Shadow
member
- Location
- edge of the south downs
One Night in the Life of Ivan Shadovich.
(with apologies to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn)
The evening reveille was softly sounded by the electric alarm clock on the bedside table. Ivan Shadovich Shuckoff was already half awake, thinking of his preparations calmly, without a rush. He turned off the bell and rose, took a quick, warm shower and laid out potential clothing options, necessary accessories, sweets, cash, transit papers and keys. He checked the forecast for the last time and made a final decision about clothing - base layer, long angora socks, gloves, clear lens - then dressed. Extras packed: light jacket, mitts, cooler short socks, dark lens.
In the kitchen, he prepared his usual pre-ride fare, a bowl of pasta with oil, black pepper and grated hard cheese. Nothing exciting, however it was easy, tasty and nutritious. Food, as always, at whatever time of day or life, is an essential component of not only health but happiness too. He felt fortunate that he had cheese for his pasta. He also had cash for both half-way-stop victuals and breakfast withcoffee yellow beer at the following morning’s destination, Whitstable.
Turning on his front light, he left his accommodation and set out for the train station 10 km distant. It was not yet dark, inky clouds against a backdrop of the grey sky. No sign of stars or moon. The roads were quiet, as was the pub. After the country lanes, going through the village, the street lights were just being lit. The soft sodium glow almost echoed by the almost amber horizon. He passed the occasional small home with a single light glowing through the thin drapes or around ill-fitting curtains.
Shuckoff had made this journey before. As he was on an earlier train, a cheaper ticket being unavailable for the later one, it was a little busier. At the airport, many travellers embarked. Arriving at The Smoke, the bustle of the capital on a friday night clearly apparent. Along the Southbank, as well as folk out eating and drinking, skaters practising their moves at Skate Space and dancers practising their moves to south american rhythms. Outside the National Theatre, he was greeted by the Ride Leader, Kimsky Rorsakov and her wingman for the night, Jameski, and was handed a Fridays sticker for application to rear mudguard. He did not ask where it should be placed as his cycle has no mudguard.
At midnight, the group moved off through Southwark heading east in a similar direction to another band of pilgrims made famous by Chaucer six centuries earlier. Bypassing the old dockland areas, the full moon was seen between the tall buildings, hanging low in the now cloudless sky. Through Lewisham, around Eltham and Sidcup into the Kentish sector and proper rurality.
Shuckoff slowly made his way near to the front of the ride. A few riders in front of him had been called by Kimsky to waymark, leaving him immediately behind her. At the next junction or roundabout it would be his turn. He did not mind. Minutes passed and she called out, “May I have a marker here, please?”. He replied he would take it and pulled over and parked up, his front light pointing in the direction Kimsky had taken.
Waymarking is a straightforward, simple method of all riders taking the correct route wherever the road deviates from its course. It requires the marker to strictly obey one rule, to not leave the place until instructed by the All Upper, Richovich tonight, that it is ok to do so. In a rural environment, in the dark of night, and especially if it is cold and or damp, with no noise except an occasional nocturnal bird calling or animal rustling in the undergrowth, then minutes can seem like hours. Your body cools down from a lack of pedalling, your brain is telling you you should move on, you have been standing for ages and you start thinking the bunch has gone through and you somehow missed the All Up call. You must not move!
Narrow country lanes, blind bends, down a dip where at the bottom the entire width was covered by shallow water. Shouts of “gravel, puddle, flooding” warned those behind. The temperature had now dropped to about 5°. No major mechanicals, the one single puncture was eventually sorted to Kimsky’s rear wheel. Pressing on, through the ancient picturesque village of Cobham towards Strood and dawn not far away.
The hall at Strood was the halfway stop, manned by Timovich (The Magician) and Pyotr (Peter the Great), serving welcome tea, coffee and sandwiches. And the infamous home-made delectable cakes. Flapjack, lemon drizzle, vicky sponge and a remarkable facsimile to the wedges of moist, fruity ‘bricks’ doled out at the Cabin, Faygate in the old days. Apparent hunger may lead a rider to scoff ravenously. But food gulped down is no food at all; it’s wasted, it gives you no feeling of fullness. And so, Shuckoff ate slowly, relishing the ginger in the flapjack and put another piece in his rear pocket to savour later. Timovich told the crowd that all proceeds would go to the local food bank.
By the time the bunch departed an hour later, daybreak had fully broken. They crossed the Medway River into Rochester where the roads seemed as though they had had little maintenance since the Romans built the first bridge in town. Skirting Chatham, Gillingham and tanks, onto Lower Rainham Road where the vibe was again more rural - green fields, some with sheep, some with horses. The sun was shining brighter in the still cloudless sky as mist rose from the land.
The compulsory re-group at Upchurch where the unusual steeple always garners wonderment. Garments disrobed and dark glasses donned, the peloton moved off. Without the All Upper and one older rider. Kimsky flew back like a bumblebee to locate them, Clare took over as leader, Timovich (The Bagel Baker) as All Upper and Shuckoff as the other TEC. A brief stop at the junction with Old Ferry Road to admire the view and the architecture of Kingsferry Bridge to the Isle of Sheppey, it seemed like the Fridays camera club had taken over the ride.
Next stop was the important old market town of Faversham, by which time Kimsky had returned with original All Upper, Richovich. Shortly after, Kimsky explained the Graveney Sprint, whereby all those who wished to test their racing legs, could speed on ahead over the flat marsh land to our final stop, The Beach Café. Those who did so would probably not notice the innocuous looking Sportsman pub at Seasalter. Somewhat isolated, many might be surprised to learn that it has held a michelin star for more than 15 years.
The Beach’s outside tables fully taken with the Fridays, the last of the riders took a remaining table inside, breakfasted and chatted. Shuckoff was the last of three to leave and took two trains back through the Kentish, capital and Sussex sectors, riding the last 10 km slightly uphill on tired legs.
Shuckoff went to sleep fully content. He’d had many strokes of luck that day: trains on time; no wrong turns; no idiot drivers; no mishaps; he’d eaten well; he’d way marked and enjoyed it; he had no punctures. A night without a dark cloud, a happy night.
(with apologies to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn)
The evening reveille was softly sounded by the electric alarm clock on the bedside table. Ivan Shadovich Shuckoff was already half awake, thinking of his preparations calmly, without a rush. He turned off the bell and rose, took a quick, warm shower and laid out potential clothing options, necessary accessories, sweets, cash, transit papers and keys. He checked the forecast for the last time and made a final decision about clothing - base layer, long angora socks, gloves, clear lens - then dressed. Extras packed: light jacket, mitts, cooler short socks, dark lens.
In the kitchen, he prepared his usual pre-ride fare, a bowl of pasta with oil, black pepper and grated hard cheese. Nothing exciting, however it was easy, tasty and nutritious. Food, as always, at whatever time of day or life, is an essential component of not only health but happiness too. He felt fortunate that he had cheese for his pasta. He also had cash for both half-way-stop victuals and breakfast with
Turning on his front light, he left his accommodation and set out for the train station 10 km distant. It was not yet dark, inky clouds against a backdrop of the grey sky. No sign of stars or moon. The roads were quiet, as was the pub. After the country lanes, going through the village, the street lights were just being lit. The soft sodium glow almost echoed by the almost amber horizon. He passed the occasional small home with a single light glowing through the thin drapes or around ill-fitting curtains.
Shuckoff had made this journey before. As he was on an earlier train, a cheaper ticket being unavailable for the later one, it was a little busier. At the airport, many travellers embarked. Arriving at The Smoke, the bustle of the capital on a friday night clearly apparent. Along the Southbank, as well as folk out eating and drinking, skaters practising their moves at Skate Space and dancers practising their moves to south american rhythms. Outside the National Theatre, he was greeted by the Ride Leader, Kimsky Rorsakov and her wingman for the night, Jameski, and was handed a Fridays sticker for application to rear mudguard. He did not ask where it should be placed as his cycle has no mudguard.
At midnight, the group moved off through Southwark heading east in a similar direction to another band of pilgrims made famous by Chaucer six centuries earlier. Bypassing the old dockland areas, the full moon was seen between the tall buildings, hanging low in the now cloudless sky. Through Lewisham, around Eltham and Sidcup into the Kentish sector and proper rurality.
Shuckoff slowly made his way near to the front of the ride. A few riders in front of him had been called by Kimsky to waymark, leaving him immediately behind her. At the next junction or roundabout it would be his turn. He did not mind. Minutes passed and she called out, “May I have a marker here, please?”. He replied he would take it and pulled over and parked up, his front light pointing in the direction Kimsky had taken.
Waymarking is a straightforward, simple method of all riders taking the correct route wherever the road deviates from its course. It requires the marker to strictly obey one rule, to not leave the place until instructed by the All Upper, Richovich tonight, that it is ok to do so. In a rural environment, in the dark of night, and especially if it is cold and or damp, with no noise except an occasional nocturnal bird calling or animal rustling in the undergrowth, then minutes can seem like hours. Your body cools down from a lack of pedalling, your brain is telling you you should move on, you have been standing for ages and you start thinking the bunch has gone through and you somehow missed the All Up call. You must not move!
Narrow country lanes, blind bends, down a dip where at the bottom the entire width was covered by shallow water. Shouts of “gravel, puddle, flooding” warned those behind. The temperature had now dropped to about 5°. No major mechanicals, the one single puncture was eventually sorted to Kimsky’s rear wheel. Pressing on, through the ancient picturesque village of Cobham towards Strood and dawn not far away.
The hall at Strood was the halfway stop, manned by Timovich (The Magician) and Pyotr (Peter the Great), serving welcome tea, coffee and sandwiches. And the infamous home-made delectable cakes. Flapjack, lemon drizzle, vicky sponge and a remarkable facsimile to the wedges of moist, fruity ‘bricks’ doled out at the Cabin, Faygate in the old days. Apparent hunger may lead a rider to scoff ravenously. But food gulped down is no food at all; it’s wasted, it gives you no feeling of fullness. And so, Shuckoff ate slowly, relishing the ginger in the flapjack and put another piece in his rear pocket to savour later. Timovich told the crowd that all proceeds would go to the local food bank.
By the time the bunch departed an hour later, daybreak had fully broken. They crossed the Medway River into Rochester where the roads seemed as though they had had little maintenance since the Romans built the first bridge in town. Skirting Chatham, Gillingham and tanks, onto Lower Rainham Road where the vibe was again more rural - green fields, some with sheep, some with horses. The sun was shining brighter in the still cloudless sky as mist rose from the land.
The compulsory re-group at Upchurch where the unusual steeple always garners wonderment. Garments disrobed and dark glasses donned, the peloton moved off. Without the All Upper and one older rider. Kimsky flew back like a bumblebee to locate them, Clare took over as leader, Timovich (The Bagel Baker) as All Upper and Shuckoff as the other TEC. A brief stop at the junction with Old Ferry Road to admire the view and the architecture of Kingsferry Bridge to the Isle of Sheppey, it seemed like the Fridays camera club had taken over the ride.
Next stop was the important old market town of Faversham, by which time Kimsky had returned with original All Upper, Richovich. Shortly after, Kimsky explained the Graveney Sprint, whereby all those who wished to test their racing legs, could speed on ahead over the flat marsh land to our final stop, The Beach Café. Those who did so would probably not notice the innocuous looking Sportsman pub at Seasalter. Somewhat isolated, many might be surprised to learn that it has held a michelin star for more than 15 years.
The Beach’s outside tables fully taken with the Fridays, the last of the riders took a remaining table inside, breakfasted and chatted. Shuckoff was the last of three to leave and took two trains back through the Kentish, capital and Sussex sectors, riding the last 10 km slightly uphill on tired legs.
Shuckoff went to sleep fully content. He’d had many strokes of luck that day: trains on time; no wrong turns; no idiot drivers; no mishaps; he’d eaten well; he’d way marked and enjoyed it; he had no punctures. A night without a dark cloud, a happy night.
