The sun that bathes the Farringdon fields has just enough sparkle of warmth to it that one might almost believe Spring is arriving. However, two hours later as I ride into a biting headwind past the sweet scent of cowsheds up to Frogmore Cross, a fusillade of hailstones assaulting my face proves that Nature will always have a trick up its sleeve. The sound of the tiny white spheres striking the steel tubes of my bicycle sound like airgun pellets on tin cans.