<Long again, but only a couple of more of these types of report to go...>
This was not the ride I anticipated. In retrospect, hoping that this would be as rewarding as the Porkers was greed for perfection when instead I should have been a glutton for punishment. This infernal ride was a descent into the hurt locker - that there are nine stages, which matches the number of rings in hell (per Dante's inferno) is surely no coincidence.
Shawn was our Virgil, leading us on our descent to the core of our cycling psyche. There was no "abandon all hope, you who enter here" over the entrance to the Queen Mary Inn. Instead a Wessex Super Randonneur banner was the welcome over the threshold, as I stepped into the Limbo of the breakfast chamber. I arrived later than many, and the individually cooked breakfasts were slow in coming. I hung around, patience tested, as others ferried away at the alloted time. My own descent started at 06:25, last on the road, with a futile chase after the pack. This pilgrim's progress was hindered by a frustrating north-easterly headwind as I pushed through market towns to and through the top edge of the New Forest.
I took advantage of the excellent menu at the first control (Hawk Inn?) to have a second breakfast; an atypical audax fayre of Eggs Royale washed down with strong black coffee. Very tasty, even if self-imposed time pressure meant I didn't savour every bite.
As prayed for, we were blessed with a tailwind for much of the rest of the day, which was a boon on the flat stage over the plains around Salisbury. Big gear engaged, I pressed on the pedals like a man possesed and made up a much of the time I needed for a reliable sleep buffer. I began overtaking the tailend riders, which was joyous for me, although perhaps not so much for them.
It was around this time that I began to feel like this ride was a bit familiar. I have done many of the roads before on other events (no doubt they had been "inspired" by Sean's selection when the Wessex SR was dormant) and as a result began to doubt whether I was truly, madly, deeply enjoying the event. I wasn't able to shake this unease throughout most of the ride, although this malaise is not unusual on the longer rides when the inner demons try to trap you in a slough of despond in order to be released from the punishment it is enduring. My treacherous mind teased me with the impossible dream of the Porkers topped up with the Dorset Coast, and taunted that the Brimstone route was surely rather standard and unexceptional. Post event, I know those inner demons were bare faced liers.
The route ran to Beaminster and then rolled onwards to the coast. The roads into Exmouth were prophesised to be the hardest of not just the ride but the series, but having done much of them on several other events of a Hennessey and Loakes vintage I knew what to expect and paced myself accordingly. Lyme Regis was new to me (or else I've blocked a painful memory) and came as a timely reminder not to be complacent when Mr Shaw has been cackling with malicious glee over his maps when conjuring up a hellish route. Alas, despite hugging the coast, the sea views were obscured by overgrown hedges made lush by the late burgeoning spring, but the tantalising reveals of the sea in the sunshine, much like the dance of a skilled burlesque dancer, were stirring.
Having reached Exmouth thinking the worst was behind me, the next four stages were where Sean put the SmackDown. The roads were a selection of punishing climbs and nervous descents. Well, I say roads. Some were strips of filth, sprayed with gravel, bordered with potholes and split with a grassy snatch that a Victorian whore would have been proud of. Challenging, and exactly the type of roads I had originally expected from the Series but neither the Hardboiled or Porkers had delivered. It meant progress at night was slow, particularly on the roads between Awlescombe and Taunton Deane. I cursed my lot more than once, questioning why I put myself through such torture when I could have been at home watching the BGT final and stuffing my face with Pringles. But at least I wasn't riding fixed, eh Henry?
In Taunton Deane, Hummers looked pissed off or shagged out (impossible to distinguish at this stage of proceedings) and Marcus snoozed in the subdued atmosphere (helped by the lights being turned down to a romantic level). The Costa coffee baristard was a misery, seemingly resentful having to serve customers whilst he chatted to his mate. I drank tea and a tried to convert a tuna/cheese panini from disappointment to energy by the magic of chewing. On preparing for the night stage, I realised my Carradice was buggered (not literally, the stitching had gone on the seatpost strap holder, so I had to attach the bag to the seatpost using the cable lock) and explained why it felt "swingy". Brimstone 1 - Bike Attachments 0.
Then came the night stage to Cheddar. This was less challenging (how could it not be?) and benefited from a long road to cruise along with no navigation, other than being awake enough for the left turn at the end (thank you inventor of the gps). I was, however, hoping to find an AUK hostel (aka bus shelter) but it would appear Somerset doesn't do these. I plodded on for 40km more than I originally planned, which in retrospect was a good thing what with time being miles and vice versa, even if my futile search for a rest place cut my average speed. I eventually discerned a bus shelter just before THAT climb at Cheddar. I took advantage of it, spending two hours in its hard embrace, drifting in and out of conciousness as is the way of sleeping on a long event.
I checked out of the hostel in daylight as so, being able to see what was punishing my thighs and how long the torment would last, managed to grimp up THAT hill without stopping, even if the quads were complaining bitterly at a rude awakening. I arrived at Tor Hole Bottom (with the silent N) where Drew's breakfast table was guarded by the living dead. I had not thought Draycott had undone so many. I felt guilty at feeling rather chipper, and was able to put away a quick hot breakfast cooked by the man himself, and found myself leaving Bag End with George Hannah, Hummers, Henry, Danielle and one other on our quest to destroy our ring pieces in the fires of Mount Doom. But my legs were cold and they (the fellowship, not my legs) pulled off into the horizon. My knees loosened up by spinning on the descents and I then had the usual shuffling on the road with that fellowship throughout the morning and late afternoon (albeit with Hummers, I suspect only because his hands were entangled in the entrails of his rear mech and chain at the side of the road soon before Chew Valley).
The stage to Malesbury and beyond was generally downward until Bath was in sight, but then got decidedly vertical. The hills began again in earnest, magnified by the distance in the legs, with information controls being used to make sure one didn't go astray and miss those delightful (cough) climbs. Between Bath and just after Shaftesbury the grimping was generally of the long and steep type. Much sweat was lost in the increasing heat. The descents were similarly inclined but, other than the drop at the other side of Shaftesbury, generally on better surfaces that those at night. I was feeling worn down but strong enough on the hills, and made steady progress to Nunney Catch and the delights of a garage forecourt afternoon tea.
The last stage reminded me of why I did these events. Not for the hills (of which there were one or two) but because the road that wound through the Tarrants had some of the ambience of the Porkers. The angst of the previous 35 hours melted away in the burgeoning realisation that I was in the homeward straight when the road signs were lining up with the last dozen instructions on the route sheet. Happiness flushed through my system like a heady narcotic and filled me with no small amount of ecstasy that the achievment of a Wessex SR was imminent. This was sealed at the Queen Mary Inn, where Shawn exchanged my brevet card for a Wessex SR badge. I shall wear that crest with pride, as it was hard won with blood, sweat and tears (well, sweat at least). A cycling challenge that had been a real pleasure to stand toe-to-toe with and thrash into submission.
It goes without saying thanks to Shawn and his various helpers, all of whom seemed genuinely happy at supporting this legendary series (including Tony and Margaret who, on different rides, ventured out for some improptu support - little gestures like that is when the audax community shows itself to be a cut above the norm). Also thanks to the various riders who I crossed paths with on the road, all of whom in their own way and to varying degrees added to my memory of this series.
Having passed through the hell of the Brimstone, can I look forward to the Purgatory of the Crackpot?