Now to be honest, although the ride was good I struggle to find a way of interesting the reader into reading about the next section. Certainly the ride was good, the excitement of seeing the odd candle in a jar to confirm we were on the right route was amazing (you had to be there, ok?), all in all it was just a case of turn those pedals, eat those miles and enjoy oneself.

I’d always had an escape route in my mind. I knew that I could get to the near location of Chelmsford and then turn right and head home. This was my plan if my shoulder hurt (my main worry), my legs hurt (understandable), or even if my brain came to its senses (that’d be a first)! As it transpired, that plan was fine other than one small detail. I was lost. I was very lost. I knew my route sheet, I knew we were on it somewhere, but I couldn’t relate that to my knowledge of my normal cycling routes. There was only one option left to me. Keep talking, don’t mention the plan, keep riding.

And keep riding we did. Overtaking some riders and being passed in turn by others. Drunks leaving the pubs looked at us in drunken amazement. Police cars hit the brakes and thought about turning around and checking us out (I was lucky, but some riders were quizzed as to their intention and asked whether they’d had enough sleep) old ladies in electric wheelchairs ignored us as we were nothing unusual at that time of the night.

Our refreshment stop in Great Dunmow was amongst the most memorable. Charlotte was holding a conversation as to whether it was usual to eat a whole malt loaf in one sitting. Tim worried about the lack of miles on his computer combined with both the number of miles remaining and the time elapsed so far. A group of late night revellers stopped to find out where we were going, and then looked puzzled when we cheerfully said “the seaside”. Another drunk rocked slowly back and forth as he concocted something witty to say, we gave him five minutes or so and then gave up and cycled off.

Finchingfield for me passed firstly in a case of “this is familiar, I’ve been here before” followed by “what a pretty pond” and then followed by “who put that ruddy hill there!?!” We staggered onwards, not really struggling but we did have to recover after the unexpected steep, although short, climb. A recovery aided immensely by a communal stop on a quiet country road (gents to the right and girls to the left). It was here, at some point in the early hours of the morning that I realised the true surrealness of the ride. I was standing at the roadside in absolute silence, then a group of cyclists passed in an almost silent murmur of sound and a glimmer of light, then full silence and moonlight returned.

I have to be honest here, I phased out of my surroundings and events. I know I was aware of what I was doing and where I was going; I just wasn’t remembering it for later. I can remember passing through towns and one way systems, I can remember riding along country lanes and discussing dynohubs with fellow riders, and then strangely there was a multitude of candles and we were turning right into a village hall. The grounds of this hall was awash with sleeping bicycles and candles. Together with the group of riders I had found myself in we parked our bikes and headed indoors. Here we found familiar faces. Riders we knew but who were faster had arrived, rested and were already setting out. Riders we remembered from the start were collapsed at tables loaded with coffee and pasta. We joined the queue of riders waiting to buy a main meal (beans/pasta/rice/salad/etc) I bought a pasta meal along with a couple of flapjacks. The only culinary comment I can make is that I will be back next year.