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Don’t ride the Dangleway they told us.

So we rode the Dangleway.

Whoops.

Actually we rode the Emirates Air Line [URGH], to give the Dangleway its correct name. The experience was dangerously vomit inducing for someone with extreme vertigo.

What was I expecting?

Climbing to a height of 90 metres at the taller of the two towers, the cable car linking North Greenwich across the river with the Royal Docks didn’t do much to overcome my chronic fear of heights.

A return journey was part of the schedule. I chickened out and did the round robin trip on the DLR via Canary Wharf, then all the way back to North Greenwich for a planned rendez vous pub session with some pals.

I found that the only way to focus on the five minute journey suspended over the river was to… focus on the photographs. We were blessed with a blue sky day that was about to burst with some rain clouds creeping up the river. I wouldn’t have fancied my chances in holding off a colourful window decoration of the gondola with a slight gale blowing upstream.

The view from the peak of the Dangleway gives you a unique perspective on South East London. The Shard and the London Eye both have central London covered, but the Dangleway gives you a close up of the likes of The Excel, the O2 and the toy train circuit that is the DLR.

You also pay the price for the two central London tourist attractions, with tickets for the Shard and the Eye clocking in at £25 and £17 respectively. A quick flash of the Oyster card for the Dangleway and soon you are boarding one of the 34 gondolas.

And here like the catch - is the Dangleway part of an integrated London public transport network, or is it a tourist attraction? Looking at the funding model and you can see how a fudge of the public / private sector is proving to be far from satisfactory.

When the plans were first mooted back in the summer of 2010, the Dangleway was always going to be a public funded extra transport option for TfL. But the initial budget leaped from £24m out of the public purse to a whopping £62.6m price for the final build.

The private sector was called in to bail the project out, something that Emirates Airline was happy to help out with a ghastlysponsorship naming rights opportunity over a ten year period.

Kinda makes you feel ever so slightly… sick.

The ride hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing since the Dangleway first opened in June 2012. £50,000 is being lost each week, mainly due to the £150,000 weekly operating cost. An £18m deficit needs to be addressed.

Passenger numbers are declining almost on par with the chunder chucking descent at the North Greenwich end. It remains to be seen if the Dangleway can ride out the little local difficulty, and market itself as both a public transport option and a tourist attraction.

The traffic from North to South - or vice versa - might just be able to be achieved, given the massive residential redevelopment of the area around the Greenwich Peninsula. The Royal Docks side of the Dangleway is in desperate need of a parallel cultural regeneration if the tourist angle is going to work out.

If the Dangleway really is part of a public transport network, then it makes a mockery of relying upon the private sector to market it.

Such a sinking feeling shouldn’t put people off giving the Dangleway a go. The views are spectacular, especially so when you can see the river curve around the Excel and double up upon itself.

Don’t ride the Dangleway they told us.

So we rode the Dangleway.

I just about got away it as well.

Plus: Another view of the Dangleway, via the mighty @urban75.

Poster Art 150 at the London Transport Museum uses the occasion of the 150th anniversary of the tube to showcase some of the stunning imagery associated with the network over the past Century and a half. Communication is the key - posters are used on London transport to help point people in the right direction.

Oh the irony then of Poster Art 150 being hidden away at the back of the Transport Museum, confusing a couple of bleary eyed early morning commuters who instead spent a delightful two hours looking around the rest of the Transport Museum first.

Whoops.

But once you locate Poster Art 150, it is a fantastic array of colour and communication, being both playful and public spirited. Traveling on London Underground over the past 150 years hasn’t always been easy. The posters serve as a rallying call to make the most of the network and the pleasures that you might find at the end of the Northern Line (southbound, natch.)

The Transport Museum collection contains 3,300 different posters. Deciding which 150 of these originals to be displayed as part of Poster Art 150 was always going to be a subjective decision.

The curators have got it just about right. There is a relative distribution of branch lines, locations and subject matter. Much of the artwork is themed towards a particular area - safety, sport and engineering works all feature.

It is a broadly historic approach to the spread of posters throughout the exhibition. What you soon realise is that although there is no pre-defined house style to London Underground posters, a definite tradition has been observed throughout the past 150 years.

To compliment the bright colours is a design ethos of simplicity. Watercolours and pastels aren’t really part of Poster Art 150.

The prolific output of Charles Sharland dominates the pre World War One era. Harry Beck’s original iconic tube map remains a delight to observe in great detail, some eighty years since it first appeared. The bastardised current carnation is still functional, but the simplicity has got lost a little in the way of corporate branding.

The medium is very much the message as you wander around the exhibition. London Underground posters serve an informative purpose, rather than simply filling the hoardings in-between stations. The misery of the Northern Line at 8am on a Monday morning could be brightened up if the old posters replaced some of the current commercial ‘artistic’ offerings.

Some personal highlights for me covered sport; the 1928 FA Cup Final, swimming at the Empire Pool in 1938 and The Windies Oval Test Match of 1939. They have a Boy’s Own comic book appearance - modernity and sport captured in a simple poster design.

Modernism runs throughout Poster Art 150. The Pop Art style of the late 60′s creeps in with some West End designs, offering a slight play on the theme and a further explosion in colour.

Little is lost as you speed towards the 21st Century. The now iconic colours of each line are captured, making even line closure posters look appealing.

My two personal favourites from the Transport Museum archives don’t appear. No worries - if gives me an excuse to publish Alex Jeffries Lido poster and Chistian Staham’s Herne Hill Velo poster below.

Here be the view from my office wall:

Poster Art 150 continues at the Transport Museum until 23rd October. Adult admission is £15 - which also doubles up as a twelve-month membership for the brilliant Transport Museum.

Return visits improve your sense of direction…

County Championship Division One, The Oval, close, day two: Surrey 351 v Sussex 204-2

The fag end of the day at Michael Faraday and cricket came-a-calling. ‘Aint it always the case, Comrades.

And so a full on day playing in the LOVELY SE17 Nursery, and then the short postcode hop over to SE11. It wasn’t quite the Nursery End at The Oval; that comes next month when we make the majestic trip to HQ, art deco toilets et al, dahhhling.

And so Day 2 of Surrey Vs Sussex and it was hard work for the ‘rrey out in the South London sun. Something of a BATTING DAY, which works both ways on a wicket that is a bit of a bugger for the bowlers.

Pleased to report that the Surrey Cricket post-tea friendly pauper’s policy is still in place. A polite wave to Mr Gate Man and the job’s a good ‘un, all for the price of simple sum that the Nursery kids mastered earlier in the day:

0 + 0 = NOTHING.

Nice.

Surrey seemed content to see out the day with as little effort as possible. This was also my motto some eight hours earlier. Chasing down [yeah, right] Surrey’s first innings knock of 351, I arrived fashionably late in the fashion abyss that is the Peter May Stand. Sussex were on 128-2, with 22 overs remaining in the session.

The grand old Peter May has been the scene of many lost South London summers of carnage past. Thursday couldn’t quite compete with the Great Booze Black Out of ’98, but the old boy was looking slightly tired and emotional.

Discarded sausage rolls, cans of Carlsberg and the SE11 pigeons seeking a crafty shag in between overs. The Oval experience is a lesson in life’s great survival skills. Last man standing on a sticky wicket takes home the spoils. And the discarded sausage rolls.

A little tired and emotional myself, I sat back to soak up a South London suntan. An operatic appeal from Tim Linley soon livened things up. The Viscount slid along the sacred Oval turf like Springsteen playing to the crowd at Madison Square Gardens.

Born to Run, etc, which was most certainly the case for Luke Wells of Sussex, who stood his ground and continued to turn over the runs.

I was in need of some context; I was in need of some cricketing analysis. I needed two blokes in the commentary box banging on about past glories on the dance floor at the Clap’ham Grand.

And whaddya know - Church and Barran came to the rescue via the @surreycricket commentary. Some slight technicals followed. The modern interweb was streaming the ball-by-ball via my fancy phone. It’s so fancy that it means that it has invented time travel, delivering commentary about 15 seconds behind the real world.

By the time the Linley operatic appeal had been described in great glory, the next ball was already making its way to The Oval boundary. Being a delivery behind the pace would be perfect for any big screen replays. Otherwise it’s just an irritant, albeit a pleasant one.

Not that there was a great deal of detail to describe out in the middle. Sussex seemed happy to tick over the old scoreboard at the same pace that I ticked over my next tinnie.

Chin chin.

This was a game of patience being played out, something that was also the case for any teaching staff in the ground earlier in the day when 5,000 South London school kids had a day out at The Oval.

Jade Dernbach was brought back into the attack, but his death bowling doesn’t quite suit the four-day format. 150 turned over on the scoreboard with 15 overs remaining in the day. A close of play score of 165 come stumps wouldn’t have been unreasonable.

Time to liven up The Oval attack. Chris Tremlett was unleashed from the Vauxhall End as the first shadows were cast from the newly opened Corinthians Roof Terrace bar. Or should that be that the Corinthians Roof Terrace bar was unleashed under the shadow of the Surrey bowling attack?

Hey hoe.

Luke Wells made a late move for his century, knocking up a fine 100 that makes the Friday morning session rather interesting.

It all then got slightly psychogeographic with Oval memories of old come the close of play. It all got slightly tired and emotional. Anyone seen my discarded sausage roll?

And so Surrey headed back to the pavilion with Sussex looking strong on 204-2. There’s talk of a return visit to South London on Saturday, run rate and weather allowing.

Child’s play.

And so with the oldest Spring Classic rolling our from Liege - Bastogne - Liege on Sunday, I took to two wheels to take on the Spring Classic of Britain’s Oldest Recorded in Leisure Word - Witham - Leisure World.

Chapeau!

This was one of the regular Sunday rides organised by Colchester CTC. A higher than normal peloton signed on shortly after 9:30am by the glamour of the Leisure World skateboard ramps. The talk was of possibly two breakaways to funnel us through the chicanes of Frating etc. The appearance of a tricycle only complicated matters.

But they’re a friendly lot at the CTC. Ahead of us was a 54 mile round circuit, roughly taking in Tiptree and Witham, before backtracking around the edges of Braintree and heading slightly north for Wakes Colne, then the descent back to Colchester.

The hive mentality of the peloton is ALWAYS there to be celebrated. No one gets left behind - not even the wonderful tricycle contraption with a pair of drop handle bars to match. I’m still not sure who was doing the pushing or the pulling, but the male / female team both seemed to be enjoying the sexual division of labour.

A slight climb exiting the edges of Castle Park, and whaddya know - I got lost.

Whoops.

Other CTC riders chose to roll out with GPS devices attached to their frames. I prefer the more informal navigational route of asking an old fella if he had seen a group speed past wearing lycra.

The peloton was caught around Prettygate, and soon we were Stanway bound. Layers of lycra started to leave the bodies as the North Essex sun broke through and threatened to develop a roadie suntan.

I almost came a cropper at Copford. The POTHOLES were on par with moon craters. The joy of riding in the pack is the etiquette of the lycra arse in front of you pointing out each POTHOLE. This becomes a problem though when the road is made up of 90% POTHOLES and 10% rubble.

Meanwhile the rolling lanes of Messing were anything but a mess. This is my new FAVE time trial patch. A long, straight and smooth surface, and not a car in sight early on Sunday morning. The joyous sound of rubber rotating on the road is something quite special for any roadie wannabe that is living out the Spring Classic dream out in the suburbs of Sunny Colch.

The first feeding station took place at the Perrywood Nurseries in Tiptree. If you didn’t fancy tea and scones then at least an Alan Titchmarsh grow bag was available to buy.

Out of the Land of Jam, and then we were presented with the most challenging part of the ride. Twenty-four miles of uninterrupted pedaling lay ahead if we wanted jam tomorrow - or even a late luncheon.

A poor bolting horse got the jitters around the edges of Braxted Park. The whole pack slowed down to walking pace, but the old fella didn’t take a liking to the lycra tights. The rider managed to steady the old chap, proving that jodhpurs probably have the better of cycling tights when comes to a game of Transport Trousers Top Trumps.

It was at this stage of the ride that I first started to feel tired. It was a funny sensation - not tired as in my legs were turning to lead; there was still plenty left in the tank to keep on pedaling, but tired as in yawn, yawn, yawn.

Cycling often overcomes the metaphysical. A five-mile sprint into town and back can put you out for the count for the rest of the day. Thirty plus miles into an all day ride and you almost pedal yourself into fitness. The yucky energy gel bar certainly helped as well.

Witham was a little… weird.

“Look! London Marathon!”

…exclaimed a teenage girl.

Gosh.

Buzzards and beautiful gardens characterised Bradwell, and soon it was time to go Dutch at… Dutch Nurseries at Coggeshall. You buy the tea, I’ll buy the brie and bacon toasties. We’ll split the difference on the Alan Titchmarsh grow bag this time, darling.

I’m not quite sure what it is with cycling groups and garden Nurseries, but the two go together like punctures and compost. Add in a bussed group of OAP’s, and it was quite a collection of travellers in the serene gardens of the Dutch Nurseries.

By now it was late afternoon and the chase was on back to base. My magpie eyes were hungry for the prize - much like Mr Magpie himself just outside of Wake’s Colne. He stooped down right in front of the peloton and plucked a poor field mouse from out of the grass verge. Impressive stuff - but not quite on par with the feat of one member of the CTC group confusing a scarecrow kite as a magnificent bird of prey.

Whoops.

It was just past Wake’s Colne that I took the pro-rider [yeah, yeah] decision to ride at the tête de la course. Stay out of the pack, stay out of the pitfalls, as Lance was often fond of saying. Yeah, but yer man never had to guide his way around a route that he knew bugger all about.

Five minutes of over enthusiastic cycling, and soon I was left stranded and off route. A rescue service was sent out, and I was back with my bicycle and tail firmly between my legs and pulling up the back of the pack.

The approach ride back in to Colchester was relatively smooth. A rider punctured, but the joy of these CTC rides is that no one gets left behind. A new inner was on hand, and we were back on course for the final push for the punching of the air as the Leisure Word - Witham - Leisure World came to a close.

Chapeau!

Where to roll out to this weekend as the Spring Classic season continues?

The Milan - San Remo maybe? What about Gent - Weveglem? Or perhaps Paris - Roubaix?

Um, how about the Weely Circular? You cycle out to Weely, turn around [aha!] and then retrace your route back to base.

Chapeau!

Actually there was a little more aesthetics planned into the Saturday afternoon of cycling. The legendary - and illusive - Landmere Quay was the challenge. Officially not visible online via Mr Google Maps, but by all accounts, something of one of the prettiest locations around these North Essex estuary wilds.

Off the radar but most certainly not off limits when it comes to the freedom that two wheels allows you. Make it to Kirby-le-Soken and you should be OK was the manta. Logic doesn’t allow for random toilet stops and getting in a flap with your all in one lycra bodysuit.

Whoops.

But it’s not about arriving; it’s about the journey.

Yeah yeah - Never Trust a Hippie. I’m learning to trust with some great reliance my Giant roadie though. Recently serviced by Chapeau Velo, the old girl is clicking through the big cogs and cranking up the chain ring with ease.

Tenpenny Hill has now become my gauge as to how good the ride to follow will be. I’ve dropped down a gear to get me over the top, I’ve found my rhythm, I’ve found my cadence and I’ve found the added energy that Bran Flakes give you for breakfast.

I powered through to the peak of Tenpenny Hill at the speed (and sound) of wind.

And relax.

This was the first day of the Spring Classic season where fingerless gloves made an appearance. It was also a day for deep cycling pockets - water, energy bars, phone, camera, condoms - be prepared, etc. Never underestimated the power of a lubricant when it comes to DIY puncture repair.

I ploughed on up Plough Road with the road abandoned for bicycles only. Not a single car took me from behind in the run up to Great Bentley. My turn of speed speed caught the wind trying to penetrate through my helmet.

Gosh.

It was an unnerving sensation. Once you are focussed and trying to keep up the rotations per minute, strange thoughts cross through your mind. The sound of the wind breaking through can be mistaken for a car coming up the rear. Look behind and you’ll be flat on your arse come the next pothole.

Turn, turn, turn.

A slight pause for a hit and miss photo shoot in Great Bentley. The sheer expanse of the 43-acre Green has a mystical element all to itself. Cycle to the outer edges and you’ll fall off into the seething pit of the Essex / Tendring border basement of gloom.

Here be the A133, etc.

The fag end of the football season was being played out on one of the many pitches. It has been a triumphant nine months for both sides, if the beer bellies were any indicator. You don’t achieve such proportions by not celebrating three points every Saturday evening.

Eyes right and there was a sign of things to come. The cricket wicket was being rolled, with the old pavilion also receiving a lick of fresh white paint. That’s a helluva boundary for any slogger wanting to hit six during a Great Bentley away fixture.

Photo shoot over, all cleated up and ready to resume the chase out towards Landemere Quay. The wide-open spaces on the run in to Weely would have split the peloton - had there been one. Instead I was left flapping around with only a scarecrow for company in the nearby field. Cycling is all about solitary thoughts. A serene setting advances this a stage further.

A pheasant crossed my path, causing a slight jitter of the bowels. There is never a good time to take a toilet stop whilst out on a bicycle - unless you are approaching Weely Sports and Social Club that is.

Another Saturday afternoon game was about to kick off, and so I took the opportunity to gatecrash the ref’s own private toilet facility. The Man in Black was pleasant enough toilet cubicle company. I had something of a costume malfunction with the all in one lycra body suit. Sometimes you have to be a contortionist in order to get all the right pipes guided towards the correct exit points.

I’ve no idea what the significance of the game was at the Weely Sports and Social Ground. Something quite tense, if the sight of the goalie chucking up his guts before he walked towards the pitch was any indicator.

Steady the buffers, fella.

And then that should have been Landmere Quay. Thorpe-le-Soken, Kirby Cross and up toward Kirby-le-Soken. Mr Google Maps had burned the image into my mind and on to my iPhone. But the offline world just wasn’t working. I tried to reload reality, but Landmere Quay couldn’t be seen.

Hey hoe.

I hammered it home, having the best run so far of the Spring Classic season. There’s talk of a 50-mile plus ride coming up. The Weely Circular was a fine warm up, even if the route got a little waylaid with wee wees and the lack of Landmere Quay.

Chapeau!

Another weekend, another Spring Classic to Ride.

Chapeau!

Rolling out early on Saturday morning was the Walton Time Trial. You won’t see this Classic recognised in any of the more traditional bicycling calendars. You probably won’t even see the Walton Time Trial recognised anywhere in Wivenhoe.

Have road bike, will travel. Weather woes had messed up the race calendar weekend. A planned roll out with Velo Club Revolution on Sunday was brought forward. Mr BBC Weather Man didn’t like those darkening skies scheduled for the Seventh Day, and neither did my Giant roadie.

Flexibility is the key to optimum cycling performance. That’s what the back of those energy gel bars tell you, before necking half a dozen and then buzzing off yer nuts on a naked bike ride around town.

Whoops.

But flexibility can also mean abandoning the weekend VCR plans and putting in place the personal Walton Time Trial instead. Make hay, etc, and whaddya know - Sunday morning blog post publishing time, and it’s as dry as a Nun’s undercarriage out there.

Bugger.

Cycling solo can sometimes mean splendid isolation. It can also sometime be bloody hard work as you are both the Team Leader and the Domestique. There’s nowhere to hide in the pack as you plan your climb of Tenpenny Hill towards Thorrington.

I’ve long since ignored the medical advice to take up fly-fishing with the onset of an arthritic knee. Live to Ride, Ride to Live. Especially so when you see in your sights another lone rider on the horizon, also going through the personal pain that is a solo time trial.

No one likes to be caught up in the time trial, and the other rogue rider was the carrot for my donkey legs to kick against. It was a testing climb, but I could see the gap between us shortening as my mule instincts kicked in at the peak of the climb.

GOTCHA, I thought as I gave the lone rider the Lance pokerface glare through specs, before kicking harder still to be the first over the top.

The chase is always better than the kill though. Turns out that my ten-minute struggle to pull in the other personal time trialer had all been about struggling to match the half-decent riding skills of a young lady rider.

Whoops.

TWO pairs of lycra cycling tights disguised my shame.

Hey hoe. Tenpenny Hill climbed, and time to zip up the gilet and cover up the Brixton Cycles livery. I was a long way home from the spiritual cycling base and didn’t want tales of taking on a female rider with a Lance glare making it back to Brixton.

Endless crap is often written about cycling cadence, and I’m not about to spoil this fine tradition. For all your fancy on board computers and GPS data logging back at base, it really is All About the Bike.

You don’t need scientific input to tell you if you are having a good day on the bike, or simply bonking on the verges on the outskirts of Brightlingsea. But Saturday was rather ACE. I hit my stride just outside of St Osyth, barely changing out of the big cog and keeping a steady pace on the pedals.

It was a remarkably clear run. Traffic lights were kind, as were other road users in allowing me a bit of room for my backside to breathe. I almost came a cropper on the chicane of mini-roundabouts on the Clacton approach, but time trials reward those that take risks.

All in a purely legal sense, you understand…

The run in through Frinton and then towards the clock stopping finish line of Walton was fresh. I was rewarded with a stunning low tide looking out across the Naze, and a builder’s cup of tea to recouperate out on the beach.

An old boy took an interest in the bike.

“Not like the bikes of my day,”

…he mused. Betcha you didn’t go round giving the Lance glare to young females riders either, fella.

Plans for a Walton art deco house hunt didn’t quite go to plan. Mr BBC Weather Man and his rain woes was as confused as me when it comes to identifying the gender of a rider from the rear. The Walton skies had started to bruise, and my roadie ‘aint taking no puddles for no one.

The return leg of the Walton Time Trial surprisingly had the same kick as the inward ride. Never underestimate the healing power of a builder’s cup of tea taken on Walton beach. The Saturday morning traffic had started to build, but the run was a clear one back to base.

These Spring Classics are often the highlight of the season. A wretched winter off-road, and then a sudden burst of spunk waiting to be released.

Lycra does funny things to a man.

To the Cols du South London! …early on Sunday morning for a rolling out of The London Classic 2013. The spring classic season is upon us. Anything that the Iron Men contesting the Paris-Roubaix across the Channel can do, the cyclists of South London can match back in Londres.

You want cobbles? Folgate Street, Stepney Green and the rather rear wheel wobble that is Wapping High Street certainly separated out the Iron Men (and Women) for the London Classic.

Climbs? The Cols du South London presented a lung-busting conclusion to the 38.8 miles circuit. Fox Hill alone has a gradient of 20%.

Ouch.

This wasn’t a day for poncing about on the Moulton. That can wait until the Tweed Ride coming up later in the season. Roadies were called for, Lycra et al. Sometimes it really is All About the Bike.

The route roughly covered the signing on at the Gypsy Hill Tavern, freewheeling back down to Brixton, crossing the Old Girl at Waterloo, into the West End, Holborn through to Clerkenwell and Old Street, Stepney Green, Wapping, back South over Tower Bridge, dodging tourists at Greenwich, around the back of Shooters Hill, Forest Hill and then a swift half back at the Gypsy Hill Tavern.

Phew.

Guidance was needed soon after signing on at Gypsy Hill. Bicycling etiquette dictates that when in doubt, simply follow the Frenchie rounding the fixie.

Chapeau!

Our maillout jaune was a wise choice. Climbing the Cols on a fixed wheel ‘ain’t a lot of fun. The follow up is that you have to try and control your ride down the other side for the decent. Monsieur Frenchie managed this in some style, even taking time to create a crafty French jazz cigarette roll up mid ride.

The single speed was infectious. Eighteen wasted gears on the roadie in which to select, but I soon found that I pretty much coasted it using a mid-range selection until we hit the climbs. Tracks stops were once again re-visited - SPD’s and London traffic lights are not a great cycling relationship.

The early stages of the ride were spent borough boundary hopping between Lambeth and Southwark. The route was almost planned so that you could cross the great divide at every geographical opportunity.

What was great to see on such a North and South ride is how bicycling provision changes throughout the Boroughs. Sure, this is top down from City Hall, but whisper it quietly - *shhh* the Cycle Superhighways serve Lambeth incredibly well.

Equally fascinating to observe en route is the changing nature of communities around each corner. Within a sixty second stretch you can find yourself travelling halfway around the world with flags, restaurants and languages brightening up each block back in the beautiful South.

Soon we hit the West End and the cobbles of the backstreets of Covent Garden. Technically North of the river, and so the Paris-Roubaix connection with The Hell of the North was rightfully made.

Speaking of which, we had a chance to catch up with the Iron Men back in Paris-Roubaix via Look Mum in Old Street. The bicycling cafe was completely packed by mid-morning, screening live coverage of the great Spring Classic.

A brief gel bar refreshment, and then through Shoreditch and past some old work haunts. Never underestimate the ability of the East End to throw up yet more cobbled streets. Never underestimate my ability to still get lost whenever I try and take on Whitechapel on two wheels.

Whoops.

CS3 was a joy to mount, as was the sight of some South London cycling friends that we caught up with just as we hit the more familiar territory of SE16. We weren’t alone in choosing two wheels. Couples, families, kids - it was refreshing to see the Bermondsey back streets alive with bicycles and not cars.

The trebling of the pelaton helped to tow in the riders around the Creek at Greenwich. And then it was time to tackle the South London Cols.

OUCH.

The designated route couldn’t have been more ball breaking if it involved attaching a ten ton weight to the back of your bicycles

Crystal Palace basically sits on top of one hill. There are many routes in. And whaddya know - EVERY single in and out road back to Gypsy Hill had to be conquered.

You could sense the challenge ahead during each decent. The level of the drop and the length of the stretch surely must mean that you have got a bit of a bugger to climb around the corner.

I had been tutored well previously with Dulwich Paragon for the final sprint finish up Anerley Road. Every gear change was measured; I needed every single one. Cassette cogs ran out, just as I hit the peak.

Chapeau!

Time for a half shandy back at the Gypsy Hill Tavern.

The Paris-Roubaix had long since finished. Iron Men had recuperated and started preparations for the next Spring Classic.

Back in South London and the bicycling party had just started. Bike frames had to be raffled, BBQ’s had to be eaten and BOOZE really had to be drunk.

And so an ACE London Classic for 2013. The spring weather behaved, and the route remained in South London for over two thirds of the way around. It may have involved two thirds of climbing, but Iron Men (and Women) are made on the South London Cols, and not on the poncey North London cobbles.