Part 3 - In which our heroes discover the source of political ideology.
To add variety we decided Part 3 should involve a clandestine reconnaissance of the RAF Wing chicken base as part of the search-and-rescue mission for Reg's lost map, promptly departing LBZ's political HQ at 18:00hrs.
Don't believe everything you see
Still trying to press the flesh with the proletariat
Our previous sorties to the limits of our range had taken 6 hours each, so it was lightly-loaded P7's of the LBBB Expeditionary Farce that taxied past the roundabout, then took off at dusk down the High Street into the gathering gloom. With only limited supplies of mint cake, nutty bars and hot beverage we knew we'd be operating near the limits of our endurance. The forecast was for light winds, drizzle, and temperatures lowering to 4°C with a clear sky. Perfect cover for our intentions. We cruised as close to ground level as conditions allowed, avoiding direct contact with hostile traffic (by cycling on the footpath).
At Wing village we broke away from the primary arterial route and pursued a trail Reg's intelligence-gathering had identified as worthy of exploitation. We swooped past vehicles with unusually flamboyant markings....
Green shoots of recovery?
.... to the gated entrance of a large isolated property with viciously-enthusiastic guard dogs, then peeled left into the undergrowth and sanctuary of the bridleway. It was our first engagement with a common adversary: Chilterns mud; of the most cloying, slurry-logged and fetid variety.
Reg (frustrated) - "What on earth do they do on these bridleways? Spend all day riding up and down on them?",
Pete (philosophical) - "Er, yep, probably...that's what they're for",
Reg (deflated) - "You have a point <sigh>"
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After a couple of hundred splashy metres evading the hounds we emerged onto the road then headed for Hoggeston at bimblespeed, accompanied by a maelstrom of mud ejected from our wheels. The silhouette of RAF Wing chicken base loomed ever closer and stealth-mode Reg decided the optimal approach would be to sneak along the perimeter cheeky trail, rather than blaze through the main security gates in all our blinky-lighted fabulousness. I was disappointed, but bowed to his superior knowledge on such matters, just as Reg switched on all his searchlights to take a photo of the reflective lorry trailers lined up on the old runway. Very stealth
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Onwards we trudged. On Wing Commander Perrin's order we again suppressed our lights as we approached the 16 rows of vast industrial chicken accommodation blocks. We briefly scouted for guards (maintaining a holding pattern by pedalling round in circles), before advancing towards the objective
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The place was eerily quiet, with only the tick of our hubs and the low thrum of industrial extractor fans pumping huge invisible clouds of biological chicken aromas from inside the vast hangars into the unsuspecting night sky
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The dim glow of occasional security lights increased the illicit tone of our endeavour as we trundled by, eyes keen and ears pricked for instant challenge and the possibility of ensuing mayhem. And then...nothing. Pausing momentarily to record our success for posterity....
RegNinja
... we made off up the runway, engaging in abstract evasive manoeuvres whilst keeping our eyes peeled for Reg's map, particularly at the point of the "Wadergate" incident during our previous excursion. Alas: it was futile. The map remained lost, so we made haste along the muddy taxiway and off into the nocturnal vastness, ever closer towards Hoggeston.
Passing our previous refuelling stop (Hoggesden churchyard steps) we banked right down a rough lane towards a series of gates and stiles approaching our westerly destination.
At the huge inflatable slurry tank (a vast swimming pool of misery if ever there was one) we shouldered the P7's and cautiously navigated the narrow double stiles, careful not to touch anything contaminated with slurry or Coronavirus. The success of this manoeuvre was somewhat limited, as I just transferred the vile liquid (and solids) from my bike to my right side, from neck to ankle
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Successfully across, we briefly pedalled round aimlessly in different directions before rendezvousing at a kissing gate on a narrow slippery bridge between two especially spiky hedges. Now only 100m from our western objective we slogged slightly up High Havens (possibly the world's soggiest hill), to stand triumphant and celebrate our modest achievement with warming alcoholic refreshments.
Back through the gate/hedge/stile/slurry obstacles we rode north along the bridleway towards Station X. Last time we were here the ground was frozen solid, smooth and we would have made fast progress. Tonight was a very different affair due to the magic of rain, drizzle, mild temperatures and agricultural run-off all stirred enthusiastically by the passage of numerous tractors. With slim, knobbly tyres I made slow, steady progress but Reg's rubbery chubbiness ground him to a halt in places. We reconvened at the hilltop, exasperated, then wobbled slowly past the end of the tractor ruts to a gate. The next field seemed easier, as the bridleway skirted the edge, but the saturated ground compounded our difficulties as we sank into the grass. Pushing now, in RSF spirit, we aimed for the lights a mile distant and just plodded. I sensed frost forming underfoot as my mud-smeared spectacles steamed-up, rendering them utterly useless.
Through field after field, progress slowed as the cloying effluent adhered to our bikes and then to itself, growing in volume logarithmically until wheels no longer turned and we were dragging stinking bike-shaped mud sculptures. Our steeds were "essential crutch" one moment, "fetid stumbling block" the next. Verily: we had reached the source of modern political ideology and were immersed in the very essence of parliamentary discourse. It was not a pleasant experience
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With Reg's commendable navigation skills we eventually we arrived at the long cinder trail to the road, allowing mounted progress despite the bikes pebbled-dashing themselves to twice their weight. Once at the road we acquired suitable sticks and whiled away some time scraping mud from our undercarriages.
Back on the road we made swift progress to NCN 51, then east-ish to Station X with mud flinging from the bikes like an organic RADAR countermeasure.
Station X (Bletchley Park WW2 cipher museum) is an excellent day out and we were hoping for a photo opportunity next to something iconic. Disappointingly (or reassuringly), it was protected by heavy-duty security fence and guards, who enquired firmly about our presence. They confirmed the perimeter is disappointingly modern, but pointed us to a sign that would serve our purpose.
Evidence gathered, we made haste towards our northern objective (a front garden near Woburn Sands level crossing) and relished how the speed we could obtain on the cycleways was a delightful contrast to the tedium of the previous hours.
After several minor, unintended, explorations of Milton Keynes' myriad neuvo-middle class housing estates we rendezvoused successfully in Woburn Sands. Reg ensured our arrival was declared with shock and awe by inadvertently shining his 1000 lumen strobe light through the windows of the house in front of us
, whilst blaming me for inconsiderate lighting etiquette. I was beyond caring at this point and focussed on deploying my latest weapons in the battle to maintain one's moral fibre: my miniature espresso maker and micro-danglemug. A mere 60 seconds later I was enjoying a tiny cup of delight and declared myself fit for the homeward phase of our expedition.
Refreshed and with rejuvenated reserves of moral fibre, we pressed-on homeward bound up Woburn big hill, down Sandy Lane past gently-oscillating cars enclosing their own clandestine activities
, through the local woods past the tea hut and back to LBZ political HQ. It was bang-on midnight.
I'm not allowed to say how many P7's took part in the ride, but I counted them all out and I counted them all back. Their riders were unhurt, cheerful and jubilant, giving the thumbs-up sign.
Onwards, to part 4...
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