Over autumn and winter 2000 I grimly sloshed and slithered through flood and frost on the prototype Trice Micro recumbent trike. This proved very poor preparation-I'm pleased to say-for my first calendar event on the production Micro, Mark Beauchamp's Taste of the Test 200, on which the only floods were of sunshine. And sweat.

I'd ridden this event before and knew that, though it wasn't particularly hilly, there were quite a few lanes that would prove challenging, or more likely tiresome, with three wheel-tracks to accommodate. Never mind-it promised excellent scenery, and I could ride to the start.

In my keenness not to be late I set out from home at 6am. Even at this hour the sun was shining from a sky of cerulean blue, and the temperature was mild enough for shorts and short-sleeve jersey. Intent on avoiding urban roads as far as possible, I rode out through Whitchurch and Pangbourne, bagging a couple of upright riders on the rise over the motorway bridge. I climbed through the straggling village of Ufton Nervet, which I think you'll agree is worth a visit if only for the name, and emerged in fragrant, deserted pine woods. Three spotted woodpeckers darted across my path. The air was heavy with the coconut scent of broom.

Though I arrived at the village hall in Pamber Heath 45 minutes before the start, there were already plenty of riders there. I'd last seen Mark Beauchamp a couple of weeks earlier, on Porkers. I'd been heading away from the Taunton Deane control when I gradually became aware of a shadowy presence approaching. It turned out to be Mark, whose headlight had failed. I talked trikes for a bit with brevet card supremo Robert Watson, who'd triked round the Newbury Downs on his Trice XL but had not made it back to HQ before I left (I'd been skiving that day, and merely turned up at the finish, on two wheels, to eat unearned cake and socialise). Then I talked trikes for a while with Linda Johnston from Devon. And a Charlotteville CC member (it's funny, there seem to be almost as many of them as there are Willesden members. Where is Charlotteville? Come to that, where is Willesden?). And a few more riders. George Hanna, looking so lean and mean he could hide behind a drainpipe after ingesting a seven-course meal from Captain Porky's International House of Lard, had some farfetched story about Pedals intending to ride Edinburgh-London on his postman's bike. I made a mental note to bring a large, heavy parcel to the start for Pedals' basket. Just for extra verisimilitude, you understand. (This story turned out to be untrue. Instead of riding his postie's bike, Pedals had an immense chainring, attached to his usual steed.)

Before long we were sent on our way. It can be a bit tricky riding a recumbent trike in an upright bunch-you can't always get a clear view of the road surface or room to swerve round potholes, and downhills tend to involve more braking than the trike pilot would like. Mike (the Bike) Stoaling and George disappeared into the distance, never to be seen again. I threaded my way through the field until I was comfortably ensconced in the second group. I had the beginnings of an interesting conversation with Chris Avery about Polari, 1950s gay backslang, until the road tilted downwards. Like many a tabloid journalist, I made my excuses and left.

Zooooooooooooooom! The bunch dwindled in my rear-view mirror, then the road flattened out. After a few minutes a couple of riders latched onto my rear wheel-not that this would have done them any good, of course. They pulled slightly-very slightly, hmm-ahead on the climb to the first, secret control. We soon joined the B road which, after plunging down into Ashford Hill (full Lateral Banana time on the trike) climbs gently until just before Kingsclere. There was a slight chattering noise from the front wheels when the trike hit uneven road surfaces. By Kingsclere the noise was bad enough to make me stop to investigate (if there's one thing I've learnt over the years, it's don't ignore Mysterious Noises. They are of a cantankerous disposition and will bite if ignored).

The left front mudguard was binding on the tyre. No problem, I could just adjust the mounting bracket to raise the mudguard slightly. Except that my Cool Tool wouldn't fit the requisite allen bolts. (A couple of big bunches whizz by.) I try a little brute force instead: Seems OK. I set off in pursuit.

The mudguard is still chattering slightly, unless I apply pressure with a finger. I apply pressure with a finger, and myself to chasing the riders who have just passed me, catching a dozen or so on the rise before the turn towards Watership Down.

Though Watership Down includes a couple of sections that are 1 in 6-ish, it isn't a daunting climb, but it's not a natural trike road: It's very narrow, poorly surfaced, and strewn with debris. Even on a machine as narrow as the Micro, it's hard to avoid hitting pointy stuff with one wheel or another. Normally there are quite a few cars parked at the top, but, with footpaths closed because of foot and mouth disease, it was far quieter than usual. I crested the summit and began to descend, at a relatively prudent speed, in the hope of avoiding flat tyres.

The mudguard began to chatter again, more loudly. I glanced down to see that it was now pivoting freely around its mounting bolt. Ah, I'd better stop. I retightened the bolt attaching the mudguard bracket to the kingpin-this had obviously been a bit loose from the outset (hindsight is a wonderful thing)-and set off again down the gated road. In Sydmonton guinea fowl scattered in panic as the trike approached. I rode slowly and carefully, reasoning that flints would be less likely to penetrate if I hit them at 24 kph than if I hit them at 35 kph. It was a relief to reach the Whitchurch road, even if it did mean hauling myself up the sudden short wall in Cole Henley. I stopped at the top for a final adjustment of the mudguard, then gritted my grin and went hunting.

From Whitchurch to Houghton, the first real control, is gentle going, on quiet lanes through pretty villages of thatched cottages. The route closely tracks the Test, a famed trout river. On a sunny day, it's paradise on wheels. It was a sunny day...

Even as I was rubbernecking at the scenery, I was picking off riders and small groups that had passed me while I was fettling my mudguards. I tromped past Tim and Pauline Wainright shortly before Houghton.

The approach to the control required a little light off-roading. There was a choice between stony path and rough grass. I went for the grass, though a trike as low as the Micro is not ideally suited to this kind of thing. I began by intending a quick stop, guzzling an energy bar and glass of milk, but was diverted by a chat with Vicki Brown. However, after a while I told myself, mentally adopting a booming Chanin-like voice, "time is miles," "this is a randonée, not a holiday." I prudently elected to wheel the trike back to the tarmac, and still more prudently removed the bits of stray vegetation from the derailleur before setting off again.

Strangely, before long I encountered Tim and Pauline's group, retracing after apparently overshooting the control. I could sympathise, being no stranger to the off-route excursion myself. The AUK group is an excellent thing. You bash cheerfully along, enjoying the conversation or, more usually, the exchange of insults, basking in the warm glow of confidence that somebody in the bunch is actually reading the route sheet and doing the navigation for you. In fact, of course, you're all so busy concentrating on not ending up in a heap in the middle of the road and on pointing out the more embarrassing quirks of each other's digestive systems that nobody can spare more than the occasional quick glance for the route sheet and you are almost guaranteed to sail past the appropriate turn. Which, of course, simply provides one more pretext for a free and frank exchange of views.

The weather was becoming very hot, but I noticed I was still wearing arm-warmers, for some reason. I rolled them down, producing another variation on cyclists' strange sun-tans. Not just the tanned keyhole on the back of the hand, surrounded by pale bits, not just the tide marks at lower thigh and ankle, I was going to have a white patch around my wrist corresponding to scrunched-up arm-warmer.

In Mottisfont Hatt Lane turned out to be Ha!! Lane from the trike pilot's viewpoint. Lots of potholes and gravel, a small jungle down the middle of the (alleged) road, and a verge full of drooping nettles poised to punish a moment's inattention with a sting on the ear. I crept along at 16 kph in full p*nct*re-avoidance (and nettle-avoidance) mode.

I confidently identified the wrong house as the answer to the info control in Awbridge. I've never really seen the point of info controls. Like most people, out of inertia I'll follow a route sheet to the best of my ability (unless I'm in a bunch) and never give a second thought to the possibility that there may exist a shorter alternative route. After all, the challenge is to do the specified distance within the specified time. If you short-cut the only person you're short-changing is yourself.

The route passed the foot of Dean Hill, giving me the opportunity to try to scope out the precise spot in the field on which I landed in my aerobatic crash on the 2000 Brimstone 600. I was almost sure I could see a small crater. Then there were a few gentle climbs as we skirted Salisbury and the ramparts of Old Sarum. A rider was rummaging for his brevet card at the next info control. I had cunningly memorised the question from the brevet card. Even more cunningly, as it turned out, I'd memorised the correct question this time. I called the answer to the info question to him, and he tagged along.

As we ambled towards Amesbury along the Woodford valley, I noticed my companion's front light was on. Ah, another LightSpin with a wonky spring. I explained how LightSpin are addressing this problem, and how ICE had cured it on my Micro by modifying the dynamo (a long allen bolt is attached to the base of the dynamo, passing through the removable panel that covers the contacts; a zip-tie round the bolt holds the dynamo securely in the off position; to switch it on, you flip the zip-tie off the end of the bolt. The I in ICE stands for Inspired).

By the time I reached the Friar Tuck Cafe in Amesbury I was feeling distinctly parched. I ordered tea, milk, and orange juice as well as a variation on the perennial theme of beans on toast (egg and beans, since you ask). The drinks barely hit the sides, but a sudden long queue of randonneurs, fly-spattered and dripping with sweat, deterred me from getting a refill or two. There'd be a garage or pub down the road...

The sun was beating down as I climbed over the downland to Bulford, feeling a sudden empathy with sausages on a grill pan. The world was composed of big blocks of vivid, saturated colour: azure sky, acid-yellow fields of rape, the dense greens of foliage.

Between Amesbury and Bulford, a distance of about 4 km, I drank most of a large bottle of water. In Bulford I stopped in a garage and bought several bottles of citrus-flavoured rocket fuel. After all, I was about to set out across the Empty Quarter, otherwise known as Salisbury Plain.

Plain (n): An extent of level land. That's what Chambers Dictionary says. But Chambers Dictionary has clearly never pedalled across Salisbury Plain, which is an extent of distinct undulations and minor lumps with nary a level bit to be found. On the other hand, Salisbury Plain is dotted with identical military camps apparently mass-produced in some secret MoD factory. Blindfold a squaddie from (say) Tidworth, dump him in Bulford or Larkhill and remove the blindfold, and he will think he's at home. Military camps apart, this stretch of the ride was rather magical, tracking the River Avon through pretty villages.

After Upavon the route heads for Marlborough. I stopped briefly in the shade of a tree in Alton Barnes, ostensibly to swap the empty bottle in the cage on the boom for the full bottle in one of the cages on the side of the seat. In reality, of course, I just needed to let my radiator boil for a while; I could equally well have done the bottle-swap on the move.

Wilting in full sun (is this how Wiltshire got its name?), I climbed the bare hillside to cross the Wansdyke path. This part of the county is particularly rich in Really Old Stuff (if you'll pardon the technical term): white horses cut into the chalk downland, long barrows, earthworks, field systems, strip lynchets, lynch strippets, etc. Wearing my antiquarian's hat, or more specifically a blue paisley Buff, I sweated up the hill past many an ancient mound of uncertain purpose.

A large executive car overtook me slowly, driving alongside for a while. I wafted a regal hand at it. After a couple of hundred metres I encountered the car again, parked by the side of the road. Several small children waved energetically through the open windows as I passed. The car overtook me again, even more slowly this time. More waving. I crested the climb and engaged a tromping gear. In a bit I encountered the car again, this time parked on my side of the road. The driver and the children were lined up beside it, and waved enthusiastically as I whizzed past.

As I sneaked into Marlborough via Lockeridge and Manton, I again met up with my friend with the faulty LightSpin. I was sufficiently dazed by the traffic and crowds in the town centre to make a half-hearted attempt to go off-route, but my companion set me right. The next bit should have been easy: familiar, gently rolling lanes along the valley of the River Kennet. But the oomph had vanished from my legs. I needed a watering hole, soon. Make that very soon. The first village had only a Post Office store, closed (needless to say). But there was a pub in Axford. I parked the trike and tottered in. With a tongue of cotton wool ("Cab I hab a pite ob orijathoda pleeth?") I ordered a drink.

I seemed to have stepped into the set of Fawlty Towers. A rather drunk middle-aged woman was seated at the bar, eating seafood and telling the barmaid (who seemed, understandably, to be on the point of slipping into a coma) a loud and complicated anecdote about the previous evening. At frequent intervals she would laugh ("Hoop hoop hoop"-Prunella Scales as Sybil Fawlty to the life), then repeat what she'd just said, at even greater volume, to the landlord, who was standing at the other end of the bar attempting to watch the FA Cup Final in peace. It didn't take me long to finish my orange and soda. Strangely (?).

In no particular hurry, I lounged on the trike for a while in the shade. Mr LightSpin came by, having been delayed by an exploding bungee. The weather wasn't going to get any cooler. With mild reluctance, I began pedalling again, in a desultory fashion. Before long the route turned away from the river valley to climb over the downs to Aldbourne. Shade was in very short supply. Again doing my famed impression of a sausage on a grill pan, I began winching myself up the hill. Squinting in the sunlight, I could just make out Mr LightSpin walking up the road ahead.

The Aldbourne control was under a tree on a green by a stream. After downing a couple of glasses of squash in, ooh, not very long at all, I stomped off to find a shop to buy some sports drink. I tried and mostly failed to eat some malt loaf (does anyone else find that this stuff just glues itself to the roof of your mouth and defies attempts to swallow?). The idea of lying in the shade of the tree for a while was appealing. Make that very appealing. But there was only about 50 km to go. I settled for lying down on the trike again, and a little light pedalling.

It was easy going along the idyllic valley to Hungerford. There's a particularly odd-hexagonal?-thatched cottage by the stream, then a couple of pretty villages. But the most glorious section is the tree-studded common after Hungerford, especially on a summer afternoon. I rolled gently on narrow, quiet lanes to the outskirts of Newbury. Briefly there was heavy traffic, then a gently undulating road skirting the old air base at Greenham Common. I bagged my final upright on the climb towards Tadley, then made a big entrance at the finish control, zooming towards the door of the hall then slamming the brakes on at the last moment.

The Taste of the Test comes highly recommended-it's a very rewarding ride, without being unduly challenging. Equally good as a first 200, or a fifty-first....

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