Brighton rocks... and other boiled sweets

As substitutions go, it has to go down as one of the worst tactical decisions in history.

On a previous ride out to Hever Castle, Dan introduced us to the magical properties of the Jelly Baby: a suck on one of those little suckers every hour or so along the route and you get a glorious little sugar rush, and a little hit of nostalgia, too. Arriving at Brian's at 8.30 on Sunday morning (which was really 7.30, yeah, thanks very much daylight saving or whatever you're called, you can stick your clocks and your time-tampering) found the poor man in disarray. His enthusiasm for the Jelly Baby - and, apparently, his inability to stop talking about them - had prompted Jenny to spend the week's shopping budget on a huge consignment for him to take with us on our trip to Brighton. So where, he half-sobbed under his breath as he emptied the contents of the kitchen cupboards, had they gone?

It must have been sleight of hand - I never saw it, I swear - but at some point, in his desperation, and in the continuing absence of Jelly Babies, he must have grabbed whatever came to hand in the darkest recesses of a cupboard and snaffled it into his knapsack. It could have been a half-empty bag of puy lentils or a tin of pears in syrup. But no.

Georgio-Armenian salt-and-pepper liquorice humbugs. Bah.

Mmm. Yeah, they're not bad, actually Brian. Kind of like aniseed balls, aren't they? No... no, I like them. I do. Another one? Erm, yeah. Well... let's just... I'll wait, actually Brian. They're nice though.

What a fantastic ride to Brighton. The sun shining, the wheels whirring and a tremendous route. I think it's the first time that I truly got it - the obsession with bikes and cycling and getting up out of the cosiness of your bed to propel yourself along the roads for the day. Gliding out through country lanes with the wind in your hair (helmet) with a group of chums - Ken, Brian, Dom, Jonny - is sort of, well, sorry for this, meditative. Easily the biggest two hills I've encountered in the saddle so far, Turner's Hill and Ditchling Beacon, the humpbacked monster that blocks out the horizon between the Downs and Brighton, faced up to and yes, given a darn good spanking. Land's End to John O'Groats? Let's have it.

Squeezing ourselves (and our bikes) on a train back out of Brighton, sun-blushed, rather pleased with ourselves, a can of well-earned lager in hand, Brian had one more pop at the prize.

'You know what? Cold beer. This is where these little beauties really come into their own. Anyone?'