I got the train over to Shrewsbury on the Friday night since the first train in the morning would miss the start by ten minutes and I would, therefore be forced to do my own navigation. I stayed in the youth hostel in a proper bed because I'm a bit of a big jessie. It seemed to be full of randonneurs
The morning was a bit soft; not really foggy, not actually raining but was thinking quite hard about both. I found the scout hall on the second attempt (yes, I am one of those people for whom 'you can't miss it' is always bad news) and lathered into a plate of beans on toast served by a rather-too-smiley Jonathan Blowers (does he know something we don't?). Outside, I met the fundamentally unhinged Anne Learmonth who took great delight in pointing out that *her* bike had "lots of gears"; I was riding fixed and not looking forward to the hills.
Thirty-six of us headed out into the grey and soggy world. Due to the wonderful combination of flat roads and fresh legs I find myself snoring away of with the leaders; in fact at the front! We pass an extremely green trike which I'm told is being ridden by Pat Kenny, a man with legs that just don't know when to stop.
We steam on in to Iron Bridge; the town, that is, riding into the actual iron bridge would hurt, so we went over it instead. Info control: what's the building at the end of the bridge? The obvious answer is a toll house but we all stop to check and wonder if there's a trick in the question. Nope, the trick is in the route; the road goes straight up! I could do it, just, but it's going to be a long day so I untie myself and engage the 24" gear - I get off and walk.
At the top it is all a bit lonely.. The pack has run away and left me but I ride on in the fog (lights on) passing and being passed and passing and being passed again (because that's what it's like riding fixed) by various other strays. 'Follow Wenlock Edge..' How? The world stops at the hedges! I follow the road instead and eventually wind up at the first control as the leaders are finishing of their bacon sandwiches. Ohhhhhh what a smell! (bacon, not randonneurs).
The gentleman I'd ridden beside most of the way to Iron Bridge greets me: "You look like you've been riding fixed"; guffaws, around the cafe. One bacon samich and "one o' them sticky things' later I'm out again.
Now we're getting into Wales it's starting to get lumpy and, therefore, hard work. It would be nice to blast down one lump and coast up the next, but there's a limit to how quickly Alan's little legs can spin. I console myself in the knowledge that I don't have all these silly gears to carry round. I got a little unsure of the route here so followed in front of a couple of riders. If they are still in view behind me I must be going the right way because they couldn't be daft enough to assume I know where the turning is; doubtful logic, I admit!
I ordered assorted grub at the Station Cafe (the next control) and was just about to go and eat, when a bread pudding appeared out of the oven! ...I felt sorry for it..!
Stage three: that nice man, Jonathan Blowers, said that stages three and four involve the most climbing. Before long the road starts going up. We follow it. There is a certain amount work involved in getting up to Llyn Efyrnwy and much of it is wasted on a big long drop down to the reservoir; the sort of thing that would be great fun with gears and a freewheel. I passed by three riders making the most of their gears while I tried to keep the legs below 180. Along the edge of Llyn Efyrnwy is all flat, so I got a chance to make up some of what I lost on the descent.
All good things come to and end and at the end of this good thing the real climbing starts. It soon gets to the zigzagging, half-turn, track stand, half-turn, track stand, stage; there is a horribly familiar grating sensation from my Achilles so I untie and walk. There was quite a bit of walking from there up to Bwlch-y-Groes but I wasn't the only one doing it; and this is the easy way to the pass!? (for full knee-crunching, eye-popping lung-bursting effect I am told it should be approached from the south).
The view was good. Over the last few miles it had turned into a beautiful day but after the walk I really can't hang around.
The descent. The road down to the lake is cut into the side of the valley as with a ruler. The gentleman I had walked up with disappeared like a shot. By now, after 90 miles and a severe climb I really have to keep my cadence down to below 140. Twenty-six miles per hour; what a waste of a hill! I wonder how hot rims can get before the tyres blow off..? I spent the next six miles hanging on the brakes; possibly the hardest six miles of the ride. I got to the control muttering naughty things and wondering if my arms would ever be the same again.
An almost leisurely bite out of the bar-bag and back on the bike. After the horrors of that last descent the climb away from Bala was almost fun (in a strange sort of way). I stopped on the way up to redirect a couple on a tandem who thought they were several miles further north and then got back to the grind.
The latter part of that stage turned out to be hard work; not because it actually should have been but I think I was running a little low on food (just for a change!). I had a five minute flake- out on the verge and caught up with three others (one on a mountain bike) towards the penultimate control. A coke and a big, steaming choccie pudding with custard!
I bowled along with this bunch for the next stage feeling very much better for the grub and the lack of hills; we were back in England. The last control was the service station in Tilstock. Time for another of Alan's gastronomic mistakes: a couple of bacon thingies (had they had sausage in the middle they wouldn't quite have been sausage rolls but these had bacon.. sort of); quite nice, and free (they were about to be chucked out) but useless! I should have left the bunch at this point and gone to the eatery down the road at this point but was feeling unhealthily gregarious. The other catch was that we couldn't fill bottles from the tap at the service station (so that's why it's not a filling station!) and I was all but empty.
The last stage was hard. Bacon, randonnees and me don't seem to mix well. The lack of water wasn't helping either. It was now dark and I was having lighting problems. The diode I have as a backup at the back was fine but there seemed to be a wiring fault in the main system and so despite the best efforts of the dynamo, there wasn't much happening at the front. I found that by bouncing the front of the bike I could get up to half a mile before the lights went out again. Not much fun; wheelieing is a very tiring way to travel and I was already pretty well whacked. We passed through a town and got interesting comments from a bunch of female revellers; doesn't help tired legs but does the ego good!
I rode with these same three for most than half the stage and then got dropped. I hadn't been following the route sheet and now hadn't a baldy clue where I was other than England, probably Shropshire. It was now drizzling. I was getting damp. Fortunately it was actually only about five miles from the end and so the first junction I came to after their tail lights had faded into the distance was a recognisable roundabout!
I ground on; and it was a grind now. A hiss behind me announced the arrival of someone who had lots of gears on her bike. She also had a tyre tied on the rear rack now. Why? and why was she only passing me now? Apparently she had broken the chain soon after the start, comprehensively blown the side out of a tyre not long after that and had to go and buy a new one, 'officiated' at a road traffic accident (no cyclists involved), shed her only tail light all over the road and had to rebuild it with superglue and sellotape and then broke the chain again! Suddenly my ride didn't seem such a trial!
The still-grinning Jonathan Blowers was there in the scout hall at the end doling out tea and that most wonderful of culinary delights: rice pudding!!.
It's a good ride. It's probably even better if you eat 'sensibly'! It's rideable fixed and the amount of flat stuff makes up for Bwlch- y-Groes (psychologically, not chronologically). Give it a go..
Alan Vance