The off-road group likes to embrace the spirit of adventure and explore trails around the country whenever the opportunity arises—or, as roadies might describe it, deliberately choosing the slowest and least comfortable surface available. The original plan was to ride the 46-mile Peddars Way from Knettishall Heath, near Thetford, to Holme-next-the-Sea on the Norfolk coast, stay overnight and ride back the next day. However, when we discovered that the route had been reclaimed by shoulder-high nettles and brambles, we postponed it until the growth subsides. We are adventurous, but not keen enough to exfoliate our entire bodies at cycling speed. Instead, we brought forward London-to-Brighton off-road, originally pencilled in for later in the year.

The plan—using that word in its loosest possible sense—was:

• Day 0: Simon rides from St Neots to Richmond, because apparently the actual challenge was not long enough;
• Day 1: Train to King’s Cross, then ride to somewhere near Horsham;
• Day 2: Continue to Brighton, with the option to catch the train home or ride some of the way back, depending on legs, morale and whether anyone could face more time in the saddle.

Simon was the only taker for Day 0. After a delayed start (obtaining some SNCC stickers – essential expedition equipment) he set off just before one, with smoke billowing over Eynesbury in a suitably apocalyptic send-off. Google Maps handled the route planning and, to be fair, did a surprisingly good job. There were some lovely views along the way, and only a relatively short section on the A1198 into Royston, which is about as much character-building as anyone needs. After the tarmac and a few climbs came the River Lee Navigation towpath. This was great fun on a rigid MTB. It is technically possible on a road bike – if you dislike your wheels and enjoy clenching – ask Norman who’s done it in the past. He continued into Golders Green, the City, Westminster and on to Richmond. A home-cooked meal and night on his daughter’s sofa bed awaited. The next morning, he rode back to King’s Cross to meet the group, ready to ride the same 12 miles for the third time in just a little more hours.

Matt offered to plot the routes, using his TfL knowledge to negotiate London, while Mike found a five-bedroom farmhouse in rural Rudgwick for the suspiciously reasonable price of £200 all in. This gave us 57 miles on Day 1 and 32 miles to Brighton on Day 2 (plus the option of more), which looked entirely manageable on a screen, indoors, fully-hydrated and while well-rested. We had not expected Heatwave 5 to join the ride, but hey ho, you  can’t let climate change spoil a good day out – although it made a decent attempt.

After the customary faffing at King’s Cross—because no club ride can begin until everyone has unpacked, repacked and questioned at least one life choice (but why this needs to wait until arrival at King’s Cross, rather than on the train there, is not totally clear), we started pedalling at about 10:30. Some had not ridden in central London for years and were a bit apprehensive about the first leg, but these fears turned out to be unfounded, with relatively slow-moving traffic and copious cycle lanes made it remarkably civilised. Thanks Matt and TfL. For a few miles, even the roadies might have approved.

After several compulsory tourist photo stops, we reached Richmond Park just after midday and, conscious that we would soon leave the reassuring world of smooth tarmac and regular refreshment stops, stopped at the café for lunch. This also gave Norman the opportunity to inspect his “Tailfin” saddlebag, which was drooping and bouncing off his mudguard like an unhappy spaniel. He was irritated enough to consider abandoning the ride and heading home. The group refused to allow what may have been a sensible decision and offered to redistribute his luggage. “Sherpa” Simon settled matters by strapping the entire bag to his rack, which made it look like he was transporting a pair of giant mating slugs.

From there, the route took us along glorious trails, including arrow-straight sections of disused railway line that were mercifully shaded, and some more technical stretches of flint-strewn climbs, descents and mud furrows hardened to concrete. Andrew demonstrated how these should be ridden while Simon demonstrated his customary alternative technique, involving an unplanned dismount and a bramble bush. Both approaches reached the bottom, although only one might appear in a coaching manual.

All went well until the Surrey Hills, where we managed to mislay Norman. Normally we would regroup at the next junction, but two details complicated matters: Norman was off-route on the road, while the rest of the group were on-route off-road, and therefore there was no common junction; mobile coverage had also apparently taken the afternoon off. Not wishing to leave him in a ditch – or, worse, enjoying a quiet pint without us – we searched for Norman and/or a mobile signal. When contact was finally restored, he had returned to the trail and was several miles ahead. We agreed to press on, with the expectation that we’d catch him later, a strategy based mainly on optimism.

Next came Newlands Common, where hundreds of residents had gathered to witness the eclipse. The Common was chaos: people everywhere, cars blocking the trail and our route apparently passing through a bramble bush. We pushed the bikes through. Simon then wisely checked his tyres for thorns and unwisely pulled one out, immediately converting a potential puncture into a confirmed one. No problem – we all carry spare tubes and proper tools, right, Simon? Unfortunately, Simon’s 1960s bicycle spanner proved no match for one of his 1960’s wheel nuts. After some head-scratching and a brief practical demonstration of technological stagnation, we patched the tube in situ and continued.

The delays had stretched our timetable considerably. It was after 19:00, with more than 20 miles still to go, so we stopped at a conveniently placed pub for food before every kitchen in Sussex closed. Norman, now five to ten miles ahead, agreed to check us in and then hole up in a pub until we joined him. He followed the plan perfectly, reaching the pub at 21:01 just in time to see the chef leaving. Meanwhile, the rest of us were having a ball riding off-road at night – it’s a total blast! But at about the time Norman’s stomach was cramping, Mike’s front light died, at which point it became less “gravel adventure” and more “team-building exercise with consequences”. Riding in formation, we finally reached the pub ten minutes after the bell for last orders had faded away. Thanks for taking one for the team, Norman. Three pints in, Norman then led us on a tour of an additional six miles to find our accommodation – it all looks different in the dark apparently …

Day 2 was almost disappointingly uneventful. Determined not to misplace any more riders, we stuck together and enjoyed more glorious trails. Those who were expected the route to rear upwards as we approached the infamous Ditchling Beacon were “disappointed” as Matt had navigated us well clear of it on a relatively flat trajectory. This was excellent route planning, although roadies may see avoiding Ditchling Beacon as a missed opportunity. We reached Brighton without incident and celebrated with fish & chips and a beer on the beach – the traditional recovery nutrition of champions.

Although Simon wanted to ride on, everyone else voted for the train home, proving democracy does work when sufficiently tired. This should have been the easy part. Instead, we stopped at London Bridge because of an overhead-line problem between St Pancras and Bedford and the resulting congestion on the train network. There we remained for more than an hour, contemplating that rare cycling phenomenon: being delayed while completely stationary. Eventually the train continued to Stevenage, where we changed for the final leg home.

All in all it was a fantastic trip: glorious trails, mechanical improvisation, one temporarily missing rider, one bramble-assisted dismount and several missed beer opportunities. We vowed to do it again soon – once the scratches had healed and the roadies had stopped asking why we did not simply use roads.