Well, it would have been 1,000 km if I'd managed to complete it. Drat--I've just given away the plot....

In the hierarchy of sensible mounts for an event like the Crackpot, a recumbent trike just edges out the unicycle, skateboard, and rollerblades. But 'sensible' has very little to do with the Crackpot.

Even so, I'd not been sure I'd enter. I made my mind up only after I managed to haul the trike round the Brimstone with, ooh, minutes to spare. Using my speeds on the Brimstone as a guide, I sat down with the Crackpot route sheet-booklet, more like-and tried to work out a realistic schedule. Rather to my surprise, I 'arrived' at the finish before the cut-off. OK then, there was no excuse not to give it a go. Bit of a pity, that.

Friday, eight in the evening. The first leg went better than I could have hoped. It was so flat and fast to Bere Regis that I was almost still in touch with some of the field. Then the hills began. No problem-engage the great-granny gear and twiddle. I'd been worrying about the ford near Sydling St Nicholas-if I'd been riding the trike during the Hard-Boiled I'd have had an unscheduled bath here-but the water level was even lower than I was. Amazingly, I found I had time in hand when I reached the first control at Halstock.

Even just before midnight when I left the control the evening was so warm I didn't need my longs. Muttering my Crackpot mantra-"Don't go off route, don't go off route"-I set off in pitchy dark through mazy lanes that were going to visit lots of places I'd never heard of. The stage began with a 1 in 4 climb up what appeared to be a cart track. The surface of the alleged road consisted mostly of stones, dried mud, and grass. I found that if I concentrated very hard on pedalling smoothly, the wheelspin wasn't too bad. Some of the time.

Fortunately things got a good deal easier after that climb. Rolling terrain gave way to levels, and I seemed to be maintaining a good pace. The brightly lit streets in Creech St Michael were eerily empty. I bashed on, mentally ticking off the cues on the route sheet. But I was starting to get sleepy.

Somewhere around Kingston St Mary my brain switched off. Unluckily the legs were still working fine. Somehow, in a small-hours aberration-you've guessed it-I went off route. Up Cothelstone hill, which, as a significant high point west of Reading and east of Cornwall, naturally features in the Crackpot. But not for another 250 km.

As I inched up the tiny, steep, rocky lane I was dimly aware something was badly wrong. This was a huge hill. From studying the route on the map I could recall no huge hills at this point. Did I stop and go back down? No, like a genuine crackpot, I thought: Maybe there's a signpost at the top. Rather more vertical metres than I can bring myself to recall later, I discovered there wasn't. Instead, there was a T junction. To the right, uphill; to the left, downhill. I headed steeply downhill for half a mile or so and found a sign announcing I was entering West Bagborough. Okay, time to check the map.

The map in question was pages torn from one of those atlases for motorists that shows roads and villages in reasonable detail, but prints placenames in a large typeface so it's often hard to tell what they apply to. I deduced, though I knew I was aiming for a valley road (remember my brain was snoring gently inside my skull), that the correct route was back up the hill. I pointed the trike skywards and engaged an even lower gear as I set out up the 1 in 6.

There was a very nasty crunching noise. I stopped pedalling and applied the parking brake, but the trike rolled backwards anyhow. Adopting the skis-across-the-slope approach, I managed to stop and got up to survey the damage. The chain was wedged solidly between the large sprocket and the spokes, though it had made the change to bottom gear hundreds of times before without problem-indeed, quite a few times that night already. The derailleur looked, well, Not As Other Derailleurs. I tried not to think what the chain might have done to the drive-side spokes.

After an hour or so's tugging and a liberal application of undeleted expletives, I extracted the chain from behind the sprocket. And set off up the hill. There was a strange and unsettling noise: Skreek, skreek. The sort of noise, I felt, a derailleur makes just before it explodes into a million pieces. Eventually I reached the summit. There was a car park. And also a signpost for Minehead. Pointing (I need hardly say) back down the way I had just come.

I plummeted down the hill and back on route, and soon made the unwelcome discovery that I could use fewer than half my gears-the others jumped while making unpleasant creaking sounds. After a mile or two my brain woke up: Pfff, how did you get in this mess, I can't leave you alone for a minute. Try switching the gear lever to friction mode.

Hmm, nice one, brain. I could now use about half my gears, but very few in the mid-range. With vague thoughts of packing I skreek-skreeked my way to the control at Pam Almond's in Minehead. A warm welcome and hot breakfast did much to restore morale.

It was light as I left Minehead, and impossible not to see that the rear changer was badly mangled. Would I be able to cross Exmoor without engaging bottom gear? No. Would I be able to engage bottom gear? There was only one way to find out...

Skreek skreek. I disturbed a curlew near Dunkery Beacon. Skreek skreek. Intermittent heavy rain meant traction problems on a couple of 1 in 3 ascents. Skreek skreek. I was beginning to take Exmoor rather personally.

Exmoor ended some time after Five Cross Ways, but the hills didn't. Skreek skreek. As I headed deeper into Devon the lanes became less and less trike-friendly-very narrow, with unavoidable debris lying in wait for the offside wheel. At the secret control in Pennymoor (mmm-pizza!) I was drawn into a discussion on the remarkable toughness of my front tyres. Naturally, I punctured within a mile.

It was now extremely humid, and becoming very warm indeed. Devon appeared to have recently taken delivery of a large consignment of enormous hills. The high hedges concentrated the heat, and shielded me from any hint of breeze. I felt in danger of melting.

'Next R (sp Bridleway),' the route sheet said. Funny name for a village, I thought. But no, it was Bridleway as in 'Track fit only for horses.' It got narrower and narrower, bumpier and bumpier, until I was brought to a halt by a large four-wheel drive and trailer which blocked the entire lane. After brief negotiations I used hand-power to reverse into a field entrance, which gave just enough clearance for the truck to back up the lane and allow me to pass.

As I inched (skreek skreek) up the steep and very narrow road to Hennock in blazing sun I became aware of cars on my tail. I pulled off the road to let them by, then plodded on. I must have been an entertaining sight: One of the cars backed up a track so the occupants could watch me pass.

I thought I was out of time when I reached Bovey Tracey, but no such luck. Kevin Presland attacked my derailleur with a giant wrench, but it proved more resistant to being bent back into shape than it had been to being mangled. He told me there was a bike shop just off route in Exeter, and called them to warn them of my arrival.

There were no more than a couple of mountains before Exeter, and I found myself at the shop relatively soon. It was very busy. A small girl was being fitted for a bike, with much relaxed Devonian chitchat. As I watched the palaver over setting her saddle height, it became clear there was no hope of getting them to fit a new derailleur there and then. After ten minutes or so, someone said: "Oh, you're the gentleman in the race aren't you?" (Race? Ha!) "There was a Dutch gentleman came in a while ago." Yes, Ivo was having gear problems again. I bought a derailleur, in case of total explosion, but there was no time to fit it. I reckoned I was now pretty much on the time limit.

Only one solution: Get back on the road (skreek skreek). More tiny lanes, high hedges, false summits, horrible gradients, and boiling sun. I concentrated on the route sheet, but there seemed to be a Himalaya or two between each line of instructions. (The countryside and the weather were glorious, but I was cracking.)

The control in Culmstock was "Anywhere that is open," which imposed a terrible burden of choice on someone in my condition. I did the length of the village twice, looking long and hard at the pub. Relaxed drinkers were seated at riverside tables in the golden evening sun. No, far too great a temptation. I settled for the village shop, got my brevet card signed (10 minutes in hand), and sat on a wall eating malt loaf and drinking milk. I was shattered, and all of the sleep time built into my schedule had gone. On the other hand I'd done the hilliest section of the ride by far, and I might be able to make up a little time over the 130 km to Axminster, maybe enough for an hour or two's sleep.

Intent-in a dozy kind of way-on making up some time, I set out as swiftly as possible (skreek skreek). Milverton and Halse were picturesque enough to make an impression even in my enfeebled state, but by the time I reached the foot of Cothelstone hill (again) I was too tired to continue safely, even on three wheels. I parked the trike in a field entrance and nodded off. When I awoke the sun was very low. The same could not be said of Cothelstone hill, of course.

As I climbed, the trike was now going: Skreek ptaang, skreek ptaang. I reached the summit and zoomed down towards Bridgwater through the gathering gloom. Then a front tyre flatted.

That was the final straw. In my zombie-like state it took an eon to change the tube-even more sleep time gone-and it was getting late, so I decided to look for a B & B in Bridgwater rather than crawl on to Axminster and pack there. I was definitely in no condition to ride through another night, and the trike was definitely in no condition to cover another 650 km.

Postscript: When I got the trike home and removed the cassette from the rear wheel, I found that over half the drive-side spokes were severely chewed up, though none had yet quite broken. It was barely possible to rotate the gear pulley on the derailleur by hand, so perhaps some of those hills weren't quite as bad as they seemed. (No, I don't really believe that either.)

So is the Crackpot possible on a recumbent trike? Just about, I think, given good luck and a following wind... Without my mechanical (and mental) misfortunes I'd have reached Axminster with at least a couple of hours in hand, and from that point on the route gets a good deal easier. But don't expect to get much sleep!

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