Friday 26th June 2009 – a date that will go down in the legendary annuls of the Pint 2 Pint

It started in the usual manor, six willing and obviously forgetful souls met up with the ringmaster, Andrew Jones, at The Star in Wych Hill at just after 6.30pm armed with their trusty old bikes (many of which had not seen the light of day for over a year), an assortment of safety gear and a few pounds to cover the evenings expenses (except Arwel who had conveniently left his wallet in the car). The mood was jovial, and the banter was flowing, any bad memories of previous Pint 2 Pints organised by Jonesy had not yet pushed their way through the euphoric tales of mountains conquered, fords traversed, bikes fixed on the run, glorious fish and chip suppers, close encounters with light aircraft and other daring do. The e-mails in the run up to the great event had promised 10 pubs with a leisurely, short cycle between each, a much more relaxing affair than the punishing schedule of the Table Pint 2 Pint a fortnight ago. Little did we know that in four hours time we would be reduced to a sweaty string of forlorn, moaning, pitiful examples of humanity, clambering over fences and struggling through overgrown fields to escape the locked Brookwood Cemetery and find a road (any road!) that would take us to the last pub.

It started well enough, a nice downhill canter through the woodland paths of Hook Heath and on to the Jolly Farmer at Worplesdon. Suspicions should have been roused by Andrew insisting that we only order “halves” and commenting that this was probably the longest cycle between pubs. Next was a meander through the scrubland, along the wooden boards (with a quick stop for Kirbs to get back on after exiting stage left by mistake) and down the sandy paths to the Ship Inn on the outskirts of Guildford. A swift half and we were off again, heading further away from the comfort of home knowing that each turn of the peddles would have to be repeated to get back. This was a fairly uneventful leg with some pleasant countryside, and a slight incline to finish at the next pub. Once again Mr Jones tempted us with the choice of enjoying a full pint here and a short stint to the next stop, or we could have a swift half and “see some railway lines”. Obviously with one of the country’s foremost railway men amongst us, the prospect of seeing some railway lines was too tempting, and halves were duly ordered, consumed and we were off again. A short downhill run and a woodland path later and there were the aforementioned railway lines (that we had to cross at a perilous unmanned crossing). Now I am no expert, but these railway lines looked pretty much like any others I have seen, fairly straight and made of metal! The option of turning down a pint and a shorter cycle now seemed a poor choice as we set off once more into the undergrowth and past a young lady taking her dogs and a pig for a walk (honestly it was a pig!). Now this is where things started to get tough. Mr Jones actually admitted to making a mistake (but not until much later in the night) in that he missed the turn off we should have taken, resulting in an additional couple of miles through some undulating fields that were very heavy going. Frantic calls from Mr Bollons, who was waiting at the previously agreed food stop rendezvous, were fielded by Jonesy with the standard answer “we will be with you in 5 minutes”. So 35 minutes late, and minus Alan and George, who had stopped to fix George’s puncture, we finally caught sight of the Richard’s Chubb van containing the food and some more beer.

Those of us that made it to the food stop collapsed onto the ground and consumed with relish the cold fish and chips and warm beer before heading off to the next stop to meet up with Alan and the newly inflated George and enjoy another swift half. Leaving this pub Mr Jones was heard to say that the next stint would be “interesting”. I must look up that term in the dictionary, but I am pretty sure it does not include crossing a stream, where just about everyone fell off, climbing to the top of a steep hill, riding through several dense fields, getting lost again and then getting locked into a private estate (“we must have missed the path back there somewhere” Andrew muttered in defensive mood). Fortunately, just as we had exhausted all options for trying to climb walls, hotwire the security system or lift the gates off their hinges, and were about to turn back to find the mythical path, a resident drove up on the other side of the gates. The lady driver did not look best pleased at the site of seven unruly looking middle aged blokes attempting to escape from her private residence, but she decided to ignore us and we went on our merry way. By this time the last of the daylight had left us, and we were subjected to a harrowing ride down a branch and tree stump strewn forest path followed by a short sprint on tarmac (our first of the night) to the Cricketers in Pirbright for a well earned pint.

At this point, Martin Bates decided enough was enough and left us to it, claiming he had an early start the following day, and was closer to home than he was likely to get if he carried on. Martin must have had some kind of second sight as by leaving he missed the most “interesting” leg of the night.

Refreshed and looking forward to the final push to the Rowbarge in St John’s, we set off from the Cricketers thinking just a short sprint down Cemetery Pales and a nice ride down the canal and we would be there, but Jonesy had other ideas. “Let’s go through the Cemetery” he suggested with a chuckle, and so with little more than a collective groan (we were too tired to muster anything else) we set off across the green at Pirbright heading for Brookwood Cemetery. We entered the Cemetery through a small gate and proceeded to ride at breakneck speed to the other side, only to find a rather large and imposing set of locked gates barring our path. This time we were out of luck, as none of the residents of Brookwood Cemetery were likely to be driving up to open the gates, and we had to admit defeat and cycle all the way back to where we started.

On finally existing the Cemetery, through the same gate we entered, someone (almost definitely Jonesy again!) suggested that if we headed in “this” direction through the woods we should come upon the main Cemetery Pales road. Twenty yards later with George and Mike disappearing left and right from the path into unseen holes filled with nettles, the wisdom of this decision was being questioned. Never the less we ploughed on (literally) over another style and followed a fence line round a field full of rather bemused cattle. Emerging from the prickly bushes and cow pat covered ground, we came upon a very narrow, rickety bridge over a stream, and Jonesy’s parentage was once again called into question. After crossing the bridge, the motley crew continue to thrash through the undergrowth and finally emerged scratched and battered onto Cemetery Pales about 300 yards down the road from the Cricketers. The detour had taken us nearly thirty five minutes, and that last drink at the Rowbarge was still two miles away.

The race was now on! Down the final stretch of Cemetery Pales to the Brookwood crossroads, a short spell on the canal path and then up St John’s Lye to the pub. Fortunately, the Rowbarge opens late on a Friday or we would never have made it for a last drink. The six remaining sweaty, blood spattered and bedraggled chums heroically entered the bar feeling like we had just completed a marathon. The rest of the clientele either laughed at us or reeled away depending upon how close they were to our vapid cloud of body odour.

We retired to the outside decking area to savour a last pint and reflect on another excellent Pint 2 Pint.

Jonesy has no worries about relinquishing his title to the new Tablers just yet, if that was a “ leisurely ride” I hate to think what we would organise if he didn’t like us !