The Brimstone. Roads that appear to disappear into nowhere and take you to places that can't possibly fit on the map, certainly the locals wouldn't know they were here. Surfaces that vary between fascinating and egregious (OK - the last one was just the bit of cycle path in Poole I tried laid by a contractor whose idea of a smooth whisky is probably Talisker cut with meths). Hills that defy gravity, including that thing at 375km which sustains its existence on rider's souls. Then there was the wind, persistent nagging most of the way from Stockbridge to Exmouth, absent in the darkest valleys of the Blackdown Hills, giving one short spell of joy into Malmesbury laden with the anticipation of its revenge for the remaining 145km back to Poole.
Then there's the helpers. No petrol station sandwiches in this 600km, but small cafes with excellent service (even from Mr Fawlty at Mere - he didn't like customers when we stopped there on Wells Mells and Broader either) and super helpers in the middle of the night at Creech and Priddy with risottos and porridge and cakes and pasta and an understanding of what it is like to be chewed up and spat out by roads that would need archaeology to find the tarmac and that beast known as Draycott Hill.
Shawn is handing over the reins after decades of dedicated service in helping the pursuit of Audaciousness. Thank you Shawn. I salute you! To his successor. Would I change anything. Not a bit!
