The best of times the worst of times. My first failed Audax, insofar as I got home out of time by 41 minutes; so no PBP qualification this time. I knew I was taking on a challenge at a level above, but having got round Mille Cymru (albeit only just) last year, I thought it reasonable to have a crack at this iconic ride, about which I’d read so much over the years. Best laid plans and all that....
Weekend started badly as I spent half Friday dashing about taking Mrs. PP to the doctor to get anti-biotics for a bad bronchial infection and then having to go back to get something different that she wouldn’t react against. So got to Chepstow digs late and rather tired. Realised from the off that I was going to be tight against the time limits all the way - nothing unusual about that - but as a virgin to this ride, I hadn’t appreciated quite how unrelenting the ground was, at least to me wot don’t do climbing.
Being overdistance and run to the BRM schedule meant I would have to maintain a slightly higher average than usual and over time and miles this really began to prey on my mind. And then it rained. Managed to get past the infamous deadly roadworks on the approach to Cross Foxes Inn and then, soaked and chilling since my “waterproof” had wetted out and stopped working, I suddenly had a complete loss of the plot mentally and decided to pack there and then, in the middle of bloody nowhere. I even turned around and began riding back towards Machynlleth before I pulled up to try and think straight. Just at that moment another rider came along and stopped to see if I was OK. I don’t know who it was, but reading the thread above I suspect it might have been the redoubtable Mr. Broad, who would be the only person conceivably behind me at that point. He very helpfully pointed out the blindingly obvious fact that shelter was far more easily gained by riding on, as we were not that far from Kings, and thus encouraged, I plodded onwards.
The ministrations of TG and warm food and access to my heavier waterproof from my drop bag, lulled me into thinking I should carry on. This time I got as far as Harlech before my head went again, fighting against the siren call of all those welcoming lamplit windows in endless hostels, pubs and B&Bs. I turned around again and then strengthened and then turned around again until I was literally going around in circles in the road. Recollections of LEL and the flooded ride to Traquair came back to mind however and something snapped back into place. All I had to do was ride to Menai and then I’d be allowed to just ride home. Simple. So that’s what I did.
I don’t really remember much detail about the rest of the night and the following day, just a series of arrivals at controls manned by tired people waiting patiently for this wreck of a randonneur to crawl in and their kindly help and attention in getting me on my way again - sorry about that, folks!
Dried out and back in daylight on Sunday things gradually improved until I passed through Weobley where, given the nature of the remaining terrain, I basically kissed goodbye to any chance of making it back in 40 hours. From then on it was just a question of pride to see if I could get in within the BR time limit. St. Briavels was a kick in the teeth but eventually I tottered in to Bulwark at 22.40. Too knackered to think straight I then left to ride the 4km back to my digs and got halfway there before I realised I’d not collected my drop bag and so had to ride back to Bulwark, causing more aggravation for the long-suffering Blacksheep! 633km on the clock all told by the time I finally reached my bed!
Back at home now and on the anti-biotics myself, since I seem to have caught Mrs. PP’s lurgy, and ruminating on my chances of getting to PBP or even if I want to do that again!
Many thanks to Blacksheep and all helpers for their very considerable efforts in organising this fantastic event and particularly to the mystery rider, Mr. B. or whoever, who kindly stopped to offer encouragement and without whom I might still be out there!
