The Bryan Chapman Memorial Ride, I was informed, is a ‘lovely little ride’ through Wales. This was my target ride for 2008. I had completed an SR series in 2007, fulfilling my goal of an SR in my first season, but readers of the last Arrivée may recall from Steve Abraham’s article that the 600 was a major struggle for me. It’s fair to say that I would never have got round that if I hadn’t been riding with Steve and Charlotte, who both provided me with infallibly patient advice, support and (quite literally, on one or two occasions) a shoulder to cry on. I was ecstatic to have got round at all, but somehow I suspect that for the type of randonneur who carries sandpaper in their Carradice for a freshen-up at 1000-km or so, this was rather lacking in independence to qualify.
The theory for 2008 was that I now knew I could cover the distance, and had plenty of time to get fit enough to deal with the hills. I had heard many good things about the desolate, imposing grace of the Welsh mountains, and many even better things about the availability of rice pudding at controls, and in a fit of derring-do, posted my entry.
By March, I was wondering if this was a good idea, and by April, I was quite frankly terrified. It became something of a mantra, on a ride of any distance – whether audax or just to the shops – to hear Charlotte say comfortingly “The Welsh hills are nothing like this bad…” whenever we encountered an upwards incline. My tendency towards optimism countered my certain knowledge of what Ordnance Survey has to say about Welsh hills.
I drove up, with Charlotte, Juliet and doop. As conversation turned to the ride itself, Juliet disclosed that she had no imperative to finish in time, but merely to finish, which relieved her of the mental pressure imposed by the time limits. I tried to persuade myself to do the same, but I kept coming back to the same thought: If I finish, I want to be in time. Clearly, my competitive nature was not allowing mere lack of natural sporting ability to gain the upper hand.
Sparrowcall the next morning saw a congregation of Audaxers blowing on their hands, sucking down tea, and comparing saddlebag contents in the chilly morning air. I cuddled a cup of tea and felt sick.
The first section, of 80km or so, did much to convince me that the ride was do-able. The first 20k were fast, glorious, whooshy roads. Traffic was sparse, and the surfacing of the roads was enough to make an Englishman whoop with delight. Some, I notice, did. Then there were climbs, but gentle, bendy climbs. I couldn’t keep up with the main group, who appeared not to have noticed that we were now going uphill, but I was still keeping up a nice average of 20kph or so. The rewards for these long, slow climbs were breathtaking views over the valleys, followed by more of those lovely descents. The air was rich with the fragrance of wild garlic, chives and wet foliage. I was momentarily sorry to see the café hove into view, then remembered an urgent need for piles of beans on toast.
Two plates of beans later, and it was back onto the road for the longest section to Tre’r Doll. It had begun to drizzle slightly, but not nearly enough to warrant waterproofs (this I was glad of; the new breathable waterproof I had ordered had not arrived, and I was stuck with my Aldi boil-in-the-bag special). Despite the drizzle, the views from the tops of every climb were remarkable, all the more so now that the cloud was lifting. During one long, slow drag, the weather balance threatened to tilt in favour of actual rain – and on the horizon there loomed a tea-van. I was riding with Charlotte and we had planned to stop for a flapjack halfway through the section, so the thought of flapjack and tea in the warm and dry of a roadside caff was inviting. We locked the bikes up to a well-placed tourist board (it even had a roof to keep our Brookses dry) and wandered in, to find the loveliest, campest roadside-caff-proprietor waiting for us. “Oh, hellooooo,” he drawled, “and what can I dew for yew?” Tea? No problems. And chips? Yes. In a butty? And sauce? He rustled up two large plates of steaming hot chips in seconds, perfectly crisp on the outside and mushy inside, with salad artistically arranged on the side. I felt that if we had wandered in and asked for steak Béarnaise, he would have done his best to accommodate it.
As we ingested chips, a couple on another table began to take interest. They were off on holiday, they said, to the same place in Wales they go to every year. The lady thought she’d passed us just back there. Very likely; only a few cars had passed in the last couple of hours. Just what were all these cyclists doing? We paused in the chip-feast to explain. She was quite taken with the idea. “I suppose you have to be terribly fit to do something like that? Not like him,” she said, playfully jabbing at her husband. “I play golf,” the husband offered. Ignoring him, she carried on. “I suppose you have to start young, to do this?” Not necessarily, we said, you just have to be persistent. She was impressed by the idea that girls did long rides – you would have to be fitter, really, than the men, wouldn’t you? “I play golf,” the husband repeated, slightly dejectedly. I was sorry to see them go, but it was time for us to head off, too.
I recognised parts of the next 50k from a separate ride last year, and was pleased to see that the ELVIS graffiti on a lone rock remains. Another of those marvellous swoopy descents towards Aberystwyth coincided with being pulled over by a motorist. He was lost. I didn’t have the first clue where exactly I was, but his Google routesheet matched my routesheet exactly, and we had both just done a series of matching instructions, and were both aiming for a ‘SO @ RB sp Aber’ so I assured him that if I was going in the right direction, so was he. I hope he found his destination. He looked terribly confused.
Having stopped for chips halfway to Tre’r Doll, and having heard bad things about the speed of service there, Charlotte & I intended to bounce this control and stop only for a quick flapjack. I had brought along six of my patent cheese ‘n’ onion flapjacks – like protein bars, but tasty. They are largely cheese and egg held together with oats, and just the thing for hungry randonneurs. I scoffed two of them, and washed them down with tea – but had still managed to spend 45 minutes in the control.
I was glad I had, though, when the next section hit. It is the shortest section, at 45km, but there are significant hills – up the side of Cadair Idris being one of them. It was steep, but gloriously pretty. We were passed by a number of motorcyclists out enjoying the roads, all of whom gave us plenty of room as they hurtled past. As we neared the top, there was a car-park where they had stopped to re-group, and they called encouragement as we passed. From there, it was downhill (mainly) to Dollgellau and the youth hostel. For the first time (although it wasn’t to be the last), I walked a section – this is where all those AAA points are hidden!
I was surprised to see the Tuggo still there, as he’s usually light years ahead of me on rides. It turned out he’d had a bottom bracket failure, and had been enlisted as washer-upper-in-chief. The YHA bag-drop proved a real bonus, as after scarfing down a huge plate of veggie pasta, I changed my shorts and added a pair of longs for the night section.
I have to admit, the section out to Menai and back was not enjoyable in the way the ride out to Dollgellau had been. The ride past Harlech Castle was a highlight, as was a brief chat with Steve A, already on his way back. After that, though, I slowed down considerably, meaning that by the foot of Llanberis Pass it was already well into twilight, and by the top it was dark. The climb up seemed to be interminable; the way down felt quite frankly dangerous, and I was painfully aware of how in the daylight, I would probably have been having a whale of a time. The best I could do was to focus on getting to Menai. As usual, Charlotte managed to keep me grounded with steady chatting when I had a couple of ‘moments.’ At a couple of points on that stage, I could happily have chucked my bike in a skip and hailed a taxi back to civilisation, but I didn’t fall into the pit of existential despair which is so difficult to recover from.
Once over the bridge at Menai, there were only 80k to get back to a doze at the youth hostel. I was in time, and I calculated that if we left before 1am, we would be back by 5am, leaving us with 3 hours sleep time. We left, just after Juliet and doop, shortly after 12.30. I always pick up on the actual overnight bit of a ride, and where in late evening, Charlotte pulls me through tiredness and frustration, the 2am – 5am slot is where I keep her awake. However, we were rudely jolted back to full wakefulness just outside Menai, when some youths called to us, bonnet of the car up, to stop so they could use our lights. We didn’t stop for them, which incurred their displeasure, and the unmistakable sound of a bonnet slamming down and an engine revving was followed by two carloads of feral youth buzzing us, shouting abuse and lobbing a full bottle of cola at our heads. I was afraid they’d come back for another go, but thankfully, they vanished.
The ride back to Dollgellau seemed to involve a never-ending slope upwards – and I was surprised by how many riders were still on the road. I had assumed that the four of us were lanternes rouges by at least an hour or two. Charlotte needed a doze, but it was still wet, which limited the possibilities. I have never really understood this in audax – if you’re tired, cold, and damp, surely a cold, damp concrete floor is the last thing you need? – but all about us were the prostrate forms of clapped-out randonneurs, some fast asleep with their headtorches still flashing. Goodness alone knows what any insomniac resident made of the whole thing. Like a flash mob, but without the glamour!
It was a slow leg, and got only slower as we pedalled up past the power station, and up some more. It was daylight by the time we were back at Dollgellau, just before 6am. I was exhausted, and feeling ready to pack – despite having two and a half hours in hand for a sleep.
Two hours’ fitful, but strangely refreshing sleep, and I was good to go again. Another change of shorts, and I discarded everything possible into the drop bag. The Tuggo was well into his swing as waiter-in-chief for breakfasts, even filling waterbottles. He is a chap who deserves an AUK Pinny of Achievement, if there is such a thing.
I knew that the next bit involved a nasty climb, but forewarned is not necessarily forearmed. I had to walk a bit of it, as my knee was beginning to hurt, and time was marching on – and not in our favour, as we hadn’t left Dollgellau until 8.45. Making Aberhafesp in time meant keeping up a 20kph average. Hmmm. Charlotte had the bright idea of using the MP3 players – and what a difference that made. I plugged into my new toy (a 2GB Stage Clip – a bargain fifteen quid, ideal for audaxing) and began to pedal again. By chance, the first of the twanging instruments to hum about mine ears was Feeder, with “I think we’re gonna make it, I think we’re gonna save it, yeah-eah” – an omen. I perked up. After the Cross Foxes, I was storming up and down the hills off to Aberhafesp, despite the onset of a headwind. We arrived at Aberhafesp with twenty minutes to spare, and left ten minutes out of time, which was the pattern for the rest of the day.
The next section to Weobley involved the climb out of Newtown. I enjoyed this climb, another of those long, gradual ones, right up until the really steep bit. Then at the top, when I could see nothing but the valleys miles below, it managed to keep climbing, as if in a horrendous trompe l’oeil. My chain came off. My fingers had gone numb and I was having difficulty changing gear. I cursed. This is probably as close as I have come in adult life to lying on the ground and kicking my heels. But, eventually, what went up did come down, and what a relief that was. Again, there were more rollercoaster hills, where a good speed on the descent could carry you most of the way up the next lump. The main problem I was having by now was that my knee was really painful. I tried putting an elastic bandage on it, but that just made it worse, so I carried on and tried not to think about it. Time was running very short, so again, I was trying to storm down the hills to give myself an advantage up them. This was strangely good fun. I spent a lot of time out of the saddle and simply willing myself to keep going, as fast as I reasonably could, because I knew that if I slowed down to a ‘comfortable’ speed it would be a dawdle.
Finally into Weobley on the dot of 6pm, just before the control was due to shut. Risking yet more precious time, we sat and ate sandwiches, knowing that there was only one section left. I was still desperate for something to stop the pain in my knee – ibruprofen was only doing so much, and I was already over my limit for 24 hours consumption – so I bought a can of spray-on Ralgex, which did very little but was a useful psychological prop.
We left Weobley at around 6.45, which gave us 4 ½ hours to cover the 80km back to Chepstow. Do-able, certainly, with fresh legs, but I wasn’t certain of it. I was tired from the day chasing controls – and my MP3 player had run out of battery. Doom.
I don’t recall much of that section, other than that the first bit was through England, which equated to badly surfaced, vertical lanes, instead of the regal gliding I’d become used to. The last 20km was up a slight gradient, overshadowed by trees. There were owls. I ate fistfuls of jelly babies. I knew that the end was in sight, but it still seemed so far. I sat on Charlotte’s wheel and just kept pedalling. I knew that the last few km were downhill but they were elusive. Every so often, through a gap in the canopy of trees, the tantalising red lights of the Chepstow bridge winked at us. At one stage, we passed GeraldC, who hadn’t had any sleep, and was obviously quite tired despite his stash of guarana gum. We chatted for a while, but I could smell tea in the air, and discovered one last burst of energy for the last 8km or so.
Back to the arrivée with fifteen minutes to spare, and the heady mix of Ralgex, toast and tea, and achievement. Gerald arrived shortly after, and Arabella and Frere Yacker emerged from somewhere having had some sleep. The ride over the bridge back to the Travelodge was excruciating after the rest, but the thought of fluffy pillows and a hot shower encouraged me. I stopped at the service station to pick up a couple of bottles of water, knowing that I would be thirsty during the night, and encountered a cheery Scottish RAC driver getting a coffee. He had seen the stream of blinking red lights and asked what we were up to. I told him. “Gosh!” he marvelled, “That’s quite a way for a wee lassie!” He paused. I waited for the stock response of ‘you’re mad’ or ‘what for?’ but no. “Well,” he said, “well, but did you have fun?”
Oh yes, I had fun. More fun than I thought you could have on a bike, and more challenges than a simple bicycle should allow for. The highs and lows of the BCM don’t just appear on the contour lines. Huge appreciation to all of those who organised it.
