It feels like a while, truth be told it is a while, nearly a month since my road bike last left the garage. My hybrid at least has seen some off road tracks, but not often enough. Not nearly enough. I haven’t given my bike up for Lent, its just the way March has panned out. Family, work, stuff, the cold, a cold; it’s either been hard finding time for the bike, or, as easier option, not to find the time.
I got out on Easter Sunday for a thirty something mile ride over to my parents and I’m glad I did. Riding over to Kimbolton and onto the B660 I passed three groups from the club heading in the opposite direction, back to St Neots. They still remembered my face and I got some friendly hello’s. By Old Weston, the sun was breaking through the morning cloud and with no wind to hold me back the day was shaping up nicely.
Onwards and Winwick fields were dotted with head down scarecrows swinging metal detectors across the exposed earth. Further along and another group of detectorists were sweeping Gidding fields. Maybe they were rival clubs questing for hidden Saxon treasure troves beneath the Huntingdonshire mud (My entire knowledge of metal detectoring being informed by a BBC4 comedy)?
I crossed the A1, descending from the flyover into the flatness of the Fens. I could see smoke from the Whittlesey brickyards rising straight up into the air, beckoning me on for a rare wind free ride in the Fens.
The level crossing at Holme was down so I took a left to Farcet then a right through the birch woods of Holme Fen. The surface was as rough as old fen droves get, but no worse that I expected. Holme Lode came as a surprise. The broken surface ended abruptly with just a few stray stones marring a beautifully smooth and dark grey tarmac. I flew to Ramsey St Mary, then north to Pondersbridge for an excursion along Glassmoor Bank. Here I spooked a Red Kite, the first time I’ve seen one out in this part of the Fens. What it finds to eat in this arable desert I’ve no idea, but it was good to see.
It is Tuesday now, spring is here and the nights are drawing out. When I get home I think I might just go for a ride and forget about miserable, ride impoverished March.