Ian Hennessey's Blackdowns and Levels 300 goes up plenty of hills (but none of them are in the Blackdowns). It crosses the Somerset Levels (but it's anything but level). It has no AAA points. It's unquestionably the flAAAttest ride I've ever done.

As Ian and I headed to the start a blustery wind was lashing heavy grey clouds across the sky. I was deeply disappointed. The BBC website had promised showers at worst, but we were obviously in for a real drenching. Obviously...

We waved off the select bunch of riders--one tandem, nobody on fixed, not even Ian, nobody on recumbent, not even me--and waited a while for any late arrivals before setting off ourselves. After the traditional climb out of Honiton, just steady enough to lure me into not using the granny ring, just steep enough and long enough to make me regret the decision, we were soon bombing (trundling) along the ridge road and admiring as much view as the weather would allow. We passed the first casualty within a couple of miles: Stomach problems.

This year Ian had moved the Lyme Regis control down to sea level. "It's a nice climb back up," he claimed. Truly, as it turned out. The control was by the Fish Bar, a cheerful chippy (it occurs to me the Bar Fish would have been something completely different, moody lighting and designer beer).

After winching ourselves out of Lyme and up to the road past the top of Sector Lane, we plunged down-down-down until we crossed a stream near Thorncombe. This stretch features on the Coast Roads and Coach Roads 100, and Ian took great delight in pointing out how high the water level had been on last year's event. X was swept off his bike. Y was submerged to armpit level. Z was dragged to his doom by a giant squid. There were still large rocks scattered in the middle of the road. Glad I saw sense and turned back rather than ride that one...

We climbed gently up to Cricket St. Thomas (here be Mr Blobbies), then zoomed down onto the Levels. It was getting warm, and chunky insects went pok-pok-pok as they ricocheted off my spectacles. Important note: Keep mouth closed while descending.

Near the picturesque remains of Muchelney Abbey we overhauled another rider, in pudding-basin helmet. I noticed that his only front light was one of those flat oblong objects that use a 4.5 volt battery to emit a feeble glimmer: Not much use on lit roads, let alone the unlit lanes he was obviously going to be spending quite some time on. Hmmm...

Somehow, mysteriously, we arrived at the first control before several people we hadn't passed. We troughed on down, then, not for the first time, went to marvel at the green toilets. This is not a reference to their colour; no water is used (except that provided by the customer, as a notice explains), there is no smell, but there are enigmatic gurgling noises. As we were getting ready to set off again Mr P. Basin arrived, and quizzed me cheerily about the catering at the next couple of controls. He was still on intravenous chocolate, apparently. Pete Luxton was goggling at the weight of the tandem. "Just try lifting the back wheel," he said. I tried. I failed. This was odd, because there was nothing to suggest the bike was especially heavy. Maybe the tubes were filled with lead.

Ian had drunk some unnamed soft drink before we hit the road again. This went directly to his legs, which instantly went into frantic whirling mode even though he wasn't riding fixed. We passed the Museum of Peat, a major tourist attraction. Possibly. Then came the climb over the Mendips to Shipham, a blip on the flatlands. A bit of a slog this time, for some reason.

After Yatton I'd found an alternative route to the Clevedon control--not shorter, but quieter--so, in a spirit of inquiry, we tried it. No roundabouts, little traffic: a bit of a find, really. At Clevedon, in defiance of nutritional advice in Arrivee, we siphoned up soup while basking in the sun and admiring the newly restored Victorian pier. Among other things. P. Basin arrived, still cheery but complaining he had lacked gears low enough for the Shipham climb. This was not a good omen, since he had not yet encountered the real hills. Another rider set off with so much stuffed in his jersey pockets he looked like Quasimodo with a nasty case of slippage of the hump.

Clevedon to Bridgwater is pretty much dead flat. So it's easy. Unless the wind is blowing from Bridgwater to Clevedon. We struggled across the Levels, toiling into the gale through meadows full of wild flowers and complacent cattle. On the approach to Bridgwater we overtook an elderly rider, who gratefully accepted a tow. "Could have done with you two earlier," he said, with feeling.

Despite the prospect of 140km of hills and the warnings of the extravagantly French manager at the Cycle Inn ("Eet ees too meurch"), we opted for the veggie full house, which came complete with about a loaf's worth of toast. The tandem and P. Basin arrived shortly after the kitchen closed, so we donated our toast.

As we ambled up Cothelstone Hill we were overtaken by a rider in psychedelic kit and old-fashioned helmet, who immediately vanished down a side road. We speculated that he lay in wait behind the hedge, made a 50 metre effort, then turned off and collapsed to recuperate. We plodded on. Just before the summit we were overtaken by a rider in psychedelic kit and old-fashioned helmet, who immediately vanished down a side road. Spooky. Deja vu, or should that be: Deja couru?

In Bishop's Lydeard we passed The Fruit Shop (where you can buy fruit), The Flower Shop (where you can buy flowers), The Paper Shop (where you can buy newspapers), and The Corner Shop (where you can buy, er...). We failed to spot The Hill Shop, but it must have been there somewhere, judging by the terrain.

Through the pretty villages of Milverton and Halse, and the intervening lumps, and then we tromped up the climb to the turn-off to Screedy. Last year this lane was so full of sand-like dried mud that I had to abandon bike at a couple of points, but it was a bit more passable this time. But as we began the next climb, which I suddenly recalled was something of a monster, I became aware of a certain crunchiness in the drivetrain. Investigations were in order, and when we found a tractor heading down the single-track lane towards us we dived into a field entrance. There was nothing visibly wrong; right then, don't worry. We resumed the climb, but before long it began to rain and hail. We stopped and caped up, and when we moved off my drivetrain was suddenly mysteriously silent again. Aha! The rain must have washed off the grit that the lane to Screedy had introduced into the system...

The squall didn't last long, though the same couldn't be said of the hills. Ian alleges that this event cannot muster sufficient climbing even for a measly 1/4 AAA point. However, if you factor in the 100km of dead flat riding, the remainder, as a 200, would be worth about 2AAA points. Which, according to the internationally recognised Marshall Leg Fatigue Scale, would be about right. The scenery, I need hardly say, is terrific. As we approached Oldways End Ian commented on how he'd never actually seen any evidence that anyone lived there. Virtually the entire hamlet seemed to have turned out to witness our passage.

If I hadn't remembered how many climbs there were on this stretch, I might have been getting grumpy. But eventually we found ourselves at the pub in South Molton. There was a warm welcome from the landlady (and her dog), who swiftly dispensed delicious homemade soup. Another one in the eye for Arrivee's soupophobe nutritional advice.

The British national drinking and swearing squad were in hard training at the pub. South Molton is one of those quiet country towns where you have to make your own amusements. Unfortunately the amusements in question turned out to be jokes that Bernard Manning would have rejected as (a) unsubtle, and (b) racist.

By the time we abandoned the warm blue air of the pub the temperature was falling fast, so it was on with the thermals. Dave from Wellington arrived, hobbling but happy. Only 60km to go now. We had 80km of continuous hills behind us and the ride has no AAA points, so clearly the rest of the route is flat.

Er, no, actually. It's lumps a go-go. It was nice to have the excuse of stopping to switch on lights during this stretch. As we snailed our way up one of the 403 hills we decided it was about time for Psychedelic Pyjama Man to make another appearance. At some point here I had an attack of the dozies. Ian mentioned that South Molton had been misspelt on the brevet card. "I know, it's M-O-U-L-T-O-N," I said. "No U, it's not like the bike." "I know that," I said in puzzlement. Eventually, after Rackenford, just as you've ceased to believe that any downhill in the entire world is not immediately succeeded by a substantial climb, you hit an exhilarating descent into Tiverton. As we hurtled down, Ian called out something about stopping at a garage for a drink, then pulled into a dark forecourt. "Oh yes, it's Sunday," he said. Maybe I wasn't the only one suffering from the dozies. Before long we found an open garage.

From Tiverton you head for Cullompton. First there is the surrealistic experience of riding up a sizeable hill and seeing canal boats above you. Then there is the sting in the tail. A sign warns of a 25 percent hill, which goes on. And on. And on. Then on. And on. The task of climbing was complicated by the disorientating light show: Ian's dynamo light fading almost to nothing in rhythm with his cadence, my bright battery light swinging drunkenly as I tried desperately to avoid falling over, and also to remain pointing more or less uphill.

Ian, on home ground, went into headbanging mode on the descent. I took my line from his, assuming if he made it round I would. (Of course, for all I knew, that tail light might even now have run off the road and be heading across a field.) All too soon the descent gives way to a gentle climb, which shortly passes a sign: 20 percent. Oddly, this climb seems steeper than the one before. But it only goes on. And on. And on.

After Cullompton it only remained to slog up Hembury Hill, via the least steep road. The threatened rain finally put in its appearance at the summit, but we were past caring. I guzzled a couple of sandwiches at the finish and nodded out next to the radiator, waking briefly to applaud the arrival of Dave, followed shortly by the tandem team. It transpired that P. Basin had given up the struggle in Milverton--probably just as well (put it down as a valuable learning experience).

This is a terrific event, and will be run again in September. Just remember that not all non-AAA rides are flat all the time...

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