All this, in about 2 seconds: "I think Doug is about to skid. But look, he's going to steer through it. There: he's done it no he hasn't he's down. Quick! I'd better steer round him. But why am I skidding? I'm about to crash, here I go. Damn. That hurts. I'm still sliding. There goes my bike, sliding past Doug who's still on the floor. Ow that hurts". I stand up, thinking what an idiot, what if I've broken something before the baby comes (which is due in a couple of weeks), and then almost slip over again. At about that point, the chatter above that had been going on somewhere deeper in my brain matches up with slower, conscious side and I realise that we have found a long chute of black ice: the first sign of the frozen stuff on the network of small roads that we had been following from Seven Sisters' Road to Burnham-on-Crouch.
Taking some good advice from Doug, who slowly checked his appendages and unclipped from his bike as he lay on the ground, we wolfed down some energy gels and drink and took stock. The bikes were fine. We were plenty bruised and pretty sore, my ancient Rapha softshell neatly shredded on the elbows and new for Christmas gilet ripped and imprinted with cog and chain oil marks, but otherwise fine. The black ice, which brought us down, also saved us from too much road rash. Plus, we were probably just pootling along.
|Doug points out the ice|
Instead we had to push on, a little glummer, a lot sorer, and with Doug struck by a strong sense of déjà vu when we reached a ford.
|Have we been here before?|
The route picked up, and in about another hour we were coming into Burnham, a long, busy B road with mostly courteous car drivers. The last 10km or so was reminiscent of the run into Whitstable - wind, taking turns at the front, and slowly turning up the gas.
I left Doug at the station for a bit, and had a peek around the town, famous for its yachting. I'm glad I did.
Bruised, but not broken, we give the route a thumbs up. We'll be back. (Here it is on Ride with GPS.)