Deal or No Deal 2026: 105 miles from Rotherhithe to Deal

Fierce sun and a gusting easterly backdropped the Clarionites fifth annual ‘Deal Or No Deal’ run at Thermidor’s zenith. Taking in 105 Kentish miles from Rotherhithe to the Cinque Port, more than a dozen riders passed hop fields, headlands and holidaymakers on their way to what was once England’s busiest logistics hub.

Departing the Surrey Docks at seven, the progressive peddlers cleared Greenwich, Woolwich and Dartford as suburbanites slumbered. Sustaining a blistering pace, they were early for lunch at The Castle at Oare. Vessels berthed in the adjacent creek could be seen from the pub’s garden, but alas not so close for their sails to provide shade.

Hereafter our route hugged the coast. At Seasalter’s muddy foreshore the waves were distant, but blustering Eurus was determined to impede progress. Whitstable’s trippers were no less obstructive. Cheering as might be the town’s renaissance, a seaside throng is no friend of a peloton.

Reaching Minnis Bay’s pungent sands as the sun turned up the heat, a disruptive idea went about. ‘Why don’t we just run into the sea?' Had more riders stowed saddlebag swimmers, the motion might have carried. In the event, the interests of decency were observed and the Clarion pedalled on.

At Herne Bay the club delivered a card to Andrew, on the event of his eightieth birthday. An initiate to the Burnley branch when he was 12, in 68 subsequent years his Clarion dedication was undimmed. He handed beers to the visiting celebrants, and offered a select few a glimpse at his most prized possessions.

His garage full of ‘Hill Specials’ perhaps went over the heads of some partygoers. The cognoscenti, however, recognised these as among the finest lightweight frames of the post-war era, from the marque most closely associated with Clarion cause (Hill Special Bikes). “One of these bikes was ridden by Reg Harris” Andrew intoned. “Who is Reg Harris”, responded a nameless clubman. Perhaps a lantern-slide presentation on cycling history might usefully illuminate one of the darker winter nights?

Onward we rode, admiring the dramatic fantasy that is Kingsgate Castle, at North Foreland, and enjoying, toll-free, the silk-smooth black top of the Sandwich Bay Estate.

Following the coast, we turned with about 20 miles to go, and suddenly God’s hand was on our backs: the final furlongs were ridden as though with new blood.

It was gone seven before we assembled, banner aloft, on the pier at Deal, sun-blushed, salty and enriched with a currency no banker can match.  Forget Trump - this truly was, the art of the Deal.

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