It was clear that if I was going to ride Shawn Shaw's Porkers 400, the first hurdle was going to be getting to the start. Inquiries at Reading station revealed that the train service to Poole would turn into a bus service at Southampton (engineering work due for completion by the end of March but still unfinished in late April). And naturally there was no guarantee that the bus driver would agree to take a passenger-excuse me, customer-eccentric enough to be travelling with a bike. I was politely informed I could either ride the 30 miles or so from Southampton. Or lump it. I believe this is known as consumer choice.

As a card-carrying Auk, in principle I had no objection to the potential extra 60 miles, but I was less than confident of my ability to ride a 3-point 400, ride to Southampton, and get a train back to Reading to arrive before 5 on Sunday afternoon, as Verity had requested. My main concern was the reliability of the rail service, of course (hollow laughter). I'd promised to leave Verity our car for the weekend, so there was nothing for it but to organise a hire car-though past experience suggested that the return journey would be an excursion into the twilight realm of sleep-driving...

I picked up the hired wheels and set off in brilliant sunshine on Saturday morning, reckoning I had comfortably left myself enough time to stop for lunch en route. I had reckoned without an apparently purposeless outbreak of motorway cones at Southampton, however. Panicked by the delay, I dived into the next service area and bought a pint of milk and the closest I could find to a high-carbohydrate pack of sandwiches (egg mayonnaise, which scarcely ranks as even a near miss). Needless to say, I arrived at Poole Ferry car park in plenty of time.

Also needless to say, there were plenty of familiar faces on hand. Andy Seviour, for some reason (possibly expressible in metres per kilometre), had opted not to ride fixed, so had to suffer an extra dose of banter. Ian Hennessey was still muttering about not knowing how to use his new computer-cum-altimeter, but I suspect he's worn it out already (it's not designed to cope with six-digit climbing totals). Paul Whitehead was telling people to get their entries in early for the Crackpot 1000 (you know it makes sense). My Brimstone partner, Robert Watson, was quietly sorting out bike and luggage. Mark Waters had a new haircut in honour of the occasion. Lee Shale hadn't. But hang on, something was wrong: There were 3 AAA points going, but where was Mark Houlford? No need to panic, here he comes, a green blur of speed-he'd ridden his first time-trial earlier in the week.

Shawn's leaflet had warned of a terrifying steep downhill hairpin lurking on a nameless lane somewhere in the night section. I'd been unable to pinpoint this on the Ordnance Survey, so asked Brian Cardwell where it was. Somewhere after Chard, he thought, his manner suggesting he was riffling through a sizeable mental file of appalling nighttime bends labelled (in Gothic script) "The Perils of Porkers." After last year's Brimstone, I had sworn I would at least run no risk of going astray, and was carrying a full set of 1:50,000 maps for the route.

All of a sudden we were off, with Shawn, among others, setting a painfully brisk pace. For a few hundred yards I was just able to chat to Ian, but then we had to wait for a traffic light while a small leading group legged it up the road. The lights went green, and Ian set off like a scalded cat. By Lytchet Matravers my enthusiasm for wheelsucking and closing the gap had evaporated, and in any case the egg mayonnaise sandwiches were threatening to rerun the scene from "Alien" in which John Hurt's dinner disagreed with him so memorably. I clicked into tourist mode.

After a dull and wet National 200, the Dorset weather was intent on making amends. The gently undulating farmland basked in warm sunshine. I loitered my way to the secret control (a waste of a beautifully appointed bus shelter at this stage of the ride) to such good effect that I was caught by a small group including Marks Houlford and Waters, Andy Seviour, Dave Pilbeam, and Steve Oxley. The lanes to Weymouth seemed to be almost entirely downhill-surely this couldn't be right? As we rolled along the coast road Andy pointed out the hump of Portland Bill at the tip of the bay. A mile or two of heavy traffic in Weymouth, then we were across the causeway, drab MoD buildings on one side of the road and the shingle ridge of Chesil Bank on the other. Dodging homicidal bus drivers, we ground our way up the first real climb of the ride. I glanced to the right and was spellbound, instantly forgetting oxygen debt at the sight of the great sweep of Chesil Bank curving into the distance. As we neared the end of the promontory a shimmering vista of sea opened up on our left. A flock of twitchers was flapping about excitedly, their spotting scopes trained on the waves, and failed to notice the gaggle of Auks flying by. The cafe by the lighthouse seemed rather overwhelmed by the influx of randonneurs, so I abandoned Plan A (beans on toast) and settled for Plan B (anything in plain sight that was ready to eat-leaden fruit cake).

After a while the ache in my jaw told me I was consuming more energy eating the cake than I was likely to derive from it. Time to be off again. Bunches are like buses-never around when you want them, then three arrive at once-so I set off alone. There was no doubt about it, Portland Bill was a very odd place: rows of stone cottages in a treeless landscape, the jumbled rocks of quarry workings, a bizarrely large and imposing church in the middle of nowhere.

The section to Portesham seemed hillier than I recalled from the Dorset Coast, which I put down to the effects of the cake. Never mind, no Abbotsbury hill on this ride, I told myself as I turned off the main road in Portesham. This was true enough, but the climb up to Hardy's Monument proved a more than adequate substitute. The descent to Littlebredy and ride along the valley were pure delight, the rolling downland glowing in golden late afternoon sun.

There was no mistaking the right road in Litton Cheney: "1:4" the signpost said. This climb proved a bit of a pig, largely because it was a straight and viewless ramp through the trees. The carpet of bird droppings on the road and the excited cawing from the treetops indicated it would be a good idea to climb at the briskest possible pace (dead slow). Once I was out of the trees the gradient eased, but it was still snail-like progress all the way to the communications masts on top of Eggardon hill. So there was plenty of time to appreciate the scenery (and plenty of scenery to appreciate).

I remembered the next bit from the map: Downhill all the way to Beaminster (I've never been all that good at reading contours!). By now the sun was setting and the thought of beans on toast was becoming an obsession. Unfortunately the Beaminster tea rooms were offering only greasy toasted cheese sandwiches. At least there would be no danger of bad dreams since I wasn't going to be sleeping...

Robert arrived, and we teamed up for the nighttime stretch. The climb to Broadwindsor wasn't difficult, but the toasted cheese sarnie was locked in battle with the Portland fruit cake, and I was feeling distinctly wonky. As ever, chat was the best distraction, and after Robert's PBP tales, an "Are you going to ride the..." or two, and a few rose-tinted recollections of last year's Brimstone, I realised that the cheese had won by one pinfall and a submission and I was now feeling OK. Before long we encountered Tim and Pauline Wainwright and another rider-a nice comfortable mini-bunch. I paused at a junction to switch on my lights, then raced after the LEDs down the road. It was a fast and straight descent into the small village of Forton, but it led to a Hairy Moment as I encountered traffic calming in the form of a chicane and hump and was briefly airborne. Traffic may have been calmed, but the same could not be said of the cyclists, who were still muttering miles later...

Pauline steered us through Chard, Robert spotted the eminently missable church in Combe St. Nicholas, and my map confirmed that the right road was indeed an extremely tiny lane, with rocks and grass in the middle. A 1 in 4 climb came as further confirmation. Before long, as advertised, we encountered the steep downhill bend, but since the lanes were so narrow and stony, we were proceeding with such caution that it barely registered. The long ascent out of Bishopswood split the group up, so by Churchinford, when the road flattened out, Robert and I were on our own again.

The plummet down to Hemyock set my teeth chattering, but the streetlights in the village and along the valley to Culmstock came as a pleasant change after the dark of the lanes. One of these days, I told myself, I must go to Hemyock in daylight. As ever, the Hemyock valley seemed freezing; as ever, before long there was a climb to warm us up. Bumps of locality honed on the Brimstone soon brought us to Taunton Deane services-after a couple of Shawn's rides you get the feeling you could be parachuted blindfold into any part of Wessex (except Cucklington) and find your way to Green Pond Cottage, say. Not necessarily by the most direct route, though...

Andy was on the point of leaving as we arrived, but paused long enough to recommend the vegetable lasagne. It wasn't a toasted cheese sandwich, and that was recommendation enough for me. Helen Vecht, who was riding the route in daylight, told us of the sights we were missing, but it was hard to feel too hard done by as Porkers had already served up several of the most memorable views to have come my way all year.

Eventually, belching discreetly, Robert and I tore ourselves away from the warmth and light and set off on the climb back up onto the top of the Blackdown Hills. I'd not been looking forward to this, but, whether thanks to the meal or thanks to the rest, it was no problem. In fact, it seemed shorter going up than it had done going down. We continued along the wooded plateau amid the magical quiet you only get on an Audax night ride (well, it's the only time I encounter it-I'm asleep otherwise!). We were just beginning to wonder where the downhills had gone, when we hit the A303 and whooshed into Ilminster.

The road began to rise again as we went through Kingstone, my neck and shoulders were hurting, and I was feeling zombified-yes, it was definitely a "Why am I doing this?" moment. "Let's pause at the top," I suggested. The climb proved longer and steeper than anticipated, and before long my glasses were so fogged I could navigate only by aiming in the general direction of Robert's back light. Towards the summit a track led off the road, so we parked the bikes and, with indescribable relief, lay flat on our backs on the ground, steaming gently. After 5 or 10 minutes we began to be aware that the ambient temperature wasn't all that much above zero-time to be on the move again.

Fortified by the thought that there wasn't far to the next control, we hurtled into Crewkerne, risking hypothermia, and warmed up again with the climb to Winyard's Gap. On the descent to Halstock we disturbed a badger, which lolloped along for 30 yards in the glare of the lights before vanishing into the hedgerow. There was a warm welcome at Green Pond Cottage, thanks to Ian Hennessey's wake-up call earlier. The effects of my mini-nap had worn off, and I found myself nodding off between mouthfuls of mushrooms on toast. I toyed with the idea of an hour or two's proper kip, but decided to press on with Robert as it was nearly dawn.

A good decision, it seemed-the next few kilometres were pretty easy. We wheeled through bizarrely named villages (Ryme Intrinseca, anyone?) as the sun rose. Before long a large hill topped by a radio mast was visible in the distance. "Bet we're going there," I said, remembering Eggardon Hill. We were... By the time we reached the foot I was beginning to feel sleepy again. A long drag, then a ramp of 1 in 6 that had me fumbling for the granny gears, then the slope eased again. Back onto the middle ring. Another steep bit coming up, I thought dozily, change down again. I became dimly aware I must have engaged a very low gear indeed. I glanced down-oops, no gear, in fact. I just managed to disengage my foot from the pedal and stop myself toppling into the greenery, but it was a near thing. Once the chain was back in place, I sleepcycled up the rest of the hill after Robert, past the radio masts. Not far to the control now, a downhill through the trees. The bike picked up speed, and I began to...nod off. I woke with a jerk that fortunately didn't unseat me from the bike, and the resultant surge of adrenalin was enough to keep me awake just long enough to reach the control and order my sarnie. I laid my head on the table, and the lights went out.

The next I knew Robert was shaking me gently by the shoulder. "Um, I did think about eating your breakfast, but I couldn't do it." What can you say-greater love hath no randonneur. Invigorated by my five-minute nap, I made with the teeth and siphoned up half a gallon of tea. Trying hard not to think about how close we were to the finish (as the crow flies, or the sensible person cycles), we set off again. Back up the hill we had just ridden down, by a different route...

After a nice steady climb, we reemerged by the radio masts. By now I was properly awake and could appreciate one of the most wonderful descents that has ever come my way-steep enough to be nerve-tinglingly fast, but reasonably straight, so you could take in the immense sweep of the Blackmoor Vale bathed in early morning sun. At the next crossroads there was a "Road Closed" sign in the direction we needed to go. "There's no such thing as a closed road when you're on a bike," I said. Maybe so, but this came very close. The bridge that had formerly taken the road over a steep rail cutting was no longer there. We eyed the precipitous banks and rubble-strewn railbed dubiously. Robert noticed tyre tracks in the earth, and there didn't appear to be any stranded randonneurs or mangled bikes at the bottom, so we decided to try scrambling across. On the other side, as we plucked tendrils of vegetation from the bikes and ourselves, Robert said: "I wonder whether this qualifies as a rough-stuff now?"

The B road to Mere was a slog into a headwind. We told ourselves (the way one always does) that it would soon be a tailwind that would waft us over whatever hills Shawn had in store for us. By now we were both suffering twinges in the neck and shoulders again, so we awarded ourselves a dried apricot stop in the town square in Mere before tackling the ramp up onto the downs. After crawling up the hill, I was looking forward to a swift and effortless descent through the Deverills, but the headwind was still there. Aargh! Having to pedal downhill-there ought to be a law against it.

Before long we were at the pub in Sutton Veny, where the day's second breakfast soon put back what the headwind had taken out. We set off gently on the final leg, along a sunny Wylye Valley swarming with cyclists, almost all of them travelling faster than we were. In Wylye the route turned away from the river and cut across the grain of the landscape to Sixpenny Handley.

I'd been a bit worried about this leg of Porkers. According to the Ordnance Survey, it contained five one-chevron climbs in rapid succession, but the scenery was so crackling (and the breakfast had been so good) that I scarcely noticed them. The chocolate on the hobnob was a descent into Sixpenny Handley so exhilarating I feared I would need surgery to remove the grin from my face.

And that was about it, really. There was a nice easy run into Poole via Wimborne, then the usual table groaning with food at Shawn's place (surrounded by randonneurs, just groaning). What can I say: Perfect weather, a stunning route with climbs evenly spaced, excellent company, and I didn't even get lost. You should have been there. Porkers-a pig of a ride? Nope, a pussycat. Give it a go!

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