This was to be a celebratory affair that only a cyclist could possibly appreciate; a ride from Eastbourne to Stonehenge, on the day after the Winter Solstice, in celebration of the days beginning to lengthen once more.

The plan was conceived about a week prior to the solstice, and originated from the idea of riding from dawn until dusk on the 21st December - the shortest day of the year. As it was, that day fell on one during which I had prior commitments, so an alternative approach was necessitated, and thus the celebratory aspect was adopted, in doing it the day after.

Much in the same way that people make excuses to celebrate; this was really just an excuse to do a ‘proper’ ride. But, although the wheels were in motion, definitive commitment was lacking on the part of Yours Truly in the preceding week, with a glance at the weekend weather forecast doing everything but cement the fixture.

All things considered, this was turning into a test of self. One could quite easily have pulled the pin, not told anyone about it, and let the world continue none the wiser. However, unfortunately for me, and any poor like-minded individuals, this was never an option: the idea had been raised, potential difficulty had been sensed, and anything but an attempt would have categorically been classed as a failure.

7:59, Eastbourne Pier. The sun rises and off I toddle, making arrangements to meet the broom wagon operative (my Dad), at a lay-by in Midhurst in approximately 3 hours.

8:00, Eastbourne Seafront. Severity of the headwind due to afflict the entire ride becomes painfully apparent.

8:15, A27 out of Eastbourne. The heavens well and truly open, I am soaked to the skin within 20 minutes of starting and shudder at the prospect spending the entire day in a similar state of sorrow.

The next few hours were spent facing my plight face on - heading West towards Lewes, then Brighton, and finally Shoreham, at which point I veered North on the A283, skirting the South Downs National Park past Steyning, Storrington and Pulborough.

Coming out of Petworth, something wasn’t navigationally right, and after consulting my phone, realised the wrong road had indeed been taken. There was however an alternative road, or at least a line, which would seemingly lead me back to the A272. After taking the ‘road’, and feeling an ever-increasing need for 28mm tyres, I bumped into two farmers.

“Is this road navigable by bike?” I asked.

(mumbles, ominous glances exchanged)

“Yeah, reckon so,” was the reply.

A few minutes later and it became apparent that my road bike’s definition of navigable differed slightly from theirs, but I had come too far to justify turning back, and was duly left to meander back to the 272 the hard way.

Back on track, I had worked out that in order to arrive at Stonehenge before sunset, I would need to keep a rough average speed of 28-29 kph, but adrenalin (fuelled entirely out of bitter resentment and masochism thanks to the conditions) had ensured I was actually ahead of schedule.

This proved a costly mistake to make however, as little more than 100km in I was already feeling the pinch. The (retrospectively misled) belief that four years as a full-time bike rider would make up for the holes/craterous gaps in my preceding riding schedule had been undone. Since my season finished at the end of September, I had made a one-hour commute five times a week at best, and donned a pair of bibshorts but twice; once for a cross race and once for a four-hour ride.

The solitary four-hour ride in question was proving an inadequate endurance base, and by 120km I was well and truly bonking. On the plus side, the skies had eventually cleared, and in the cloud’s wake had been left a blue sky and low sun that only a solstice could dream of, literally.

The A272 cuts right through the heart of the South Downs, and the undulating ebb and flow of the road took me through some thoroughly enjoyable riding territory – that if it weren’t for this ride would have otherwise remained unknown to me.

But the headwind remained, as did its attempted smiting of any perceived enjoyment.

The road from Petersfield to Winchester felt infinite, with long, open stretches reducing speed and strength in equal measure. Any respite one would normally associate with reaching the top of a climb was immediately stamped out by the swirls and gusts of the perpetual wind; tearing at jerseys and whipping its cacophony over irritable ears.

The end was drawing close now, and the final leg from Winchester actually passed relatively quickly, both in time and pace, as the fast approaching sunset acted as a catalyst for a second wind of energy.

Between my top tube map and Google’s slightly more adept cartography system, I was able to make a relatively clean cut path through the countryside - through Stockbridge, Lopcombe and Porton, before eventually popping out on the A360, with Stonehenge a mere 10km up the road.

The sun was beginning to slip below the horizon, the sky was a deep red, the heavens had fittingly opened once more, and a rainbow had emerged – which in an act of sheer divinity appeared to have this damned collection of stones at its base.

With broom wagon operator Dad and chief soigneur dogs tailing, the climax of this chase was on; the setting sun over my shoulder, with the target up ahead now within sight. After 8 hours, and almost 210km, this was coming down to the wire.

The official sunset was given at 16:02, and amid the excitement it is hard to say which side of that boundary we actually arrived at, but to focus on such a triviality would be to miss the point of the ride.

It was not a test of speed or fitness; it was not even a celebration of the days getting longer, really, or a claim to bragging rights at the pub. It was a test of self; to say you’re going to do something…and then to do it - for no real reason at all, other than the fact it’s there to be done.

Josh Cunningham has been living the high life racing in Belgium for the past few seasons. Now he’s back home he’s a freelance cycling journalist, with articles in Cyclist Magazine, Cycling Weekly, and, of course, Le Sportif. You can follow Josh and keep track of his work @CoshJunningham on Twitter.

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