They were
George Brown
Patrick Cartwright (author of this report)
Richard Norris
Tony Thompson
Graham Wheatley
We Dun the Dun Run
Otherwise known as “They shoot cyclists don’t they”
If you want to know all about the Dunwich Dynamo (aka the Dun Run) visit the Southwark cyclists web site (www.southwarkcyclists.org.uk) They are a group with similar aims to Spokes and ‘organise’ it each year. If you want to know all about the spirit of the human soul as exemplified by the camaraderie of our cycling community then go on the Dun Run. This is what George, Graham, Richard, Tony and myself did on the week end of 23/24th July ’05 and this is a brief account of what happened, as seen through my eyes.
Departure for the Dun Run on Saturday 23rd July coincided with the disappearance of the heat wave and we arrived at London St Pancras to an announcement that heavy rain had made the platform floor wet, which gave us our first laugh as George attempted to walk up the marble tiled floor in his cycling shoes. ‘Tentative’ was most certainly the word to describe his steps. Waterproofs on we set off for Hackney and the start of the ride. First clothes stop 5 minutes later, waterproofs off as the rain stopped. Thankfully it then stayed away for the rest of the night. A light headwind from the coast keeping the rain that affected most of the country away from us. The God of cycling was looking down.
Rieta had proved invaluable to us all in helping our training and giving good advice, a big thank you is due to her as our mentor and coach; we could not have done it without her. Her last words of advice were to eat 2 to 3 hours before the start and wending our way through the streets of London we soon found a good local chippy. This gave us our second laugh of the day. The rather attractive young Polish lady serving the chips asked Richard, in faltering English reminiscent of Inspector Clouseau, “would you like a Furk” His heart sank when he realised she meant the wooden forks on the counter and he would have to continue with us, rather than spend the night in her ample bosom.
Chips eaten, we made our way to Hackney (Transport for London provides excellent free cycling maps if you are ever in the Capital with your bike). At London Fields we were greeted by cyclists of all shapes and sizes on a variety of fine and not so fine bikes. What a weird bunch we all are, when seen from a distance, in our garish lycra outfits and oddly shaped helmets. It was rather like Wednesday night at Ratcliffe Road, multiplied by several hundred. No wonder we get funny looks.
Organisation at the start was great and, £1 spent on the route map, we were soon on our way. Off we went, with 400 others dodging the taxis, dodging the buses, like urban whippets, heads down, legs pumping and ready for the night ahead. Three minutes later our progress was interrupted by the first puncture of the night, George being the unlucky victim. We pulled up outside a Chinese takeaway to jeers from many of our fellow cyclist, some of whom seemed to think this was our first food stop.
There had already been one case of ‘bikejacking’ that night so whilst three of us formed a circle to guard our possessions the other two mended the puncture and we were truly on our way. The wrong way as it happened, not for the last time that night.
We soon left the perils of London behind. George and Graham soon left us behind. Richard, Tony and I were out of ‘the Smoke’ gliding our way through Epping Forest. I am sure this is very beautiful in the light but as the promised cloudless sky had not materialised we found ourselves in the dark, not being able to see the wood for the trees.
On we rumbled through Essex, with n’er a white stiletto in sight, eating up the miles, maintained by the thought of hot food and drink after 68 miles, as promised by the route guide. This, for me, was the hardest part of the ride as my body tried desperately to get used to being active in the early hours of the morning, something it had not experienced since the early eighties. In the dark it’s really hard to tell if you are going up a long incline or if it’s your legs that are getting weak. Your mind starts to play tricks through sleep deprivation, you long for your bed and each mile after about 50 seemed like 10. “Why was I peddling so hard and not getting anywhere” I often thought. Still there was always the food.
After about 60 miles, in the middle of no where on the Essex/Suffolk border we stopped to refuel with a small group of others at a convenient junction. We wondered if sleep deprivation was causing aural hallucinations as we heard the sound of female voices singing in the night. Were these the legendary “Suffolk Sirens” who call innocent cyclists to their doom? No, as it turned out, just a group of 4 young women on their way home from what was obviously an alcohol fuelled night. Richard hovered, eager to assist them in any way but the four made a bee line for Tony, quizzing him on why we were all there. At times, I admit, I asked the same question myself. With his own good reputation, and that of Spokes in mind, Tony graciously turned down the offer of a cup of coffee back at there place. They were not interested in making us up a flask, so we sped on. Only half an hour to the food stop in Monks Eleigh village hall.
We three cycling musketeers met George and Graham as they left the food stop at 03.30 having waited an hour for hot, refreshing pasta, rice and vegetables and some longed for caffeine. We were not to be so lucky. We too underwent the hour wait only to find that after 56 minutes they had run out of food and had no more cups for hot drinks. The only choice was watermelon or ‘home made’ flapjack. I plumped for the flapjacks. I don’t know whose ‘home’ they were ‘made’ in it but it certainly wasn’t Delia Smiths. Still, spirits undampened and fortified by my peanut butter and banana sandwiches (as recommended by Rieta) we were soon on our way. Tony, the lucky recipient of the last coffee in the village hall, was feeling the benefit. Despite his years, we found ourselves trailing in Tony’s wake as he shot off into the night. Lucky for us he was wearing a bright jacket or we would have lost him altogether. As the caffeine wore off we were soon again side by side and forging on into Suffolk.
Strangely the second phase was easier than the first and considerably faster. Perhaps it was the fact that we had gone more than half way or that we saw Dawn approaching. No one had the heart to tell Dawn she was going the wrong way.
The morning light spurred us on. We were joined by a man from Lambeth, who turned out to be their equivalent of the Leicester City Council cycling officer, and two students celebrating the end of their 3 year slog at UCL. On quizzing the latter I was amazed to find they had done hardly any practice at all save for “a few trips alongside the canal to Canary Wharf”. Oh, for the adventurous and foolish nature of youth. We left them behind whilst they enjoyed a long break but the three of us and the man from Lambeth (not quite the same ring as the man for Laramie I admit) pushed on towards Dunwich.
After 100 miles we enjoyed a short celebratory break in a little place called Bruisyard. It was only after we had all taken the customary hedge relief we saw the National Farmers Union sign warning that we were being watched by close circuit TV. Look out for us all on Crimewatch soon, I am sure they will be able to blur out the offending parts.
I don’t know how a seaside location can be uphill all the way, but it seemed to be. It was quite a hard finish after the previous 116 miles but we made it. I was all for a group hug but no one else was, so we bade farewell to the man from Lambeth and went to look for George and Graham. As the photos may show we found them, almost child like in their appearance, curled up, fast asleep on the shingle bank. After the first few pebbles were thrown they soon woke up and we were able to share our exuberance, exhilaration and exhaustion. We had done it, what a great feeling. George and Graham had arrived at 0715 having averaged 14+ miles per hour over a tremendous distance and us more gentle pedlars arrived an hour later, having averaged just over 13.
Dunwich is apparently famous as “the lost city” but unlike Atlantis very few people harbour dreams of rediscovering it. Having been there I can see why. It was still not raining but there was a very cold wind and I thought I would die from hypothermia whilst queuing for breakfast at the Flora Café. Strange that it was named after margarine when everything it offered was obviously cooked in lard, but it was very warm and welcome nonetheless. We spent hours in their as it was too cold to be outside, taking in as much caffeine as we could, telling our tales of the nights adventure and sharing in the warm and smelly glow of 400 fellow cyclists all feeling proud of what we had achieved.
There were down sides of course and the wait to return home was amongst them. The coaches and vans takings us and our bikes back to London took forever to load and the vans got lost on the way back from the lost city, arriving back at Smithfield about an hour after us. At one point rumour had it that the whole lot had been ‘bikejacked and were now being sold on Camden market but they eventually arrived. Bikes collected I led our team back to Saint Pancras triumphant after a great adventure.
Would I do it again? Probably not. For me The Dun Run is a once in a lifetime experience and the thrill of cycling will take me on to other adventures. Would I recommend it to anyone else? Absobloominglutely. Get in training next spring, get out there and go.
Other links: Dunwich Dynamo Q & A; Southwark Cyclists