As we climbed towards Stowell Ian dubiously eyed the leaden, purple-tinged clouds boiling across the sky ahead. "I hope this isn't going to turn out to be one of those legendary events," he said, as a peal of thunder cracked the skies...

PBP fever meant a big entry for Shawn Shaw's Brimstone 600 this year, despite the deterrent (or should that be incentive?) of 5 and 3/4 AAA points. Accordingly, the pre-ride breakfast and traditional nervous banter took place in the unfamiliar surroundings of the King's Head on Poole Quay. Getting into the PBP spirit, Shawn had also arranged a bike check. But if you ride this event without functioning lights you're not just barking, you're totally upminster (several stops further down the line).

Patrick Field, in psychedelic kepi, was riding a Burrows Ratcatcher LWB recumbent. Mindful that the weather forecast for the Exeter region was thundery showers, suggesting that there would be an awful lot of debris washed into the lanes after Exmouth, I'd opted to ride my upright rather than the trike. Pedals and Steve Abraham were riding fixed. Nobody was bonkers enough to be on tandem. There were a few MTBs, plus the deputy editor of Cycling Weekly and domestique.

In common with most people, preoccupied with the thought of PBP qualification, I'd allowed far too much time for breakfast at the pub. This left ages for nervous chit-chat. If I, with four Brimstones under my wheels, felt this edgy, how were the first-timers feeling?

It was a relief to get under way, and before long Ian "Memory Man" Hennessey and I found ourselves at the front of a smallish bunch. Hmm, possible tactical error here. But you've got to go with the flow. As we approached Fordingbridge Ian suggested we drop back, so we signalled right and merged back into the group. "Ah, very continental," Dave Collins observed.

The first leg to Abbots Ann presented few problems, though by the time we arrived at the cafe control the weather had switched from warm to sultry. Ian remembered to bring his waterbottle out of the control. I congratulated him on this feat of memory, then noticed I'd left my bottle inside. It was a good job I remembered to pick it up-the weather was now so hot and humid I was to drink over 1 and 1/2 litres in the flat (well, flattish) 50km to Codford.

We set off with Brimstone virgin Paul, bombarding him with sound advice. (The short version: Aim to get to Exmouth early enough to be able to ride as much as possible of the leg to Taunton in daylight, because the lanes are very tiny. And don't panic when you get to Exmouth much later than you expect.) This lasted until the A303, where Ian hit a rock and punctured. I stopped and waited for him, which was just as well since he discovered he had forgotten his pump. After rummaging in vain through the improbable quantities of luggage secreted in his Carradice Tardis Longflap saddlebag, he said: "Oh yes, the pump's in the middle of the back garden." Where else?

At the control in Codford we walked into a minor domestic incident. The temperature in the skittle alley was very high, but not as high as emotions in the kitchen. We ate our scrambled eggs on toast as discreetly as possible and sidled back out into the sunshine. Someone was saying something about a severe storm in Exeter. Hailstones the size of cricket balls, torrential downpours, that sort of thing. But there was no need to worry-we wouldn't be near Exeter for ages yet, and violent storms never last long. We ambled off again.

Before long the sky clouded over. Hazy grey soon turned leaden. Then, shortly after Cucklington, there was a spattering of heavy raindrops and distant rumbles of thunder, enough to prompt us to cape up. It was now only too clear that we were heading in the direction where the sky was darkest. We trundled through Horsington, wondering whether it would be followed by Cartington, and paused just before Stowell for a snack. I thought I'd better put on my cap to keep the rain off my glasses. Ha! The storm now struck in earnest. The temperature plunged. Sheets of rain and hail lashed down so hard I could no longer read my route sheet on the handlebars. The road became a river. Jagged bolts of lightning struck the ground as thunder reverberated in our ears. The special effects on this ride were quite something...

We wondered about finding shelter, but decided we'd get chilled if we stopped riding. We were almost chilled anyhow. Maybe getting struck by lightning would warm us up. There were floods on the A30 as we skirted Sherborne. Grimly we ground on. With every stroke of the pedals water squelched out of my shoes. A familiar figure loomed ahead near Halstock: Keith Smallwood. Keith is among the select band of AUKs who have developed Stealth technology to a pitch beyond the Pentagon's wildest dreams. He rides quietly and steadily, you pass him and say hello, then, without him passing you in the interim, you find yourself riding up behind him after another few km. Instead of a normal back light he has a home-brewed Black Box. It's supposed to be just a light, but I have my suspicions... We chatted soggily with Keith for a while about how much fun we were having, then gradually pulled away on the climb through Corscombe. Just before Beaminster the rain stopped. The roads were now steaming in the sun.

The cyclists, however, were now steaming in the tea shop (sorry: the Tea Shoppe) in Beaminster and wolfing down large portions of nursery food. Tinned spaghetti on toast? Yes please. It was tempting to sit for a while and dry out-just for a couple of hours or so-while swapping stories . But randonneurs are made of sterner stuff, and besides, the sun was shining again.

With Ian, I dodged debris and giant puddles to Charmouth. As we were tromping our way up the hill out of the town we were taken aback when a couple by the side of the road called out: "Are you on the Brimstone?" Shawn's fame is clearly spreading far and wide (and up).

Ian, almost on home ground, steered me through Lyme Regis. As I scrabbled my way to the summit of the climb out of the town a distinguished old gent with a military moustache said: "I say, well done that man!" Couldn't salute as I was honking at the time. I was pleased to-just-manage the climb out of Colyford without resorting to the granny ring. It occurred to me that I'd never got this far on the Brimstone before without abject twiddling. Never mind, Sidmouth would soon fix that...

With an air of weary resignation, a cyclist was trudging up the bottom of the hill out of Sidmouth. I just managed to overtake him, dancing on the pedals in my 24/28 bottom gear. There was no doubt that he was doing the sensible thing, so I told him so, between shuddering intakes of breath. Paul and Roger Huntley were also being sensible at the top of the climb. I attempted to score extra style points by shifting surreptitiously into next to bottom gear before passing them.

Andy Seviour and Jeremy caught us on the descent, where there were a couple of heart-stopping moments as we squeezed past oncoming vehicles in gaps only a few centimetres wider than the bike. After Otterton we were halted by traffic lights at road works on a bridge. Andy spotted a "short cut," and rode onto the footway. The lights changed to green, and, aching with laughter, we rode past Andy as he manhandled his bike through weeds and mud to get back on the road.

Dave Stevens was stamping cards at the garage in Exmouth. We loitered inside the shop until the fierceness of the air conditioning drove us out into the evening air. Outside it was warmer, but not that warm: Time for leg warmers and another layer on top. It was still daylight as Ian and I set off-good to see we were following our own tactical advice.

We climbed out of Exmouth, then in Yettington there was a bang, and an oath. A spoke on Ian's back wheel had broken. Ian, since he'd already qualified for PBP and was close to home, decided to pack, so I rode on alone. Last year's sandy dust in the lanes was this year's sandy mud. I concentrated on riding slowly, smoothly, and steadily in a successful effort to avoid falling off. Beyond Colaton Raleigh at one point there was so much run-off debris in the road I dismounted and wheeled the bike for a few metres. I was glad not to be riding this bit in the dark.

In fact I didn't lose the last gleams of daylight until the top of Hembury Hill-a personal best, I think. An attack of the dozies forced a brief stop after Dunkeswell. I took my feet out of the pedals and rested my head on my arms on the handlebars. I was roused by a small group of riders whizzing by, so set off down the hill after them, steering a rather approximate line until the rush of cold air chilled me into wakefulness.

After eating at Taunton Deane I stretched out under a table and dozed for a while-there's not really anywhere to rest between Taunton and Tor Hole. When I woke the restaurant was littered with dazed riders, some flaked out on the floor, some eating. A group was beginning to make desultory preparations to leave: Pedals, Steve A, Tim, George Hanna, Andy, Keith, among others. Oddly, nobody seemed very keen to set out again, so we loitered chatting while more riders wandered over to join us.

Eventually we rolled off into Taunton. As usual, the pace of the group crept up gradually, but we were still together as we headed out of the city centre. Until a certain roundabout, that is. Steve, Pedals, and I went straight on, following the signs for Bridgwater, as instructed. George shouted firmly: "Right." In a tribute to George's natural leadership qualities, everybody else went right...

Once we joined the Glastonbury road there was no sign of lights ahead, so presumably straight on had been right (if you see what I mean). Conditions were now rather pleasant: Not too cold, dry roads, little wind. I was settling down to bash across the flatlands with the Fixed Brothers when I noticed the bike was pogoing slightly. "Flat" lands in more senses than one, it seemed. Strange that after coming unscathed through tropical rainstorms and gritty lanes I should suffer a visit from the P*nct*re Fairy on smooth dry tarmac. I consoled myself with the thought that this was one more Essential Audax Experience for my collection: fixing a flat at night (going off route-this one almost doesn't count-sleeping in a bus shelter, sleeping in a phone box, falling asleep on the bike, eating breakfast seven times in 24 hours. Collect the complete set. Amaze your friends!). Unsettlingly, I couldn't discover what had caused the problem, so I replaced the tube and trusted to luck. In the meantime numerous riders whizzed by.

Back on my own again, I set off across the Levels, past the floodlit tower in Burrowbridge, a sort of scaled-down Glastonbury Tor. My keenness to hammer hard had somehow evaporated during the break to fix the flat. The Cycling Weekly duo were still going strong, though: Hello, goodbye. I caught them again shortly as they wondered whether they'd found the right road in Pedwell. 'Think so," I said. I reckon I've been up or down Pedwell Hill six times in the last year.

I now have it on good authority (thank you Brian) that there are a couple of benches at the top of the climb. The sort of hard, uncompromising, splintery benches that become uncannily soft, pillowy, and alluring at 3am in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately I did not know this at the time. As I rode on through Shapwick, the time I'd spent replacing the tube came back to haunt me. I was getting dozy. Ah, the Peat Moors Visitor Centre. Remember that from Ian's 300. I left the bike against the gate and crunched over the gravel car park to an inviting wall above a flagstoned path. Nice and dry. I leaned luxuriously back against the wall, stretched my legs out, and was instantly asleep.

What woke me was the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze. No, hang on, in the wind. Branches seemed to be creaking too as they tossed around. A couple of riders passed by. I shook myself fully awake. A group of half a dozen or so zizzed past. Time to get back on the road.

Where had this strong and blustery wind come from? How dare it blow in the wrong direction? I overtook a few riders, then on the climb into Wedmore I gradually closed on someone who was riding their bike according to World Wrestling Federation rules: Two pinfalls or a submission to decide. It was an absorbing contest. The bike and rider seemed evenly matched. Ah, it was Whitebelly. I chased the next tail light, then sat on the rider's wheel, gasping discreetly. It turned out to be Paul (the Brimstone virgin), who was mildly disconcerted to find that I wasn't Paul (Whitebelly and freestyle bike wrestler).

The climb up Cheddar gorge was complicated by the swirling headwind, but I was now feeling Extra Mature, possibly even Vintage, definitely Seriously Strong. I grinned cheesily at Andy and Jeremy and honked skyward.

Slick red mud had washed into the road on the descent to Tor Hole. Pausing to admire Drew Buck's vintage cars, evicted from their usual home in our honour, I strode purposefully (or tottered knackeredly) into the newly built garage. Drew and Byron were dispensing tea, pizza, and sympathy to an assortment of shell-shocked zombies in picturesque attitudes of prostration. Like an indoor version of the Raft of the Medusa, with teacups. The sound of snoring wafted from behind a screen of blankets across the garage.

After a feed and a doze, and after spinning out bottle-filling, teeth-cleaning, and other minor tasks for as long as I decently could, I headed back out into the blowy grey dawn with a couple of bits of Magic Flapjack in my bum bag (to put back in my legs what the headwind was going to take out). Andy and Jeremy were getting ready to depart, so we set off together.

I was feeling quite strong, despite the wind, so began to set the pace, keeping it nice and steady, or so I thought. Then I noticed that Andy and Jeremy had dropped back, so I eased off. This process was repeated for a while, until, somewhere near Bitton, they vanished. (Probably hiding behind a hedge until I was out of sight...) The roller-coaster lanes to Dyrham were fun, and the climb from Talbot Farm to the A46 somehow seems less of a slog when you know it's there. But by the time I reached the junction with the B4039 near Acton Turville I was beginning to flag. Magic Flapjack time. A rider caught me shortly after I set off again and asked, with feeling, how much further to Malmesbury. Conveniently, we passed a sign almost immediately: 10 miles. I sat on his wheel for a couple of miles, then moved to the front to do my share. Unfortunately I seemed to drop him on a small rise (I blame the flapjack), so I settled down to see just how quickly I could cover the distance to the control.

The Summer Cafe in Malmesbury was wonderful-reason enough to ride the event in itself. I had a big cafe au lait, a long baguette sandwich, and an almond croissant: Purely as dietary preparation for PBP, of course. I emerged in a mood so good it was scarcely dented by the discovery that it had begun to rain.

I had been expecting plenty of muck on the tiny lane through Warleigh, but, given that it's on top of a hill, it was a surprise to encounter floods covering the whole road for metres at a time. I wondered what the roads lower down would be like. The Cycling Weekly team were puzzling over the route sheet at the next T junction, so I showed them the way (again) and gave them a quick account of what was in store, especially the 1 in 4 climb after the T junction in Sharpstone.

As ever, the road through Hardington was so rough I was mildly surprised to make it to the A362 without losing a filling. At least on the bike it was possible to avoid some of the bumps. In Mells I caught Keith again, for the fourth or fifth time at least, and we rode the rest of the way to Nunney together. I listened in fascination to Keith's account of being struck by lightning. (No, not on the Brimstone, and, strictly speaking I suppose it was Keith's house that was hit, not Keith...)

We chatted with the Cycling Weekly duo at the garage control in Nunney Catch. I was very impressed. They were both on their first 600s, I believe, and were obviously set for a comfortable finish despite the fact that (a) the Brimstone is not easy, and (b) this hadn't been an easy Brimstone. Then I set off alone on the final leg, which, as ever, seemed to fly by, though the lanes after Shaftesbury were trickier than usual because of drifts of grit, rocks, and grot.

Greed is not an attractive characteristic, but I didn't let a minor consideration like that stop me from following Jean Shaw's renowned veggie chilli with her equally renowned veggie hotpot at the finish. I loitered at Shaftesbury Rd for the best part of a couple of hours, but riders were still only trickling in though the time limit was approaching.

A few observations: 76 riders started, 52 finished. Anyone who rode this year's Brimstone as their first 600 can feel confident about PBP, I think.

Shawn's rides engender hill-blindness, a bizarre condition in which familiar lumpy roads at home appear totally flat and your reaction when faced with, say, a medium-sized Alp is: (Shrug) Oh.

The Brimstone now has 5 and 3/4 AAA points. It's a hard ride, but when I first rode it it had 2 and 1/2, and the only AAA event I had then ridden was the Elenith, with 1 and 1/2. The Brimstone now is not very much harder than the one I first rode. You don't have to be a mountain goat to ride it, but you'll need to use low gears and not to entertain expectations of 5 hours' kip in a B&B.

Every Brimstone has been totally different, every one among that year's most memorable rides. This year's ride unquestionably suffered the most testing conditions to date in the calendar event (though Ian's permanent ride last year was surely harder). What each Brimstone has in common, on top of the scenery and the welcome that are standard issue on Shawn's rides, is that it leaves you feeling ready for anything. Even (aargh!) the Crackpot 1000...

Finally, an unsolicited testimonial. If you've any misgivings about the comfort of your current saddle, try a Terry Liberator (the one with the hole). It's the only saddle I've been able to ride a 600 on and still smile at the end almost as widely as when I'm on the recumbent trike.

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