Having checked the weather forecast for the week ahead, for at least the 5th time this morning, it dawned on me this wasn’t a luxury I normally afforded. In fact I can’t remember the last time I looked at the weather and decided against a ride. It was time to get onto my bike and battle those gusts of 30 mph. If it's good enough for the hardy sailors, then it's good enough for me. I could dream about the Big Sur the whole way - my psyche need never even venture to the IOW.
My plan was simply to circumnavigate the Isle of Wight in an arbitrarily chosen clockwise direction. Every blog I had read on the Internet suggested this direction and happy to follow someone else’s lead I assumed this would reward me with kinder gradients. In fact starting from Cowes, meant I endured endless undulations all long and steep enough to constitute climbing, coincidentally timed with torrential rain. By the South of the island my ability to imagine myself in warmer climes was being severely tested. Was it ever going to stop raining?
I have to admit that our cycling through Oregon and California had somewhat confused my senses. I wasn’t really dressed adequately and by my fourth climb before Ryde, my feet were already turning into prunes. I had slipped into the lazy state of waking in the morning to put on a vest and shorts. I had forgotten that UK cycling isn't really as luxurious as this. Frustratingly it was raining so hard I couldn't wear my sunnies unless I wanted to pedal head first into a hedge.
Leaving on the A3055, a climb took me to the B3330, past the Flamingo Park and into Nettlestone. Through moments of loathing induced by high winds and continual rain, I still found myself drifting back to the sunny West Coast, only to awaken from my trance on St Helens Common by a sign to Bembridge with a number I was not expecting. I had confidently told Tim this morning that I would direct myself by a map and not my usual written cues keen to prove women do have spacial awareness.... I was teetering dangerously close to the edge of in fact disproving this, as I plumped to ignore the map and follow the signs.
Trying not to be too smug, it was the perfect decision as I shortly came alongside Bembridge Harbour, only to lose my bearings not even a mile later. I couldn't help but curse cartographers who seem to think it is logical to label maps with the road classification and yet roads with their names. How does that help anyone? Yes - that's right my inability to read a map is the fault of the map writers and nothing to do with never having progressed past Never Eating Shredded Wheat (North, East, South, West). I considered asking a dear who got off her bike to walk across the junction (!) where I was faltering but I was fighting for independence here and I was determined to win it on my own.
Finally back on the B3395 I passed Bembridge Airport and the granny on the mountain bike who had left me in directional confusion some minutes back. Her legs were going somewhat it has to be said, but for a few split seconds I wondered whether I should point out if she changed up a gear or two she may actually move somewhere...
By now the continual short sharp climbs, the unceasing rain and the monumental head winds had amalgamated into one big slap in the face. I had thankfully relearned how to balance an unloaded bike out of the saddle but going down hill in such conditions made me feel like I was tottering in stilettos on a wet marble floor. A milk float could have overtaken me I was being so cautious.
At Sandown I stopped for photos of the bleak landscape and a mars bar, although of course all were diversionary tactics in an attempt to hide from the rain. The miles were adding up but not quite at the speed I had hoped for - I may as well have been cycling the route on knobbly tyres and suspension as at least then I would have had an excuse for pedalling slower than a slow thing.
Pulling onto the A3055 I motored on through Luccombe Down and Nansen Hill. At Ventnor I momentarily debated whether missing the road down to the Undercliff could be construed as cheating or not - happy that it was technically a side trip I continued on my way. Additional climbing in such conditions could only have been for those insane types who think that climbing Alp D'Huez with a sweep wagon nipping at their heels is fun. I bet none of you realised we had our own equivalent of the alps on the Isle of Wight.
Shortly after St. Lawrence and half way up a hill I heard a clatter. Happy with my 'at motion' inspection of the bike, I pedalled on, only to realise at the top of the hill that I was missing my full bottle of water. Down the hill? Back up the hill? I don't think so, and so I resigned myself to adding to the road detritus that I always complain about. At Niton I stopped for water in the Post Office and an impromptu tuna sandwich which allowed me time to dry off a little. As luck had it the weather also decided to get it's act together and as I left armed with enough sugar to send a small child into a sugar fuelled rampage, I channelled my sugar rush straight through the pedals.
As I continued along the South Coast I passed a sign for a dinosaur farm - curious I thought, although not enough to tempt me off course. Near Chine I rounded a corner to meet the back tyre of a fellow cyclist. Feeling a little guilty I passed him only to see two more friends up ahead, and my pursuit began. I felt a little fraudulent as I boosted my ego by catching and then overtaking them. I was after all on a road bike and them on full suspension but nonetheless I said hello on the way past, making sure not to pant as I said it, before pedalling off at speed. Such brevado for someone who was also struggling with the route.
The route then became flat and I pedalled like the wind in glorious sunshine. Somewhere near Hanover Point however the route started to rise again and I couldn't understand why I was still going into a head wind. Two climbs brought me up along Compton Down where I moved inland towards Freshwater and Totland. Cheating again crossed my mind but I would only have saved 500m at most and bearing in mind that cheaters never prosper I feared I would encounter a steeper climb as pay back. At Totland I had considered going out to the Needles but quite frankly I was too tired.
A great descent took me into Yarmouth where I stopped at a viewing point to look out at the sailing. At Shalfleet I took a left towards Newtown past the old town hall, and through woodland. The contrast to the corn fields of the South was at it's most evident as I passed brook and copse. From Newtown I passed through Porchfield and finally into Northwood before returning back to the house, wet and worn out. I of course later deluded myself that it had been a great route and maybe in better conditions I would try it again. For now a beer with the guys seemed like a worthy reward.
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