1157hrs: Depart Washingborough. Targeting Thurlby.
The sun is reflecting brightly off the still wet tarmac, as I leave on roads now recognizable from the way up. I’m back on the main drag, and making good time. The route South from here will toy with the Eastern edge of Lincoln escarpment, rolling us up and down the limestone ridge, scribing a sine wave of some 30m amplitude into my GPS. The terrain suits my gearing and mood perfectly, push hard, gather speed, blast down, hit the next one still rolling.
My lightweight windproof jacket does little to keep out the rain, so I’ve stashed it in my seat pack along with my gloves. This leaves me with a thin baselayer worn over the short sleeved commemorative LEL jersey, and a buff. This is my preferred costume for day rides. Its reasonably cool in direct sun, acts like a wet-suit in pouring rain, and dries rapidly whilst still in place. What’s left in the ride, after all, is little more than a day’s effort. I’ll put the extra layers back on if it gets cold after nightfall.
Just as I start to climb into Branston, the storm comes back in force. Looks like I’ve timed this all wrong. Thick and greasy raindrops hurl themselves into the floor around me. A mad percussionist in the cloud above bends pavement into snare drums, cars into a steel pan orchestra.
Waiting at the crossroads at the top of town, I can see heavier clouds coming in from the North, dragging rains across the junction directly in front of me with the clatter of dropped cutlery. The temperature drops a few degrees, and the hail begins. Stretched out on the bent, I’m a tempting target for the avalanche, and have to quickly manoeuvre myself under the protective portico of a handy Euronics store.
I’m barely tucked in, my right arm is drenched, but at least it doesn’t hurt any more. The tiny white exocets bounce comically onto my chest, unable to hit me with any force. I stay here for 3 minutes. A wall of freezing rain marks the tail end of the storm fringe, and I realise that if I’m going to outrun this thing I need to get ahead of it. I don’t wait for the rain to stop before pulling out and giving chase.
The landscape opens up as I clamber up towards Metheringham. I’m pushing hard at 17mph, and can clearly see the maelstrom edging along the steep Western scarp of the Cliff a mile or so to my right. The road ahead will take me South for another couple of miles, before swinging me directly across its path. Passing Blankney, we’re about neck and neck, but as I plunge through Scopwick the winds are already starting to whistle around me.
I begin to appreciate why the geography curriculum commits so much time to the architecture of weather, and so little to learning where things actually are. Cars, and to some degree my GPS, have reduced navigation to simple fuelling choices, but knowing what that storm will be doing ten minutes from now could change everything. 5 miles under those clouds will take more effort than 40 in the dry.
I’m blinded by glacial rain on the approach to Digby, but daren’t slow down. Pushing on into the wall of hail, the storm swallows me once again. Crosswinds batter me. Twisting updrafts drive freezing water into my skin. I’m laid back, taking most of it on my chest and thighs. A two inch puddle has formed in my seat. A primal scream drives me onward.
I push on as fast as I dare, head tucked into my chest against the hail. I’ve got the buff pulled up tight under my eyes, and am trying to exhale downward to keep my glasses from fogging. The exertion is making it hard going, and I’m frequently losing sight of the kerb to my left. Deciding that the overhang of my helmet will protect my eyes from the worst of it, I tuck my glasses into my shirt instead.
Just past Dorrington, I finally graduate into warm rains, and from there into sunshine once more. The dark amaranthine threat above shrinks in my mirror, finally losing ground behind me. I speed on to Ruskington, pushing hard to extend my lead as the road takes me East through the town. I want some space between me and another dose. I’ve been on the road for an hour, and have already been drenched twice.
On momentary high ground, I can see the road ahead curving lazily around Leasingham Moor, taking me West into Sleaford. I’ll lose time cutting across country, and am likely to pick up a third soaking before this one dries off. Surfing the front of the storm is going to see me repeatedly dunked, but I’ve no idea how far back the storm reaches. If I wait for it to pass, I could lose hours. Besides the underpass of the A17, there’s no protection to hide me anyway. No. The next control is probably no further than 25 miles away. I can get there, and either skip on or sit it out with some food and company. Its not that bad.
Just as I’ve resolved to keep going, I’m brought to a sudden halt by an explosive burning in my right eye. Bug strike! A direct hit at 25mph. I lose a few minutes at the side of the road, squatted down, waiting, eye folded tight against the pain. Should have put my glasses back on. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
The pain doesn’t recede. My rocking figure attracts the help of a rambling couple, who kindly dab at me with tissues. My eye is streaming effusively, but they can find no evidence of the bug, nor shrapnel from its tiny body. I resolve that the burning is probably more the result of ingress by massage oil, and crack open the seat pack to get my medi-pack and swabs. Although the aeropod is sold as water resistant, it clearly wasn’t expecting things to be this wet, and I find I’ve been carrying a puddle with me for the last few days. The first item I remove from its depths is a travel pack of tissue, which has been melded by the rain into a giant stogie of cold wet paper. To be honest, this is pretty much ideal, and I keep it held against my eye for a few more minutes whilst I locate the saline pipette.
After waving a handful of randonneurs past, I make my way back to the road. Again I’m indebted to my wife for purchasing (and insisting I bring) the first aid kit.
Rimas sails past on the descent, and I give chase. My eye is still burning, so I pop the right lens out of my glasses and allow the drizzle to cool it. This has hidden benefits, as not only am I now entirely fog proof on the remaining lens, I also have one eye for drizzle, and one for hail.
I push on to through Sleaford, over the level crossing, and am embraced by the storm once again. I recognise the pattern as the road swings right, breaching concentric walls of freezing rain, hail, and spray. This time, its cooling effect is entirely welcomed and I push through without complaint. I emerge on the road South to Stow, chasing a tandem couple up and down over the bumps.
I catch them on the outskirts of the village, and spend the next few miles in very pleasant company. Turns out they hail from Costa Rica, but their UK base is on my daily commute. We’re pretty much matched for speed over this terrain, so have plenty of time to agree we’re all about to get drenched again. I stay with them until just after 2pm.
Rounding the corner towards Aslackby, I start to hallucinate tiny figures in the verge ahead. Not sure if its exhaustion, rain playing havoc with my vision, or some bizarre after effect of the bug strike, but I’d swear there are pixies lining the right hand side of the road. As I get closer to the junction, I can clearly make out impish faces tucked under bright coloured caps. There’s maybe 5 of them, beady little eyes watching me, each figure ranging between 8 and 16 inches tall. They’re actually quite realistic looking...
As I slow up to wipe some of the rain out of my eyes, I realize that there is a hidden trench running under the tree coverage on my right. Laid up within it with only their heads visible through the grass is a small platoon of riders. Better than that, I recognise the front and rear markers as Gerry and Brian. They invite me into their makeshift shelter, and I gratefully accept.
I am introduced to Greenbank and Xavier, and we happily pass ten minutes, speculating over the weather, watching the rains build again, waving at the Costa Ricans as they diligently plough past. Gerry very kindly offers me his jacket, but the thought of putting dry over wet seems pointless. We opt instead to celebrate with a photograph.
TO YOU 
and THANK YOU 
Another fan here ... I read the whole thread start to finish last night 
