest of Monarch’s Way. I imagined that this was the path that English kings of old ordered their most hated messengers to travel. I cursed the charming equestrians whose horses had splattered the path. I nearly cried when I found bird poo on my pants. I wondered why cycling adventures had to include so much excrement.

After an age, I caught up to Sam and AC, who were patiently waiting for me. Then we came to a crossroads where we met up with the South Downs Way. I was not optimistic. As far as I could tell, the Downs were all depressingly Up. And rocky.

But I was wrong, for lo and behold, this section of the South Downs Way was paved and smooth! I nearly dropped off my bicycle and kissed the asphalt. Hooray for hard, unforgiving pavement! Hooray for noise, traffic, and massive buses!

Even better, this segment had no traffic at all. And it was down. Steep down. We zoomed to the next crossroads in no time. Here, AC whipped out the map and he gave me a choice: return home along the river, return home via regular streets, or go on down into Bramber, see the castle ruins, and then return home by the river.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for castle ruins. And a glutton for punishment.

We rode down into Bramber. The way was rocky.

I walked the bike down with a fellow traveler I could relate to:

The slug and I parted ways when we came down into real streets. Then we made our way through Upper Beeding and across the river into Bramber. The ruined castle is now a park. We had a lovely stop and wander about. This is what is left of the gatehouse:

Like many castles in the south, this was Norman, built a few years after the Norman conquest of 1066.

Sam had a ball frolicking around:

I was happy to be sitting in the grass and not lying in a rocky ditch somewhere.

But then the return journey beckoned. AC assured me that the way back along the river Adur would be much easier for me.

He was right. Unfortunately it was not easier for him. Halfway down to Shoreham he got a flat tire. But because AC is a seasoned, adventurous cyclist he patched it handily.

I’d had it in mind that once we got to Shoreham and the coast that the rest of the trip home would be easy: a straight shot east along paved roads with no ruts or rocks or manure in my way.

We did have to cross some water first: through the locks and canals around Shoreham Harbour.

Then we met the headwind.

This is the wind that shoves its cast-iron-frying pan-sized fist in your face and says, “Back off!” So the road was flat, paved, easy, straight and yet still I had to pedal in my next-to-lowest gear, and push and push and push.

This was even harder than the ascent up Monarch’s Way, and the closer we got to home the harder it was. There are no pictures of this segment because I feared that if I whipped the camera out I’d fall over. I feared that if I stopped pedaling I’d walk away from the bike. And if I couldn’t walk, I’d lie down and never get up again.

AC tried to motivate me. “Here’s Hove Lagoon! We’ve walked this far before!”

Fortunately, I was too tired to speak. I doubt I could have said anything nice. All I could think was: how did I ever walk this far? It couldn’t be possible. Someone else did that. Someone with working legs and a bum that hasn’t been spanked by a bike seat for 7 hours. The same someone who fancies herself an adventurous cyclist and will she please cut it out?

Somehow I made it back home. And it gratified me a tiny bit (OK, a lot) that AC was also tired. Even Sam was wiped out. She crawled into bed as soon as we got inside the flat.

Then a strange thing happened. I ate some stale salty crisps and felt better. I looked at my pictures and felt better. We vegged out the rest of the evening, watched the England v. USA football match, and I felt better. I ate an enormous piece of chocolate cake and started writing this story and I felt even better.

The internal dialog goes like this: I rode 30 miles today on my bicycle. I have a story to tell that involves me nearly falling into a pile of horse shit. And I can eat whatever junk I want!

I guess that’s why I, the timid and–let’s face it–clumsy cyclist let myself get talked into these trips. It’s not the outcome of the adventure that matters. It’s the story. And the junk food.