There were a few reasons why I picked the Three Counties 200km from Evesham, run this year by Nev "Time Is Miles" Chanin (that promising young cyclist-have you heard of him by any chance?), for my comeback event after my aerobatic crash on this year's Brimstone: It was reasonably local, appeared reasonably flat, and went to lots of places I'd never been. Not forgetting the major consideration: It took place after my arms had been removed from plaster. As my wrists were still a bit sore and sensitive to jarring such as might be caused (to take an example purely at random) by flying through the air and landing nose-first in nettles in the praying-to-Mecca position, I decided to ride the Trice. After all, look what had happened the last time I departed from (a) the True Threefold Path, (b) the road, and (c) terra firma, in that-short-order. Admittedly, it was a bit unfortunate that my Trice is set up with both front brakes operated by the left lever, and my left hand is somewhat wonky at the moment. Still, you can't have everything.

Ian Hennessey had retaliated to my decision to ride the trike by opting to go fixed. Nev warned Ian that there were a couple of hills that would make him "grunt a bit." I was slightly worried: Nev was just back from six weeks (and 52 cols) in the Alps, so none of today's hills ought to register at all. He also warned us not to ride through the ford on the first stage but to take the footbridge instead. Oh great... Fords are not the recumbent trike rider's favourite obstacle, especially as the accompanying footbridges, if any, are generally a bit too narrow for three wheels.

At 07:59 Ian emerged from the cafe into the cool but sunny morning and mounted his bike. The field of 63, including a tandem, a Bike Friday, a Moulton, and a rider with one leg, was champing at the bit. At 07:59:59 Ian remembered he hadn't filled his bottle and dismounted again. I waved goodbye to the field. This was not a race, after all-my main objective was to finish without another visit to the nearest Casualty department.

Once Ian had filled his bidon we set off in hot pursuit. Well, warm pursuit at any rate. The first few km were easy and pleasant cycling through the Avon valley. I concentrated on getting my legs spinning (twiddling low gears fast and conserving momentum on descents are the key to rapid progress on recumbent). Ian, of course, had no option but to be Moulinex Man.

The one-legged rider, on a conventional bike, was making good progress. We rejoined the main bunch and tucked in behind the Moulton. "Look, he's got a hub brake at the back," I pointed out. "No, it's one of those rear-wheel hub dynamos," Ian said. "Ah, that'll be why it's got a brake cable poking out the bottom," I said, deadpan.

I took one look at the ford and, since I'd unaccountably failed (Again! Will I never learn?) to bring my snorkel and flippers, opted for the footbridge, which proved to be just wide enough for the trike. In contrast to the path leading off the bridge, on which my front wheels had to go off-road. This was useful practice for later, as it turned out.

We bashed on: smooth roads, a few gentle ups and downs, pretty villages, increasingly warm sun. This was extremely civilised. I could get the taste for this kind of thing. Our progress seemed strangely slow until we noticed that Nev's route sheet was calibrated in miles rather than kilometres. Zut alors!

The route sheet was the strong, silent type, but after "Next R (sp Whitbourne)" it said "Descent with bend." The lane descended through trees; wide and smooth, no problem. I followed Ian and his amazing blurry legs. Ian vanished round a blind left-hand bend. "Better brake and lean a bit, just in case," I thought, in a low-priority kind of way.

As I entered the bend, even before the peril sensors had time to go "Whoop whoop whoop," I was suddenly travelling sideways: It proved to be a 90-degree bend, and the road, apart from the 2-inch track Ian had just fish-tailed through, was strewn with sand and gravel, offering about as much purchase for my three wheels as an ice rink strewn with ball bearings. I'm not narrow-minded. I have no objection in principle to travelling sideways. But I was closing swiftly on a stout stone wall, so urgent evasive action was called for unless I wanted two consecutive events to end in Casualty. The trike mounted the narrow grass verge in front of the wall. Ah, traction! The 7th Cavalry rode over the hill, bugles blaring. A wiggle of the steering, a modicum of leaning, a soupcon of blind panic, and I was off down the road, whistling nonchalantly. Well, fairly nonchalantly...

"Thought you'd lost it there," the rider following me said, once he'd caught up. It dawned on me that I'd probably just executed my most spectacular trike manoeuvre of all time. Where were the cameras when I needed them?

The long and steep climb up to the control in Clifton-on-Teme provided an opportunity to visit my granny. I was relieved to find she had as few teeth as I remembered. At the top Ian confirmed that he'd "grunted a bit." Personally, I'd settled for panting, but I wasn't riding fixed.

At the control Chairman Rocco was muttering darkly about riders not wearing white socks ("Spoils the image..."). Brace yourself for a motion about hosiery at the AGM. It'll make a change from motions about m*dg*ards and points-chasing...

We headed off on the B-road to Tenbury. Before long there was a loud "ping." A spoke in Ian's back wheel had committed hara-kiri. Together with every fly in a five-mile radius (stationary cyclists appear to be honorary cattle), I watched in amazement as Ian extracted a spare spoke of the right length from his luggage. Could this be the man renowned for leaving vital stuff (pumps, water bottles, passports) at home or at the last control, whichever is less convenient?

As he fixed his fixed wheel, Ian reminded me of a tale from Longstaff folklore: Chap goes to pick up bike from George, says: "By the way, can I have a couple of spare spokes?" George says: "If I'd known you wanted more spokes, I'd have built them into the wheel..."

Someone had casually mentioned that there was a bit of a climb after Tenbury. It proved steep enough to cause a small outbreak of hiking among the overgeared, which gave me the rare opportunity on my old-style Trice to overtake other riders on a sharp ascent, even if they were on foot at the time. (It was a close thing, though.) Ian, giving his spoke repair and knees a severe stress test, vanished uphill: Tromp (pause, zig), tromp (pause, zag), tromp (pause, zig)... I could tell he was grunting a bit.

I spotted more of the killer gravel lying in wait on a bend on the 1:5 descent from Leysters, so braked and failed ignominiously to break the 70kph barrier. In mitigation, M'Lud, I plead the fact that I was riding a relatively high trike. ("Case dismissed!")

As we skirted Leominster, pronounced Lemster, we speculated whether Weobley (the next control) was pronounced "Wobbly," "Webley," or "Wibbly." We soon passed a sign for Weobley Marsh: OK, it must be Wobbly, surely...

Outside a five-star bus shelter in Wobbly, controllers Valerie and Gordon were dispensing drinks, jam tarts, and sun block to randonneurs (and wasps). Inside the bus shelter there was lively speculation as to whether the climb from Tenbury was the steepest A-road in the country. On balance we felt it was. Ian mentioned my gravel-spraying skid on the way to Clifton. Fenella Brown, as usual also riding fixed, said she'd failed to negotiate the bend and had opted to take the road off to the right. There was a road off to the right?!!! I made a mental note to pay closer attention next time... (Alternatively I could always pursue the idea that Dave Collins came up with on one particularly hairy descent in the Peak District on our way to last year's AGM: the inflatable suit. Just yank the ripcord as you approach the immovable object, then bounce off, cackling.)

We drank the drinks. We ate the jam tarts. Somehow more fuel seemed to be required. Ian reconnoitred the nearby shop, but it had been scavenged by earlier raiding parties. The Old Forge Cafe was at the next junction. That would do.

In order to reach the bit of the Old Forge that offered sustenance, we had to pass through a tunnel-like shop filled with hand-crafted knick-knacks and what-nots. This seemed familiar, but it took me a moment or two to pin down the association. It was just like the Eardisland control on the Elenith. Which, oddly enough, was not many miles away. Maybe this sort of establishment is a local speciality.

The grub at the Old Forge was excellent. Some considerable time later I emerged blinking into the sunlight, and, belching as discreetly as possible, lowered myself heavily into the seat of the trike. A couple of passing middle-aged women spotted the Trice, and a Recumbent Conversation ensued: "Don't you feel unsafe that low down?" Nope (call this low down?). "How fast does it go?" About as fast as a normal bike on the flat, a bit faster downhill, a bit slower uphill. There are other trikes that are faster. "Is it comfy?" Yep. Bit by bit this transmuted itself into an Audax Conversation. "Where have you come from?" Evesham. "Where are you going?" Evesham. "??????"

Shortly after we set off again, we ran into Gavin Greenhow, riding a red bike of strangely lightweight appearance, at any rate compared with his usual machine. But (some things never change) it did have his customary complicated arrangement of pipework on the bars. Gavin was riding with Geoff Minshull, who seemed greatly struck by the trike and questioned me at length about its idiosyncrasies.

There was a queue of traffic for a car-boot sale near Madley, but the amateurs on points duty wisely gave us the priority we'd already decided we merited. The route was displaying great cunning, and was showing us fine upland scenery without taking us up too many big climbs. At one point we came very close to the home of the sweet (?) old lady who, on last year's Gospel Pass 150, attempted to overtake a tractor while overlooking a couple of minor details, viz: a) I was directly in front of her, wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket, and b) the road wasn't wide enough for car plus tractor. I looked around nervously for any sign of an old grey Ford Escort estate, driven by an even older grey-haired lady.

At the info control in Hoarwithy, where we provided a little light entertainment for the customers of the pub, Gavin informed us that the rest of the way to Ledbury was rather hilly. He was right, but, as we know, Hills = Scenery. This was one of the most rewarding sections of the whole ride, and offered another opportunity to practice twiddling in tiny gears as we climbed towards Much Marcle, mostly in shade, I'm pleased to say.

The cafe in Ledbury was doing an excellent job of catering to the hordes of hungry randonneurs, interspersed with bemused locals wondering what the place was coming to. A day's cycling had done its worst: I'd turned into Homer Simpson. "Mmm, pie."

There was a long but steady climb out of Ledbury. After the Tewkesbury turn we began to gain gradually on a young woman who was running along the road after four sheep, seemingly trying to herd them. I'd fallen slightly behind Ian, and as we approached the crest of the hill a car nipped in in front of me, the young woman clambered in, and the car drove off slowly, now playing the role of Shep the dog. And, more importantly, baulking me from taking advantage of an extremely fine bit of downhill road. After a very frustrating couple of minutes, I managed to get clearance from Shep's driver to pass. Fortunately there was still plenty of downhill left...

There was an info control in Tewkesbury: What is the speed limit on entering the town? We'd discussed this a bit over pie ("Mmm, pie") in Ledbury, and Ian had confidently written "30" in his brevet card in advance. So the "20" sign on the approach to the town caused a certain amount of low laughter, and harrumphing at high level.

The sight of a garage shop as we left Tewkesbury reminded me that I'd been drinking water all day on the road, and my mouth was very dry. (I don't know whether I'm the only one to suffer from this, but sometimes I find that plain water leaves me with a mouth like the Sahara, whereas something citrus-y keeps the saliva flowing. Citrus means acid, of course, so my usual solution is to make sure I drink some milk at every control. Then drink tooth- and stomach-rotting citrus energy drinks out on the road.) I suggested to Ian that we stop at the next village shop or garage for a drink.

Naturally, Sod's Law decreed that the garage we hadn't stopped at was the last we encountered on the ride. Never mind... We were almost there. The route sheet indicated we went to Elmley Castle, and it's well known that castles are usually on top of hills, so it came as something of a surprise when we skirted an impressive hill rather than going straight up it.

At the finish, still bathed in sunshine, we wondered where the forecast heavy showers had gone. Geoff and another rider were keen to sample the trike. Fine by me. They returned wearing the traditional trike grin, overlaid with the kind of thoughtful expression worn by people contemplating visits to their bank manager ("Purpose of loan?" "Um, purchase of bizarre contraption that makes me smile...").

Give the Three Counties a try: Plenty of scenery, but not too many hills. Plus the opportunity to encourage up-and-coming riders like young Nev...

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