Route: Over-distance 200k Audax, Bournemouth to Bournemouth via a 214k ‘square’ taking in Christchurch, Salisbury, Bruton and Dorchester.
Team details: 'Team Teetotal': consisting of me, mainly.
Ride Summary: A fast new ride from the laboratory of Professor Brian Callow on the same weekend previously held by the Dorset Delight. Well organised, well supported and good controls. Predictably lumpy in the nether reaches of Dorset but not too lumpy compared to other Wessex rides. Some A-road HGV participation in this edition although limited to the latter stages. Overall, a great ride.
Prologue:
This has not been a great year for Audaxes for me. Without the goal of PBP, I have struggled to find the motivation to ride and the season has been littered with DNFs for events over 200k with me well and truly off-form for the rides I have completed. This ride represented the last throw of the dice this season to recover that which had been lost to beer, pies and a lack of miles in the saddle.
Report:
To Christchurch:
The start control was a small but fine café in The Square off Bournemouth town centre called Café European. Postie and I were the first to arrive just after 7 but we were not the only people there. Judging by the numbers of staggering twenty somethings wandering about in the chilly grey of the morning, it had been a good night out on the town and we drew little attention clad in lycra with “Portsmouth CTC” emblazoned across our torsos. Gradually, the usual suspects started wandering in, a veritable AUK who’s who according to Postie, intermingled with familiar faces from events I have taken part in over the last three years. A young event helper (Miss Loakes I believe) did a fine job of shuffling the brevet cards under the watchful eye of Prof. Callow (not sporting painted toe nails for this event, more’s the pity) and with the last swig of tea gulped down, the off was signaled by the blast of a wessex cow horn.
The run along the seafront to Boscombe was brisk and bracing. The sun had started to climb in a clear sky and the air had a quality to it that tells you that Autumn had arrived and is here to stay. Unfortunately, my enjoyment of the surroundings was rudely interrupted when I was stung on the thigh by a lazy wasp which although I was jolly brave, hurt for the rest of the day.
Before we knew it, we were at Christchurch and being ‘controlled’ by a rather attractive young woman in the form of a Miss Callow of the parish, complete with Police escort to ward off undesirables. Despite the temperature having not climbed into double figures, Miss Callow seemed to be dressed for the beach. I surmised that this hardiness must be a trait inherited from her father – he of the all-weather sandal wearing cohort who seem to have settled in Dorset. Having family participation or even just manned controls on any event really does make a difference and is most welcome.
To The Bread Pudding Control:
There had been a certain amount of on and off-line gurning about the route north of Fordingbridge. Those imbued with local knowledge expressed abject horror at the prospect of following the A666 to Salisbury as allegedly, this road is the Devil’s own highway and we could at any time be scooped from the road into the seventh ring of Hades by a driver reaching down to recover a stray Werther’s Original from the passenger foot well. Some even diverted to the other side of the river Styx to follow the Downtown & Woodgreen route that rolls its way tortuously up to Salisbury. I did consider joining them but remembered this route from the Denmead 300 and decided to take my chances with almost inevitable annihilation instead.
In truth, the main road made short work of the route to Salisbury where those who chose to slavishly follow the route card were treated to a fair deal of head-scratching around the back roads of the town centre. Luckily, Mr Loakes appeared and we were guided through the one-way and no-entry pathway to freedom. Soon, we were back in the open Wiltshire countryside again, rolling along up the Avon valley towards the corner of a playing field in Middle Woodford and our first stop of the ride.
There were a few riders already at the control and I hoped there was some bread pudding left for me. I wonder if it is wrong to lust after bread pudding? I was very excited to read that this was on offer at the 63km control as to say that it’s manna from heaven would not be too much of an overstatement. It took two slices before I found the strength to prise myself away from the control and continue onwards and upwards to Bruton.
Up The Willy Valley and Beyond:
This was a familiar journey and one I had done before in July on Postie’s CTC Breakfast Club run. It is a beautiful and gentle ride as you rise and fall through Wiltshire to Somerset with the ultimate high speed descent into Bruton itself. I was very glad that we weren’t doing the ride in the opposite direction as it would have been something of a slog.
I didn’t feel that I’d ridden this rolling section particularly quickly and was surprised to bump into the lithesome racing snakes Yorkie and Paul D, lurking outside of a shop in the village. For some reason, Yorkie seems to have developed a fixation with my middle-aged man boobs. He can’t help but remark on them and even caresses them every time we meet up. Of course, if he cycled less, ate more pies and drank more beer, I’m sure he could have a pair of his own. Even then, I have a feeling that he would still want to touch mine (poor chap. I think he spends a lot of time on his own). So we exchanged brief anatomical intimacies outside the shop before I wandered off to find succor in the comfort of the Sun Inn where two more fast wheelers were settling down to the much vaunted home-made pizza recommended by the ride organiser. I’d forgotten this and ordered a burger but instantly regretted it when I saw tasty platters of of bubbling cheese, tomato and onion coming out of the kitchen.
The Sun Inn was a traditional village pub, serving good beer and reasonably priced food. A chap at the bar seemed most interested in our ride and asked if we were involved in the activities in London this weekend. To his visible disappointment, we had to admit that we didn’t know what he was talking about but was sure it was lovely.
Before long, more refugees wandered in, including Mr Underpants who had left the previous control before I did but had obviously gone astray along the way. Suffice it to say, my “what happened to you” was met with a “Don’t ask”.
Time, that can drag horribly when you’re doing something you don’t like, has a way of running away with you at Audax controls. If you’re not keen on the banter then I guess it’s relatively easy to crack off an 8½ hour 200 but for me, every control is a social oasis on an otherwise solitary day out. In rolling countryside, my bulk means that I tend to be slower on ascents but faster on the descents so the chain gangs favoured by Postie et al don’t really work for me and I feel happier going at my own pace, usually on my own. I was shocked to discover that I’d been at the lunch control over half an hour. It was time to leave Bruton and set off on the leg southwards and third side of that square.
Dorchward Bound:
The route had been pretty forgiving so far but I knew it couldn’t last and suspected the going was likely to get lumpier on this section. Dorset has some stunning countryside and pretty much from the off, our selected route was keen to explore the more scenic elements of it; something of a roller coaster through the high banked lanes that snake their way over and around the chalk ridges of the county.
We also seemed to enter a navigational Twilight Zone.
Now the standard unit of length favoured by Johnny Foreigner and Audax organisers alike is the kilometre. Remarkably, riding Audaxes has succeeded where the decimalisation programme at Salisbury Road Junior School failed. Yes, Miss Normington (if you are still alive), I now understand kilometres and to some measure, almost embrace them (and it’s no thanks to you continually telling me that I “was a stupid boy”). What had completely passed me by was that were regional variations to the metric unit (or fractions thereof) which seem to shorten and lengthen at will. Of course, this is not a new phenonmenon for locals of Dorset and I suspect for
members of Wessex DA, the ‘Callowmetre’ is something of a feature of their rides if only peculiar to Dorset.
Another feature of this charming county is the routine tampering with sign posts and landmarks. For example, the route sheet said “First RIGHT sp Bratton Seymour” but since the diligent route checkers passed this way, no doubt some local wag had seen fit to climb through the brambles and Hawthorn and saw off half of the signpost so it only said “Bratton”. Now is this the Bratton we seek or is it actually taking us to Bratton Montague or perhaps its arch rival (for Britain in Bloom), Bratton Newton? Maybe it takes us miles off route to Bratton Fitzpaine where ancient rites of passage are observed and virgins are still rolled down the main street to be caught by a nominated Fuggle Bower on the first Wednesday of May.
There is also the mayhem caused by naughty yokels who are prone to move a bus stop to the other side of a left turn or change the name of a pub just to send weary randonneurs scouring Dorchester for a control that is not where it should be on the route sheet.
Still, when the sun is out and has stayed out for more than 15 minutes, who cares? It had turned into a glorious day with a cooling easterly breeze so the quirks of the routesheet, sorry, county, were endured with good humour.
Solent Highway to Bournemouth:
More virtual hand-wringing and general concern surrounded this section as it included two stretches along the road that is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord and all right thinking citizens. Yes, I am talking about the A35.
I had decided to faithfully adhere to the route but the 3km out of Dorchester was grim and involved riding in a 18” strip of tarmac shared by cats eyes, road kill (whom I felt more akin to than is comfortable) and bits of tyres. On this occasion, those that sought an alternative route through the delightfully named Tincleton and its neighbours got it right. I was very grateful for respite in the form of the first left to Higher Brockhampton. Of course, the first left was actually to Higher Brockhampton Farm and not the Higher Brockhamton that I needed to be riding towards. But then I was still in Dorset.
After more lanes, ‘Callowmetres’ and sign post chicanery I was back to the next stretch of A35, west of Bere Regis. This was less busy than around Dorchester and slightly downhill, allowing overdrive to be engaged; speeding me around the outskirts of Poole and into Bournemouth.
Did you know that Bournemouth has a fine variety of post war housing stock and more cobbled speed bumps than you can shake your weary head at? Well it does and the last 7km was a veritable feast of both. I had my fill and was very satisfied to take the alternative path along the deserted and very pleasant cycle path to the town centre.
The finish control was a Wetherspoon pub, the Moon on the Square, next door to the start control. As I wandered to the bar, I was waved over by two nubile nymphets at a table. When you are middle-aged, hanging onto life by the finger tips and looking over your shoulder at your youth, your ego needs all the help you can find and this was an opportunity too good to miss. Imagine my disappointment when it became obvious that they were more interested in taking my Brevet card than my dazzling wit and towering intellect.
I was surprised to discover that despite my dawdling in the last 10km, I was the 5th rider back and was only about 15 minutes after the lead riders. Amongst the four who had gone before was Paul D and he was surprised to see me too as it transpired that this was his fastest 200. My lack of athletic physique yet obvious pedaling power was discussed at length with musings that if I shed two stone, I may well be a racing snake just like him. Postie (for he had arrived by now with many others) put it into perspective by suggesting that my beer gut and man-boobs, working in rhythm with each other in response to being hit by my rising and falling knees, were probably the source of my power. He may well be right.
Epilogue:
There have been a number of comments made about the route, especially regarding changing the start and finish to somewhere like Wimbourne and missing out the A35 completely. This would get my vote as long as we could keep the ride along the sea front which was an unexpected delight. These would be only minor changes as the ride overall was excellent.
See you next year.
H
