Right. I've washed the bike, had a bath, a glass of wine and a good night's sleep - and, in retrospect, the Hell of the Ashdown doesn't seem quite as bad.
On paper, it's a grim day out. 65 miles with 2000 metres of climbing, much of it steep.
From the saddle, it was actually OK. Helped by the friendly enthusiasm of the Catford volunteers; by unseasonally warm and sunny weather and the glory of the English countryside -- the pain was almost bearable.
Even Kidd's Hill - an apparently endless slog through the scrubland near Harftield, rewarded you with breathtaking views over the Ashdown Forest and the long, straight, rolling drop back down - where you could play at being Magnus Backstedt.
High point? Blasting through the best of Kent and Sussex without once having to look at a map -- following the well-placed signage and seen safely across dangerous junctions by cheerful marshals.
Low point? My Vittoria Pave tyres -- supposedly bulletproof Roubaix-busters, the back one blew out five miles into the ride after a minor encounter with a pothole. And they weave like a dolphin on high-speed descents.
Something a little flatter for my next outing, though. Is there a Hell of Norfolk?
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