Arrivée153Autumn2021
Essex-based Tom Deakins began 2020 with a plate of dodgy oysters – and things didn’t get much better. This is his personal diary of a pestilential year – and how he managed to salvage something from a Covid-wrecked cycling season
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MY YEAR GOT OFF to a bad start, even before we’d heard much about the virus. On an event in January several of us were laid low by a stomach bug after sampling what should have been Essex’s finest seafood fare. I’d greedily snaffled oysters from the vegans, vegetarians, the squeamish and the cautious, sloshed on the tabasco and lemon juice and thought yum! Twenty-four hours later I was sweating and feeling very unwell. I recovered, but others suffered worse. In February, the final ride in the ACME Winter Series, the Knights Templar and Compasses, passed off without incident in reasonable weather, then Brazier’s Run 100km was ridden in atrociously wet conditions, with a very small field mad enough to venture out. Next it was off to Aylesbury for the Chiltern Grit 100km, extended to 200km by riding home
From suspicious seafood to radiant rainbows… a year to remember (or forget?) afterwards. By the time my Horsepower 100 and 200km came round in mid-March, there was talk of a lockdown and the likelihood of events being modified, or even cancelled. We also rode a fundraiser – with just enough hand sanitiser to go round. We did things differently this year. There was also something called “social distancing”. Then lockdown happened, and things got really weird. Most obviously, there were hardly any cars on the road – brilliant! Also, work hardly changed for me. I’m a gardener for two or three days a week and my clients were happy for me to continue – though there were to be no cosy cuppas in the kitchen. I had time in my studio for my art work, which also kept me busy. But the “new normal”, as everyone called it, soon had me bored. As the warm and dry spring progressed, I realised more riders were out and about for longer than the one hour originally recommended.
Boris Johnson said we could go for a bike ride, so I did. I started riding my 200km permanent routes, beginning with Boudicca’s Revenge, carrying a day’s supply of food and drink, replenishing fluids at churchyard taps, with just the odd shop visit. I was so concerned to keep out of the way that, for the first few rides, I hid behind a hedge to eat. Some villages in our corner of Essex, popular with tourists, had taped off their benches on village greens and put up “Go Home” signs. I had visions of angry villagers with pitchforks and flaming torches. I survived a couple of long days out without being lynched or reported to the Covid police, and I started to relax and enjoy the ride. I rode several variants of familiar routes, cutting corners or adding in extra loops and had a lot of fun, usually clocking up around 200km. This kept me occupied until things began to ease after mid-summer. I did all these rides and on
