In the red corner, Shawn Shaw's Brimstone 600-375 miles, 5 and a half AAA points, an overall time limit of 40 hours, and over 8,000 metres of climbing, much of it on tiny, twisty, poorly surfaced lanes. In the blue corner, me and my Trice recumbent trike. No one had yet completed the Brimstone on a 'bent, though there had been several attempts. Wessex lore told of one would-be recumbent randonneur whose steering linkage had lost a small but vital component within a few kilometres of the start (loose screws are of course essential in order to ride the Brimstone, but are best confined to the inside of riders' heads); another had last been sighted propped against a wall somewhere in Devon, slumbering peacefully. Then there had been my attempt last year... Take delivery of Trice at 11am on Friday; start Brimstone at 6am on Saturday, after four hours' sleep (I'm not suggesting this is model preparation). I had made it as far as the 'secret' control at the top of Cheddar Gorge, almost 400 km into the ride, before running up against the time limit. So, time for the rematch: Brimstone vs. Trice-this time it's personal.

Shawn had made slight "improvements" to the route for 1998, removing a few more of those dull flat bits. Beaminster-Exmouth made the transition from "Horribly difficult" to "You must be joking." There was also a new route from Exmouth to Hembury Hill, so, fearing the worst, I got out my Ordnance Survey maps. This couldn't be right-the new route seemed no more difficult than the old one...

I pored over the brevet cards from my two previous upright Brimstones, and the card from my unsuccessful recumbent attempt last year. It was clear that I had lost the plot after Exmouth (270 km), unable to stay alert enough to make reasonable progress through the maze of lanes to Taunton. So the plan was simple: Get plenty of sleep before the start, try to reach Exmouth early enough to cover some of the next leg in daylight, and stay awake...

Anyone who has been Brimstoned will tell you of the Hill From Hell out of Sidmouth, unless their memory has mercifully blanked it out. A couple of years back half the road fell into the sea. Good riddance, I thought, but no, the result is a section of new road a little further inland, and even steeper. Forewarned is forearmed (four-legged would be handier): I swapped the 11-30 block on the trike-not nearly wimpy enough for my knees-for an 11-34 which gave me a wide range of comedy gears. Not just a 17 inch bottom gear, which could just conceivably be almost low enough, given a tailwind, but a 32/34 gear in what I suppose has to be called the mid-range. My LX rear mech handled the 6-tooth jump to and from bottom gear quite happily, if sometimes noisily: Mr Shimano's R&D department is clearly losing its touch.

There were a couple of days to go before the start. The Friday night B&B was booked, and I had my cycle reservation on the train to Poole ("Um, it's not exactly a normal bike." "That's all right, sir, as long as it fits in the luggage compartment." Could I get that in writing, I wondered?). Nothing left to do except worry. I could manage that.

As the trike bumped up the steep flight of stone stairs I cursed Shawn for siting his control so inconsiderately. I staggered inside the palatial, colonnaded cafe, ate my beans on toast, and emerged to find a torrent of water coursing down the steps, threatening to wash the trike away... Then I woke up. The prospect of riding the real Brimstone was bad enough without having to do the fantasy version in my sleep as well.

Friday came. Hurdle no. 1: Getting the Trice onto the right platform at the station. No problem, once I realised that the reason the lift wouldn't work was that the back wheel of the trike was intercepting an infrared beam inside the doors. Isn't technology wonderful? Hurdle no. 2: Getting the Trice on the train. No problem (bit of a result here). "Don't see many of those, sir." Hurdle no. 3: Manhandling the Trice across the passenger footbridge at Poole. No need-the train arrived on the right platform. Hurdle no. 4: Finding the B&B. Piece of cake for a sense of direction honed by years of Shawn's rides. Hurdle no. 5: Trike had to be carried at shoulder height over cars parked in front of B&B. Ouch! Hurdle no. 6: B&B was full of enormously fat bearded men chug-a-lugging industrial-strength lager and bellowing incoherently from room to room. Mentally penned stiff letter to English Tourist Board, and retired to my room with takeaway and litre of milk. Which left...

Hurdle no. 7: The Brimstone.

Saturday dawned clear and warm-no need for leg-warmers even at 5 am. I rode over to Shawn's for the condemned man's hearty breakfast and banter. This was going to be my last chance to socialise with most of the field, I felt. There were many familiar faces among the 40 or so starters. Paddy Bear was resplendent in Wessex colours. Shawn himself was riding-his first calendar 600 in a few years. I asked about the mysteriously easy new section after Exmouth. Apparently the old route was no longer there-protesters at the A30 "improvement" scheme had dug up some of the lanes. Anyhow, Shawn was keen to assure us, the new route was no flatter and was much harder to navigate in the dark. So that was all right then...

The first few kilometres are uphill, in a half-hearted sort of way, so I soon waved goodbye to most of the field and settled back to enjoy the ride. The general idea was to keep it rolling comfortably uphill, push it on the flat, and cackle manically on the downhills. And not hang around at the controls. Until the point where hanging around at the controls became a really attractive idea, that is.

I was surprised to pass Keith Smallwood on the climb out of Poole, and surprised again to catch and pass Ann-Marie Manley on the lanes near Verwood. (Both were injured, I think, and were eventually to pack-when I learned this I began to feel like a kind of recumbent Grim Reaper.)

The first leg of the Brimstone undulates gently through New Forest heath and woodland. You need to keep an eye out for livestock wandering across the road, and to watch out for the cattle grids, unless you're on a recumbent trike, of course, in which case you simply get an occasional back massage. In Wood Green a woman with a hosepipe on the left side of the road was watering her flowers on the right. I'd already showered that morning, so I called out: "Excuse me!" She turned off the water and burst into laughter-honestly, you'd think some people had never seen a recumbent trike before...

In 1997-my first recumbent ride-when I arrived at Abbotts Ann, the first control at 80 km, I had had difficulty in getting to my feet and for a minute or two had been able only to stagger backwards. No such problem with forward locomotion this year. Not only that, but there were still plenty of riders at the control. I guzzled a couple of glasses of milk and a piece of cake and was several km down the road even before I'd arrived at the control last year, if you see what I mean.

Stage two is more gentle undulation through picturesque villages bristling with thatched cottages. With a couple of long, steady downland climbs thrown in. Near Quareley I encountered a horse rider. I prepared to slow down and exchange friendly greetings, but, as I approached, the horse eyed the trike balefully, whinnied, and bolted across a field of wheat. How embarrassing...

There's a long, gentle climb through Cholderton and onto the A303 dual carriageway, then a fast, open descent. As I crested the rise, with holidaymakers' caravans whistling past my right ear, I slammed into top gear and prepared to break the sound barrier. But after a mile or so the traffic was backed up and crawling in both lanes. No, this was against the rules-this was a bit where the trike could make up time. I checked my mirror, took a deep breath, and threaded through the gap between the two files of cars. A truck driver seemed to object to being overtaken by a human-powered vehicle and edged menacingly into my path as I approached. Those wheels looked very tall. A car courteously held back to allow me into the outside lane, and I sprinted past the truck, to a volley of abuse through its open window. What a pleasant trucker...

You don't stay on the A303 for long (after all, this is one of Shawn's rides), but for a couple of km after I turned off I was scanning the mirror for pantechnicons and recalling Spielberg's "Duel" with uncomfortable clarity. A couple more long downland drags, a quick bash along the Wylye valley, and I was at the George Hotel in Codford (128 km), well up on my 1997 arrival time.

I ordered beans on toast-AUK rules: No brevet card for an event over 100 km will be validated unless the rider (a) has consumed at least one (1) portion of beans on toast, and (b) has ridden past at least one (1) dead badger (three dead hedgehogs may be substituted at the discretion of the Validation Secretary). Dai Harris, who for some reason was riding his upright rather than his Greenspeed trike, kindly volunteered to flag down my food if it arrived while I was outside shedding clothing, fiddling with route sheets, applying sun cream, and so forth. It was a quick stop, about half an hour.

The leg to Beaminster is again rolling rather than downright hilly for most of the way. The descent into Mere is steep with a couple of entertaining bends-at least I think the occupants of the car that followed me down were entertained by my demonstration of advanced leaning techniques at 70kph. There's a traditional heffalump trap on the Brimstone route sheet at this point. "Mere," it says, "Stay on B3095." What it doesn't say, of course, is that you have to turn left to stay on B3095, and that the only signpost indicating that fact is visible only when you approach from the opposite direction (but that's OK, because Brimstone virgins-I know, I was one once-always go straight on for several km, then retrace and see the error of their ways). Mere was dotted with randonneurs perusing maps and scratching their heads. "Follow me," I shouted, mentally adding the proviso: "Until the next uphill bit."

For the second year running I managed to find my way through Cucklington and spot the unsigned left turn on the descent-it's probably time for a route change. The road surface here was bad enough to slow the trike appreciably. The Bear/Avery bunch (extraordinary how Paddy Bear never breaks sweat despite doing all that work at the front) caught me before Sherborne. I thought they were ahead of me, but they'd added an extra loop or two. At Sherborne I paused at a garage to buy an energy drink. The girl at the till glanced at the drink and automatically said: "Any petrol?" Um, I don't drink petrol, thanks.

When the Brimstone's third control used to be in Halstock, riders would arrive cockily wondering what all the fuss was about. Thought this was supposed to be a hilly event, etc. Strangely, this talk seems to have ceased now that the control has been switched to Beaminster, about 8 km further on. The climb through Corscombe is enough to give you an inkling of what's in store. It's a very pretty village, take it from me-at 5 kph I had plenty of opportunity to sightsee...

I was well up on my 1997 arrival time in Beaminster (208 km), so bolted my eggs on toast in an attempt to capitalise on the advantage. My digestion suffered in vain, as when I emerged from the teashop to get back on the road I was buttonholed by an elderly couple who pinned me against the wall and gave me the third degree about the trike. "You built it yourself," the old gent informed me firmly. Well, actually no. "Does it have an engine?" Not unless you count me going "Brrm brrm." I gave them the shortest rundown courtesy would allow-after all, they were on retirement time and I was on randonnee time.

The Brimstone took to tiny Dorset lanes, through villages of honey-coloured stone, up tree-hung climbs dappled with shade. At Shave Cross the route sheet said "L sp Whitchurch Canonicorum" but the signpost said straight on. "Which way is Whitchurch?" I asked a man outside the pub. "You can go this way or that way," he said, helpfully. Right, this way it was. All too soon I emerged by the coast at Charmouth, more or less at sea level.

This is where the real fun begins. You go up and over the massive hill between Charmouth and Lyme Regis, back down to sea level, up the massive hill out of Lyme Regis, back down to sea level, up the massive hill out of Colyford, back down to sea level at Sidmouth. The important thing is to look at the views, or as much of them as you can see through the curtain of sweat. Then, of course, there is the Hill from Hell. At least this year my 17-inch bottom gear meant the pedals weren't quite coming to a standstill at the bottom of the power stroke (well, front of the power stroke, to be exact, since I was lying on my back). My cadence might even have been over 40. For added entertainment, there were drifts of stone chippings on the steepest part of the climb, so the back wheel was scrabbling for traction. As you crest the hill you have a few seconds to look to your left and take in a breathtaking panorama of cliffs and bays before you whistle down into Otterton.

By the time I reached Exmouth (269 km) it was approaching half past eight and starting to become dark. The last stage had gobbled up my time advantage and I was back on my 1997 schedule. Never mind. Shawn, Chris Avery, and a few others were still at the garage control. As swiftly as possible I filled my bottle with Coke, ate a tin of rice pudding, put on longs and a thermal, donned my reflective belt, got my gloves from the panniers, and finally extracted my secret weapon: a Petzl headtorch.

Last year I discovered that on steep climbs I couldn't propel the trike fast enough to get a usable light out of my generator. I'd long used a small (2xAA) headtorch for reading the route and signposts at night, but the illumination it provides is much too feeble to be useful as a riding light. So I was now supplementing my Nordlicht generator with a headtorch powered by one of those flat 4.5 volt batteries.

I climbed steadily out of Exmouth in the twilight. The roundabouts mentioned on the route sheet were all present and correct, but where was the sign for Pine Ridge? And how was I supposed to go straight on at a T junction? All would become clear, no doubt. Sure enough, the T turned out to be an X, with a tiny lane-no signpost, of course-leading straight on. And downhill, heh heh heh. After Yettington the lanes were full of drifts of dried red mud with the texture of fine sand. Sometimes a single wheel-track was clear, sometimes not. The trike fishtailed through these stretches, but remained pointed in more or less the right direction. By the time I reached Newton Poppleford the last vestiges of daylight had faded. The terrain was still disturbingly easy, but that changed after Feniton, with the long climb of Hembury hill on tiny, rocky lanes. My headtorch proved invaluable, providing plenty of light for climbing and a powerful beam for picking out signposts, startling owls, and attracting insects.

After Hembury the roads become wider, clearer, and, last but not least, flatter for a while. A bank of headlights appeared in my mirror, and eventually turned out to belong not to the 38-tonne juggernaut that their number and intensity suggested, but to Chris and Co., who had enjoyed another off-route excursion around a number of Devon's premier road construction sites after missing an eminently missable turn. One of the advantages of the head-up riding position of the trike is that it makes navigation extremely easy.

A plummet down to Hemyock was followed by rather slower progress up the 1 in 6 to Simonsburrow, but it wasn't too long before I was riding the trike in through the automatic doors at the control at Taunton Deane services (321 km). Suddenly I had lots of time in hand again, compared to last year at any rate. It was after midnight, and I was bolting lentil soup, Weetabix, Coke, milk, hot chocolate-it's amazing my stomach survives audax riding. Shawn was stretched out on a bench. Another couple of riders were sleeping under tables. Hmm, sleep. No, I was still feeling perky. Time to head for the flatlands.

Taunton was full of good-natured clubbers, who clutched each other and reeled around laughing as the trike zoomed past. I gave them the recumbent regal wave. At a red light I had a bizarre conversation with a beatifically drunk man who, swaying like a sapling in the breeze, was taking the air outside a club. After the usual preamble ("Where have you come from? Where are you going? How far?!!") he said, with great feeling: "It's tragic-you're riding all over the place when you could be in here drinking." I agreed it was a terrible state of affairs and a searing indictment of the times we live in, made my excuses, and left...

As I bombed along the deserted A38 I tried to identify the spot where I'd halted last year for a roadside nap. There's not a bus shelter worthy of the name between Taunton and Cheddar-I know, I've looked. There were tail lights ahead as I turned onto the Glastonbury road, and no hills to be seen. Time to engage pursuit mode. The lights turned out to belong to a small group containing Chris and Dai. I called a greeting and carried on cranking, and was soon flying solo across the Somerset Levels.

The Levels, of course, aren't-though they're not exactly challenging. Before long I became naggingly aware that I was gaining altitude, in a subclinical sort of way. Chris and Dai caught up just before the turn for Pedwell Hill, which definitely isn't level, and I bade the traditional dignified farewell on the climb.

Cheddar is a tourist honeypot and swarms with coach parties during the day. It's always a highlight of the Brimstone, though, as you reach it during the early hours, when the village is deserted. This year, more by luck than judgment, my timing was particularly fine. The sky was just beginning to lighten as I started the climb through the brightly lit, empty village, the only sound my own breathing and the rushing stream alongside the road. There's always an info control in Cheddar-at least this year we weren't being asked for the name of the 'last cafe on the left' (how do you know it's the last cafe until after you've passed it?). I emerged from the sodium glare of the streets into the steepest, rockiest part of the gorge. (If you're descending, signs advise cyclists to dismount.) The cliffs were beginning to stand out against the dawn sky, and, being on the 'bent trike, I was able to gawp as I twiddled. The gradient soon eased, and the walls of the gorge became wooded rather than rocky. My surroundings took on greater detail with every minute, and before long I could turn off my generator. I passed one randonneur slumbering at the roadside, then another. As I climbed, the wooded gorge became a gentle valley and eventually a barely perceptible depression in the plateau of the Mendips. An upright rider caught me as I emerged onto the plateau, and we spent the rest of the way to the secret control at Tor Hole (possibly the worst-kept 'secret' in AUK, right up there with the one at the top of the Devil's Staircase in the Elenith) alternately telling each other how wonderful the climb of the gorge had been and wondering how much further there was before breakfast.

Not far. I lurched into the furnace-like heat of Drew Buck's kitchen and plonked myself down at the end of the table. Sleep beckoned, but I wasn't going to lie down, oh no, this was going to be a short stop, I had about three hours in hand on last year, was that right, three hourzzzzzzzzz. I woke with a start from my seated doze and-randonneur's automatic reflex-looked around for something to eat. The full cooked breakfast is always a popular choice chez Buck, but I was in a carbohydrate frame of mind. Three Shredded Wheat-nobody has three, allegedly. Possibly because of the similarity in texture and taste to loft insulation. A couple of mugs of tea, and I was ready for the road again, stomach suitably lagged and with a couple of slabs of Buck's Magic Flapjack tucked away in my tum bag for later.

The route retraces for a mile or two. Along this stretch I encountered a rider wheeling his bike towards the control. "OK?" I shouted. He said yes, so I continued on my way, cashing in all those metres of climb as I zoomed down past the Chew Valley lake. After skirting Bristol on astoundingly quiet and rural (and slightly hilly) roads, I sensed a drop in energy levels, so stopped at a garage to get some rocket fuel. Energy drink and a piece of Magic Flapjack soon had the needle back in the black. While I was scoffing I had a sort of conversation with another garage customer about the trike. Either his accent was amazingly broad, or my ears needed retuning. The only word I could pick out with certainty was "comfortable," so I nodded vigorously.

A rider rolled by. I said goodbye to Mr Unintelligible, and set off in pursuit. The rider turned out to be Richard Harding. I knew the climb to Upton Cheney was imminent, so I called hello and shot past, making the most of the valley road. Predictably enough, as the road went up he caught up, but the flapjack and rocket fuel were coursing through my metabolism to such good effect that I was still close enough to him to say "Turn right" at the next crossroads.

Not that right was actually right, as it turned out. (A Shawn Routesheet Moment, I think.) As we crawled up a steepish climb I had that vague, creeping sense of uncertainty-let's call it feeling un-Shaw-that always, invariably, every time means I've gone wrong. Fortunately Richard was carrying maps-I wasn't, after all, I'd done this ride before. Though not this bit, on reflection. We stopped, we mulled over the map, we scratched our heads, and we rode back down to the junction. Oh yes, that's where we should have gone...

The rest of the way to Malmesbury was sheer delight-empty roads, enough ups to be interesting and enough downs to be fun. On the flat bit before Acton Turville I had a rush of blood to the legs and hurtled past Richard fast enough to demonstrate why recumbents were banned from competition in the 1930's. (Can't think why they haven't been legalised for hill climbs, har har.) In a desperate last-ditch attempt to prevent an invasion of ravening randonneurs, workmen were digging up the crucial junction in Malmesbury town centre, and it was a bit of a chore to manoeuvre the trike around the barricades to reach the control at Fawlty Towers (459 km).

A handful of riders, with an air of suppressed desperation, were waiting in a side room to pay for their meals. "Service is on the slow side," one said, with masterly understatement. Eventually a harassed-looking middle-aged woman emerged from stage left, took money from one rider, said "I'll be with you in a minute," and vanished whence she had come. Minutes ticked slowly by. She reemerged, collected another rider's money, said "I'll be with you in a minute," and disappeared again. After she had worked her way down the line to me, I handed her my brevet card. She stamped it, and before I could utter a word, still less say "Please bring me your finest breakfast and a bucket of tea," pphht, she was gone. I wandered into the dusty bar-cum-dining room. An elderly couple were seated in morose silence at a table, occasionally glancing round in the hope of spotting a member of the hotel staff incautious enough to step into a customer's line of sight. I scanned the menu for something that would be bound to be quick: Tea, toast, and jam. Can't get much simpler than that.

More minutes ticked by. The woman appeared bearing toast and tea, which she deposited on the elderly couple's table. "I'll be with you in a minute," she said in my direction as she hurried off. Richard arrived. "Service is a bit slow," I told him. Tick, tick. The woman reemerged and took my order. Richard tried to speak, but as she scurried away she cut him off with a brusque: "I'll be with you in a minute."

Eventually my tea and toast turned up (but no jam). I made a futile attempt to pay there and then-I think you can guess what she said...

After rather a longer break than I would have liked, I was back on the road for a few more flat km. Shawn latched on to my back wheel for a moment or two and complained about the lack of wind shadow. Perhaps I could wear a tall hat shaped like a cyclist's torso? The Brimstone develops a severe attack of the lumps around the Avon Gorge and takes to roads that feel narrow even on a bike. The next bit was going to be interesting.

The drag up to the hilltop golf course (what is the point of golf, I wondered, not for the first time, as the golfers wondered what is the point of cycling) seemed interminable, then abruptly I was plunging down into Bathford at over 50 kph, trying desperately to read the street names and find Church Street as the road surface tested my fillings to destruction. Ha, there it is. I (just) managed to make the turn on three wheels-no screech of tyres, though. There was an abrupt transition from trafficked, fairly major road to silent lane. The sun was now out, and I was simmering nicely. Time to shed the longs and make with the sun cream.

By rights you might have thought that the next few km would be hell on wheels on a trike. Long 1 in 6 climb, on a tiny, debris-strewn lane, zoom down, another 1 in 6, a couple of minor ups, then a 1 in 4. Sorry, they were indescribably wonderful. The wooded road after the first climb felt so secret and untravelled that the ridge of crumbly mud that made traction and steering a mix of wishful thinking and willpower merely added to the atmosphere. And when you cross to the other side of the gorge you're threading your way between neat, flower-decked cottages in honey-coloured Bath stone perched on the steep hillside.

I have a tendency to imagine, in the teeth of experience to the contrary, that the climbing on this leg ends with the 1 in 4 at Limpley Stoke. It doesn't, and I've sometimes found this stretch rather hard going on a conventional bike. A different story on the trike, though. I crept up on a family strolling down the lane near Hardington and called out "Bike approaching. (Pause) In a manner of speaking." Snickering at their double-takes soon had to take a back seat to the more urgent task of piloting my way round rocks at high speed. How fast dare I take that gravel-strewn bend? You'll believe a trike can fly... Except uphill, of course, but my stately progress on the uphill bits was a welcome respite from the real-life video game of the downhills.

Richard and Dave Collins were sat by the side of the garage control at Nunney Catch (523 km), surrounded by the remains of lunch. There was something a little odd about Richard's bike: It had one SPD pedal, and one pedal with toeclip. (There was, of course, something a lot odder about my steed...) Intent on pressing ahead, I chomped sandwiches, glugged milk, and set off again.

The final leg of the Brimstone has a little over 12 metres of climb per km. Not too bad, you might think. Except that almost all of the climbing is concentrated around the picturesque hilltop town of Shaftesbury. Still, I was on a high. The climb after Witham Priory barely registered as a blip on the hillometer, and I took full advantage of the trike-friendly descent to Mere to hammer past Richard. Once again, Mere must have been full of lurking randonneurs, since Shawn, Richard, and a small group passed me again shortly before Motcombe. Now for the slog up to Shaftesbury. I noticed the road now sported "National Byway" signs-nice to see that, like Shawn, Sustrans isn't afraid of leading cyclists up hill as well as down dale.

After creeping up to Shaftesbury, you immediately hurtle down into a secret valley on lanes barely a trike wide, only to start another steep climb. By the top my feet were beginning to hurt unignorably, so I swallowed a couple of Nurofen and awarded myself a brief roadside break. Only one mountain to go now. It starts innocently enough-pretty cottages, ducks sleeping in lush grass by the side of a stream-then the road rears upward through the trees and it's time to say hello to bottom gear again. As the steam rose from my knees I admired the timeless vista over Fontmell down. Then I admired it again (it's a looooong hill).

That was more or less it. A cackling descent through lots of villages all called Tarrant, time-trial cranking along the rolling road into Wimborne Minster, then another one of Shawn's many variations on the route into Poole centre, to ensure that the randonneur doesn't know where he is until he gets there. On the final quiet, flat, smooth dual carriageway approach to the city centre I encountered Dave and Dai, and we rode the last couple of km together.

The grin wore off quite quickly. After only a couple of days or so...

Postscript: The rider I encountered wheeling his bike toward the control at Tor Hole was Roger Huntley, who was on his first 600. His tyre exploded as he was climbing Cheddar Gorge, so he walked several miles to the control with the intention of packing. Drew gave him a replacement tyre and persuaded him to continue. Roger reached Shaftesbury, then the second tyre failed (a problem with the rim), and he had to pack within 50 km of the finish. Undaunted, a few weeks later he successfully rode the Hellfire, the permanent version of the Brimstone. Standing ovations all round...

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