The Hard-Boiled or the Exmoor? I was in a dilemma-both sounded "interesting." In the end the decision was made for me: Verity was running a half-marathon on the Sunday, so I would be on child-minding duty. The Exmoor it was (gulp!).

Andy Blance's route sheet promised-or should that be "threatened"- 4,514 metres of climbing, so I felt it might be a good move to review the contents of my rack bag and limit myself to the real essentials. I had a mental picture of the kind of small but perfectly formed luggage that riders like Steve Oxley can manage even a 600 on: You know, an improbably compact waterproof in one jersey pocket, a honey sandwich in the other, and a wedge-shaped saddle bag just big enough for a single skinny tube.

My bike, on the other hand, is festooned with "What if?" stuff. Two spare tubes, and another one for luck if rain is forecast. Plus puncture kit. Tool to remove and refit tyres. Plus tyre levers, in case it breaks. Folding tyre. Plus a couple of sleeves (you never know!). Twice the quantity of "rocket fuel" I think I'll need. Gloves, in case it turns cold. Mitts, in case of a mild spell. Carton of rice pudding, for if the bonk strikes between controls. Dried apricots, in case it strikes again. Backup lights. Fresh batteries. Spare route sheets. Double helpings of bananas. AUK cap with unspeakable brown stains (almost certainly banana). Maps... You get the picture.

Unfortunately each time I delved in my bag and came up with something I knew rationally I wouldn't use, I could imagine with perfect clarity a set of circumstances in which that item would prove vital. I had to shed some weight though. Hmm... The Travelmaster is rather heavy, and the route sheet looks pretty clear. That's it-leave the map behind. But don't forget the rope and crampons...

A glance around the chilly but sunlit school car park at the start was enough to indicate that Mad Cyclist Disease (caused by the ingestion of vast quantities of beans on toast, bananas, and tea) is spreading. Seventy odd bikies, some of them very odd, seemed to feel that grovelling up 4 and 1/4 AAA points' worth of hills was the perfect way to spend a Saturday.

Mark Houlford had turned green in honour of spring, with a bike colour-coordinated down to the tyre sidewalls. His knees struck the only jarring note: blue, despite liberal coating with the kind of liniment dispensed in flameproof jars and best applied wearing asbestos gloves. He had resolved the Exmoor/Hard Boiled conundrum by entering both. Needless to say, he was by no means the only rider planning a double.

I explained to Ian Hennessey that I was feeling a bit nervous since I'd never attempted anything over 2 and 1/2 AAA points before (the Brimstone). He reassuringly told me not to worry: The Exmoor is easier than the Brimstone. (Pause) Well, it's shorter anyway...

Appropriately enough, there was a sprinkling of mountain bikes. For some reason there seemed to be no tandems, trikes, or recumbents... Steve Abraham was taking weight-saving to extremes and had left derailleurs and freewheel at home. I hoped he was carrying a spare pair of knees.

The first few miles were fairly painless, to the extent that I began to entertain fantasies of an 11-hour ride. Then we encountered Crowcombe, or should that be Croak'em, hill, and all of a sudden there were no groups any more, just a straggling line of gasping riders climbing through the trees. Across open sunlit moorland, then a plummet down which revealed (aargh!) that we'd come up the less steep side of the hill. The route sheet advised care on the descent, and, with only a little smoke from the brake blocks, I was managing to hold the Longstaff steady at 60 kph when a blue and yellow blur streaked past my right shoulder. Back temporarily on the flatlands, the blur turned out to be a lad from Bridgwater who-brace yourselves-said he was riding his first randonnée. A four-point grimpeur might not be everyone's choice as the ideal introduction.

There was a rhythmical creak as I honked up a minor incline. Just my shoe, I explained. As we rode along the picturesque lanes through Stogumber, my companion was asking whether people often went off route. Sometimes, I said, especially when you're riding in a bunch and talking, not so often when you're on your own. Hang on, there's a sign for Monksilver, I think we go there.

The route sheet said: R at TJ and in 30 yds next L (no SP). Fine, except the L seemed to lead into a farmyard-can't be right. Perhaps 30 yds should have been 300 yds. Neville Chanin had materialized from somewhere, and I followed him for quarter of a mile or so without finding the L (no SP)-it's always no bloody SP in these circumstances. U-turn. To double-check, we followed the road into the farmyard and discovered-shock, horror-that it did indeed lead into a farmyard, and to a rather bemused farmer who seemed to have no clue where we were going. Fair enough, the same went for us.

Back at the B road we paused for further consultations. The late Mr Lewis came and went (I know not where). I decided that R at TJ should perhaps have read: L at TJ. Sure enough, in 30 yds there was a left turn (no SP). It seemed to fit. Also it led uphill-it must be right. But there was no fork near the top, just a junction with another B road. Time to look at the map, I thought, just before remembering that I'd left it at home in the interests of saving weight. Fortunately a couple of other riders had followed me up the hill (poor misguided fools), and one had a map. I checked my route sheet (if all else fails...) and realised I'd skipped a line, taking the wrong road into Monksilver. Never mind, the detour was only two sides of a triangle, say 6 km-easy enough to make that up. Predictably, the second side of the triangle proved to be 2 km straight up.

The next bit was almost easy, though many of the descents were proving tricky (start this ride with fresh brake blocks, or have the fear glands surgically removed before you set out!). After a bridge on the lane to Dulverton the road rose extremely steeply. "Engage low gear now," a sign said helpfully. Never mind that, it was bottom gear for me. All around was the sound of graunching derailleurs and knees. I discovered that if I kept my nose on the front wheel I could just about keep the tyre in contact with the ground. This was a very aerodynamic position, though that was an academic consideration at the speed I was travelling. On the other hand I needed all the help I could get.

After threading my way between rocks and potholes on the descent into Dulverton, I encountered Andy Blance stopped by a van with an AUK sign in the back. Secret control, I thought, looking forward to a pause. But no, it was just Andy chatting with the support crew.

A brief interlude along a glorious wooded river valley led to another climb. Like most of its companions, it had made a policy decision that it wasn't going to let being very long prevent it from being ridiculously steep. Steve Abraham, on the other hand, had clearly made a policy decision that if it was there, he was going to ride it and was honking where many might fear to twiddle.

At Five Cross Ways a motorist paused until I was within range, then made to move off as I approached. Before I could help myself I shouted, the motorist braked, and honourable retirement was no longer an option. On the road to Hawkridge signs advertised the 1 in 3 well in advance, so you could savour the prospect as well as the experience.

On the bridge at Tarr Steps were some friendly visitors from the planet Normal, who chatted amiably about where we'd come from and where we were going. To walk past them I had to hold the bike out over the river. I won't say I wasn't tempted to drop it in...

Jean and Peter Luxton were dispensing tea and good cheer in the car park up the hill. The first control: 60 km and 1424 meters of climbing covered. Time to take stock: Checking my computer, I discovered that my-moving!-average speed was around 20 kph. Hmm... Somehow the 11-hour ride didn't seem too realistic any more.

On the moors above Tarr Steps large numbers of people with Range Rovers and binoculars were doing something equestrian that involved a good deal of standing around. And no grovelling up improbable gradients. Definitely a pastime to consider.

As I was panting up the next serious climb, out of Exford, a procession of trail motorbikes came puttering down the hill. The riders' faces registered a mix of polite concern and growing disbelief as they sailed past a raggle-taggle line of grimacing cyclists. The views from Dunkery hill were stunning: sun-bathed moorland, ships apparently motionless on deep blue sea. I forked left (no SP, of course), hoping that the three-quarters of a mile since the last junction mentioned on the route sheet had really been that far, instead of just feeling like it.

Even by the standards of this ride, the next descent was narrow and gnarly. By sticking my bum firmly over the back wheel and shaving another few millimetres off the brake blocks, I just managed not to arrive at the bottom before the bike (though it was definitely a few seconds before my stomach caught up with me). At the bridge in the combe Neville was poring imperturbably over a map. (And eating a Mars bar. Time is miles!) Like me, he was unsure whether or not he had forked left at any point in the hurly-burly of the descent. Another couple of riders arrived. Eyeing the climb up the other side of the valley, we decided we were definitely on the right road.

I can't really bring myself to recall the descent into Porlock. Put it this way, I think I'd rather have gone up it! In the village Steve Abraham was refuelling outside a shop. "What's the info control?" I shouted. "Library," he said between mouthfuls. I decided to write it into my brevet card later. (I'm not entirely sure of the point of this info control-after all, you could just as well have gone up the Porlock toll road as Porlock hill after it.)

Ah yes, Porlock hill. A bit of a bugger really. To be strictly accurate, quite a lot of a bugger. Still, as I observed between gasps to a fellow rider while virtually track-standing on a 30-percent hairpin, at least the road is wide enough to zig-zag. Even so, I would gladly have swapped my granny gear for a great-granny gear. Towards the summit some bit of Dave Pilbeam's bike went "ping," or maybe it was a cardboard box problem, and he dropped back. Fortified by his confectionery, Neville, who had made the plaintive observation earlier that "We haven't gone very fast today yet," set about rectifying the situation in no uncertain fashion, and we zoomed down Countisbury hill ("Cyclists please dismount"-come on, be serious!) almost too fast to take in the panorama of sea and wooded cliffs.

Lynmouth, almost half-way in terms of distance, well over half-way in terms of altitude climbed. Or so I had told myself airily when looking at the route sheet. However, reviewing my arithmetic back in the real world, I now realised only just over half the climbing was done. And I was arriving with only just over half an hour to go before the control closed.

I shovelled down beans on toast and left with Mark "Green Man" Houlford and Dave P. Andy Blance's assurances that the next stretch was nice steady climbs were ringing in our ears. Steady it certainly was, almost continental, as Mark commented as we contoured up the wooded valley within earshot of the tumbling river. Nice, as it went on and on, I was not so sure about... As Dave and I emerged from the woods onto open moorland, smoke was visible in the distance. Gradually we drew closer, until acrid woodsmoke began to drift across the road. The smoke became thicker, and crackling flames were visible a few yards away. The pall became denser still, until flames were licking through the bracken by the roadside. I reflected that Dave might just find himself doing the double of the Char-Broiled and the Hard-Boiled. At last we emerged from smoke into sunlight. I had a celebratory swig of Isostar, and discovered it now came in barbecue flavour. It'll never catch on.

After an exhilarating descent to Simonsbath, the (very) slow and steady climbing resumed. I told myself my pitiful rate of progress was a natural result of severe smoke inhalation (self-delusion is a wonderful thing). Towards the top was a cairn, possibly the Tomb of the Unknown Grimpeur, but my glasses were too sweat-streaked for me to read the inscription. On the approach to South Molton some cheery soul had painted "Welcome to Hell" across the road. I lurched into the cafe control and was stricken with indecision about what to eat, ending up with a small almond cakey object that, on reflection, looked as though it would do for my hill climbing what green kryptonite did for Superman's powers of flight. As I watched Steve A. hoover up fish and chips I reflected that if I was going to improve on my event times I needed to do some serious speed work. With knife and fork. The first-timer I had met earlier in the day was ensconced in the cafe too, looking a bit dazed but still going strong. It was past time for the control to close as I left, but there was no sign of any influx of other riders. Only 30 km to the next stop, I told myself.

However, there's no such word as "only" on this ride. A steady slog up to North Molton gave way to a seemingly endless one-chevron climb out of the village. Dead straight, with plenty of false summits for maximum morale-boosting effect. The first-timer overtook me, observing that my shoe was no longer creaking. Ah yes, I said, but you should hear my knee... I knew from the route sheet that the section to Wheddon Cross contained around 700 metres of climbing, like the stretch from Lynmouth. The ascent from North Molton had felt like at least 800 metres, so the rest would be easy.

The descent to Withypool was, at any rate, but as I passed the Royal Oak I thought I heard the road give a muffled snigger. Sure enough, a gentle climb turned abruptly into a crampons and rope job, so steep that I performed a slow-motion wheelie. A puttering sound heralded the return of the procession of trail motorbikes. This time the expressions were of barely suppressed hilarity: "That bloke's still crawling up hills on a pushbike!" I attempted a debonair wave.

A few of the morning's mountain bikers were outside a pub in Exford-I presumed they had packed. Seemed like a good idea to me. But after the 1 in 6 out of the village the terrain became easier, the climbs less severe and more widely spaced. Even so, I had little time in hand when I reached the last control at Wheddon Cross. Inside the cafe there was much talk of riders packing and outside the time limit. There was no green kryptonite cake, so I opted for beans on toast again, eating half and gazing glassy-eyed at the rest. Only 44 km and one hill to go, or so I was told. (But it's about 3 km long.)

I left the control in the dusk feeling good, even frisky. Perhaps kryptonite cake and a glassy stare at a plate of beans was the magic formula. A few kilometres after the control I spotted the twinkle of an LED down the road ahead. I soon found myself alongside the rider, who proved to be Simon from Westbury, who had organised a chaingang through 200 km of wind and rain on last year's Wiltshire Cycleway 300, getting me home far sooner than I would have been if left to my own devices. The Exmoor had not been kind to him-two punctures so far-and he was having a bad patch. We teamed up and caught up on the chat, and the kilometres slipped by unnoticed. Then Simon, on narrow-section tyres, hit a pothole. That made it three punctures, but at least it was a front wheel. He'd run out of spare tubes, but I was still carrying a full stock, so we were soon back on the road.

After a lesson from Simon in nerveless descending in the dark we straggled into Bishop's Lydeard, speculating about the last climb of the ride. A dark mass loomed against the skyline. As usual after nightfall, disconcertingly, it was impossible to tell what kind of gradient we were facing. Anyhow, this was a purely abstract consideration, since by now anything steeper than 1 in 10 or so would have me in the granny gear. I always find it difficult to steer straight on climbs in the dark-the glasses steam up, and the patch of light swinging across the road with every pull on the bars makes me accentuate every zig and zag. The length of Cothelstone hill and my tiredness conspired to make my upward progress even less direct than usual, but the proximity of the finish was adding pep to my legs. I loitered and glanced back at the top, but there was no sign of Simon's light-then the descent took hold. It was mad bash time for the last few (gently downhill) kilometres, and I almost overshot the final control in my burst of enthusiasm and relief.

My signature on the brevet card was a ghastly parody of its usual self, but I was grinning fit to split my skull. Made it, just! I explained about my unscheduled excursion near Monksilver, as another rider arrived, wearing a grin that made mine look like the Mona Lisa's smirk. He'd just completed the Exmoor within the time limit for the first time in seventeen attempts! Simon turned up, exhausted but gratified.

An hour later, driving in a cloud of euphoria down the motorway, I had a sinking feeling: Had I had forgotten to write in the info control in Porlock? Oh no, I may have to do it all again!

For the record: Bleak open moorland, picturesque villages, forested hills, panoramic sea views, wooded river valleys. This ride has the lot (and more). Not only that, the climbs give you maximum opportunity to appreciate the scenery. Give the Exmoor a try-you know it makes sense!

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