Dai suggested I come along with him to do this ride after the Mad March when I'd mentioned I didn't have any rides planned for the following weekend. He said that he hadn't done this particular ride before, but he did know the Cheshire area (Frodsham is between Chester and Ellesmere Port) so it was probably going to be on the flat side. I didn't know that area at all - I thought I'd heard of the "Cheshire Plains" before so that tallied with Dai's remarks. I guessed we'd be going south of Cheshire, presumably through a clutch of villages called "Little Berwyn", "South Berwyn", "Stoke Berwyn" etc. As I was to discover later, I was wrong in every respect.
We arrived nice and early for the start at Frodsham - my first mistake. It was cold, very windy, there were low grey clouds hurtling along above our heads, and a feeling of rain in the air. There was nowhere to shelter so we had to stand around shivering glumly for half an hour. These initial feelings were further enhanced by the recently gained knowledge that the first control was at 75km, and we would be cycling into the wind all that way.
There was a good-sized field however, and we stayed together for the first 35k. It was pretty frantic though - nobody wanted to lose the wheel of the person in front, and as the people right at the front were pushing evens, we all did. Each time we came to a halt sign or junction the peloton stretched out into a long line, and then everyone frantically accelerated to 25mph trying to bunch up again. This went on and on - you only had to blink and there was a 10 foot gap in front of you, so you had to get back up on the pedals and charge again. It was quite good fun for the first 20k - although you really had to concentrate all the time. At about 30k I started to get tired though. I was initially grateful for the secret control at 35k - chance of a break. But to my dismay I realised that being at the back of the bunch I was going to be last away. Nobody was stopping, and everyone was haring off trying to catch on to a back wheel. This left me plodding along on my own against the wind. I was tired from the initial charge - not helped by the clocks having gone forward the previous night, I hadn't had any breakfast, and the road had been completely flat so far and looked like staying that way. My spirits slumped. I really didn't fancy another 165k of this (although the ride home would be fun if the wind didn't change). Not long after a hill came into view - a real hill reminscent of something you might find in Devon. This didn't help my spirits improve at all as I spent the next 20 minutes at 4mph winching my way along.
I was still a bit mystified as to where I was. Some of the place names were obviously Welsh so we must have nipped over the border somewhere, and I had a feeling we were going southwards, but that was about it. However, after another grimp or two followed by a cracking descent, I saw a road sign saying "Bala 8". Bala? Bala? You mean the "Bala" that has huge hills around it? The "Bala" at the foot of Bwlch y Groes? Yes indeedy. It then dawned on me that my OS map for that area is called "Bala and the Berwyns" - I'd thought "The Berwyns" was familiar. Aha. Well. This completely changes the character of the ride I thought, and my spirits began to improve in anticipation of a view or two.
I got to the first control with an hour and a half in hand thanks to the initial charge. The approach was fantastic - we must have climbed up to 350m (at a guess), and then suddenly there was this simply huge view down into a steeply sided valley with the hills resplendent in greens, yellows, purples and browns, and the village of Corwen - about a mile away and 350m below. Feeling much improved in spirit (thanks to the views and the fact of a fast time) and body (spaghetti on toast and a pint of tea), I set of with Dai and Isobel over Milltir Gerrig - this is just to the north of Bwlch y Groes and Lake Vyrnwy where the scenery is so superb. There was a long, long climb up to what must have been 450m and then a wonderful descent down the side of the valley. The valley itself was breathtakingly beautiful and a real distraction as I plummeted along at up to 40mph for the three or four miles of descending. We shortly got to the next control (105km) where more tea shook the cold from by bones. I was feeling marvellous now as I realised I was right in the middle of what is perhaps my all-time-favourite cycling country. I was still making good time with about 2 hours in hand - perhaps a really special time was on the cards?
I set off again with Dai and Isobel again, and a guy called Paul. I'd forgotten to set my altimeter running (ARGH!) but Paul had one and told me weld done 4000' of climbing. I said to him that it looked like the climbing for the day was over now as it seemed we were about to pop out of the eastern side of the Berwyns for the wind-assisted flat run home.
Bzzzt! We started climbing again. Grimp. Grimp. Grimp. I soon left the tandem and found myself on my own in the hills. Very splendid it was too. The sun had come out although it was still cold, but I had my yellow Oakleys on and the green hills were positively luminescent. At this point I was following a instruction which said "continue along road ignoring all turnings until TR s/p Llanarmon D.C." I'd been going for about 10 miles and was starting to get worried. There was no sign of the tandem so I put my trust in the organiser and pressed on - "pressed up" I should say - there seemed to be no end to the climbing. Eventually there was a fork in the road. If I had to put money on it then I'd have said the right hand fork was the "main road", but I wasn't very confident about this so I waited for the tandem again, but they didn't show after 5 or 10 minutes so I went right and hoped for the best. The view then opened up again into another huge valley above me. There was no sign of habitation apart from the odd farm building and the lane I was on snaking off (up) into the distance. I was really starting to think I'd gone the wrong way - possibly even before the fork in the road (I hadn't really been paying much attention). What to do? Wait for the tandem again? Go back? Argh! In the end I decided that since the scenery was so nice I might as well carry on and enjoy the ride, and if it turned out that I emerged from the hills miles away from the next control with no hope of getting in on time then that would be no big deal.
After a few more turns I saw the summit of the road - and what was that speck on the road? Aha! A cyclist. Joy. Thus, after a quick plummet the penultimate control at Chirk (145km) was gained. So now it was the long flat wind-assisted bash back to the finish at 205km. I'd had another pint of tea, some cheese on toast, a slice of bakewell tart, a piece of flapjack, and polished off the last of Isobel's bara brith, so I was feeling in fine form. The tandem had rolled in fifteen minutes after me, so we all set off again. I was looking forward to doing a sub-12hr time - "Randonneur pace" (tm) - this felt like it was definitely on the cards, although I was a bit gonzo and hadn't bothered to check the time, but I knew I still had plenty of time in hand.
After about 10km I got fed up with the tandem going more slowly than I wanted to and before long I found myself ahead and out of sight of the tandem so I started to wind it up. The wind wasn't as helpful as I'd have liked - sometimes it was more of a cross-wind than a tail-wind, but still, I felt good so I kept on going as hard as I could without blowing up. I had no real idea of the time, but I was pushing evens for most of the time and I really wanted that sub-12hr time by this stage - I knew I'd be pleased with myself especially given that the ride felt like it was worth half an AAA point.
Like at the end of the Mad March, I found I was going surprisingly well - pushing 25mph at times, but with 10km to go: Bonk. Well, perhaps not "The Bonk" proper, but I definitely ran out of steam and I felt dreadful. It was just getting dark, my hands were sore from the cables on the handlebars, my arms and shoulders ached, I was saddle-sore (!), and the signs seemed to be counting down the distance to Frodsham imperceptibly slowly. I was reduced to saying to myself "Well, just get to that stop sign/tree/bend in the road, and see how you feel then." I later met someone who said to me that he had been very tired and as he was looking for the final control at the Frodsham Scout Hut, that "any scout hut would have done" (ROTFL). I knew where he'd been coming from.
At last the control, when I stood waiting for my brevet to be stamped, the guy running the control said to me "Hello. H..e..1..1..o. Are you with us?" I realised to my chagrin that I'd just been standing there staring into space as he had been trying to offer me a cup of tea. The time? An eye-opening 10h 55m. Ten! Wow - I felt wonderful, all that slogging along had been worth it after all.
© Kilgore's Enterprises February 1997