Last year someone (oh, all right, me) was incautious enough to describe Shawn Shaw's Porkers 400 as a pussycat of a ride. This year the pig showed its tusks...

Bear in mind I live in Reading, 80 miles or so from the start in Poole. Porkers begins on a Saturday at 2 pm--bad traffic.

Start minus 2 and 3/4 hours: Like a prudent randonneur, I'd cleaned and lubed my bike the previous evening, leaving myself only the two-minute job of mounting two LED lights on the forks and reinstalling my dynamo headlight on the fork crown (I remove the light when it's not needed as the bracket is prone to fatigue, like the rider). I installed the LEDs and front lamp, and, as an afterthought, flicked the dynamo to the 'on' position and gave the front wheel a spin. No light. Don't panic, I told myself, check the connections. Still no light. Take a deep breath, I told myself, the bulb must have failed. I replaced the bulb. Still no light. Keep calm, Marshall, I ordered sternly. Clean the spade connector and try again. Still no light. Right, now panic!

After no more than five minutes of gibbering and rolling around on the floor, I came up with a plan. Use my rechargeable 5-watt battery light--six hours on full charge. Admittedly I wasn't sure how fully charged the battery pack was. So take an ordinary battery light as backup. There was just one problem--the lights would only mount on the bars, and the bar bag would obstruct the beam. OK, remove the bar bag at night and lash it to the top of my rack bag with a bungee elastic.

Look, I'm not claiming this was a brilliant plan, but it was the best I could do in the circumstances.

Start minus 2 and 1/2 hours: The bike has been thrown in the car, and I leave home.

Start minus 2 hours: I cannot believe it (I've turned into Victor Meldrew). I'm still in Reading, in a traffic jam of citizens in a Saturday shopping frenzy. Practise Zen relaxation techniques. Actually, this is a lie. I gnaw the steering wheel.

(Expletives deleted.)

Start minus 17 minutes: Arrive at Poole Ferry Terminal car park, assemble bike and luggage, pick up route sheet. Notice Shawn is giving average rates of climb for each stage this year. Notice the figures and wish he hadn't bothered.

Start minus 7 minutes: Spot Robert Watson and go over to say hello. Remember I haven't eaten lunch. No time to eat the sandwiches I brought, so I just drink a pint of milk instead and eat one of the three giant bananas weighing down my bar bag.

Two o'clock, and the field of 50 or so departs. It's drizzling, but don't worry, before long the drizzle turns into proper rain. I'm not too concerned, as the weather forecast had indicated that the rain would clear shortly after lunchtime. Hang on, though, it IS shortly after lunchtime...

Three o'clock, and the rain is pouring down. We're passing army land, and there's a loud roaring noise which gradually gains in volume. A tank abruptly emerges from the bushes and speeds along a concrete track parallel to the road. The rain is now obscuring my glasses so thoroughly I can no longer read my route sheet on the bar bag. Tell Robert he's now Official Routefinder (and I am Blind Pugh).

As we climb over the downs above Weymouth, the weather closes in even more, enveloping us in a dank fog. My enjoyment of the descent is marred by an uncomfortable awareness that I'll require at least two weeks' notice in writing of any need to come to a full stop.

Through Weymouth and out towards Portland. Robert and I try without success to spot the grey prison ship moored on the grey sea against the grey sky in Portland harbour. The murk closes in again. On the climb from Fortuneswell we catch, very slowly, a figure shrouded in waterproofs on a mountain bike. On the rear rack, encased in a plastic bin liner, is a rectangular shape. Yes, it's Dr Box!

At the cafe at Portland Bill I make a policy decision that I'm going to have beans on toast no matter how long it takes. Breakfast was a long time ago. Shawn saunters in, beaming. He's wearing shorts, and his knees are blue. Are we enjoying ourselves? What a question...

Robert and I emerge from the cafe to find Tim Wainright trying desperately to induce his dynamo to work on a wet sidewall. Robert's dynamo is the same make yet works fine. My dynamo, on the other hand--but we won't go into that again. The weather seems to be clearing as we set out on the toughest stage of the ride. Over 20 metres per kilometre of ascent (I'm not sure I wanted to know that). As we leave the control we cross Mark Houlford and, sticklers for protocol, exchange insults. The prison ship is now visible, but is such a depressing sight I rather wish it weren't. After a succession of rolling hills on the road to Portesham we climb up towards Hardy's monument and swoop down past Littlebredy nestling in its valley. I remember the long 1 in 4 out of Litton Cheney so can pace myself appropriately (extremely slowly).

The weather holds, sort of, all the way to Beaminster. It's now twilight. I eat something in the cafe--can't remember what, because I was fretting about lighting. While Robert eats cake, I go outside to work out how to install my lights. It's now chilly, very chilly when your clothes are wet, so I put on every available garment: an extra thermal and a Pertex jacket on top of my Gamex. I remove the bar bag. My hands are clumsier than usual in the cold, and I drop a small but vital bit of a light bracket, which bounces off the grid over the drain directly beneath, which until that nanosecond I hadn't noticed. It lands on tarmac, rather than vanishing into the Beaminster sewage system. Phew!

My Vista 500 rechargeable light will mount OK on the bars, but with that in place, the bar bag bracket, and the computer mount there is no room on the bars for the ordinary battery light. Eventually I mount that on the stem, which means there's no vertical adjustment of the beam. Oh well. I strap the rechargeable battery pack round my waist and lash the bar bag to the top of my rack bag: the Leaning Tower of Luggage. This means my route sheet, in the top of the bar bag, is no longer visible. Oh well.

Robert, Paul Whitehead, Steve Abraham, and I set out on the climb to Broadwindsor. After a minute Steve realises he has left his water bottle at the control and goes back. After a few more minutes Steve is back, and so is the rain. This is my worst nightmare--heavy rain in the dark.

I'm concerned about the level of charge in my battery pack, so try to limit myself to the ordinary light as much as possible. In truth, the rain is lashing down so hard I can't see the road whichever light I use. I blindly follow the tail lights ahead, hoping there's no pothole or rock in the road. It occurs to me that this is an extremely foolish thing to be doing. It would be far more sensible to pack. If I leave it much longer there won't be anywhere to find accommodation, since beyond Chard Porkers takes to tiny, unlit lanes. While these thoughts run through my mind, I pedal on. It's not strength of will that keeps me going, it's the inertia of riding in a group, and the hope that the weather will ease.

After Chard the rain stops, more or less. As we head for Combe St. Nicholas the sky in the valley explodes with fireworks--amazing they could get them to ignite on a night like this. Oh yes, Paul says, they're all sat nice and warm in their cars watching. In recognition of the firework display we make a provisional decision to spare Shawn ritual execution at the finish. At the foot of the 1 in 4 out of Combe St. Nicholas I fumble my change into the granny gear and dump the chain. Instant panic as the group disappears--with no lights to follow how am I going to avoid ending up in the hedgerow? Without the flow of air my glasses mist up instantly, but somehow, by pure touch, I get the chain back in place in the pitchy dark and sprint up the hill after the bunch. To the extent that I'm capable of sprinting up a 1 in 4, that is...

Before long I'm back in contact. The rain holds off, but the weather now turns foggy, matching my glasses. I still can't see where I'm going, so continue trusting to luck and grimly following in others' wheel tracks. There's the usual freezing descent to Hemyock, then a brief interval of lit roads in the village, so I turn lights off in an attempt to conserve the batteries. By unspoken common consent, the stop for the information control in Culmstock turns into a full blown banana and banter break. Paul suggests we all check into the Ilminster Stage, the pub famed in Wessex myth and legend where Pedals, reconnoitring the Crackpot 1000, was so shattered he was barely able to get up the stairs. I wipe my glasses and discover the group has grown somewhat, though I have no recollection of either catching or being caught. Mind you, for most of the ride I've barely been able to see my own handlebars. There's Dave Stevens with a tea cosy on his head, plus several more riders whose faces are familiar but whose names are not.

We set off again. Before long the ordinary battery light fails, so I switch to the rechargeable retina-ripper. I'm very cold, but know that I won't be by the time I've climbed out of Hemyock. Oh good, we'll soon be at the motorway service area at Taunton Deane, Paul says. Beans on toast--certainly, sir, that'll be seven pounds ninety-nine.

Everybody's cold and tired, so there's more than the usual quota of aimless milling around and menu indecision at Taunton Deane. I go for soup and tea, in the hope of raising my body temperature, and sandwiches, on the grounds that there's probably some carbohydrate in there somewhere. Robert and Paul opt for the traditional Saturday night curry (without the customary several pints of beer first). At the cash desk I apologise for the sogginess of my money--the brevet card, safely sealed in its plastic bag, is the only dry thing in my luggage, which has at least doubled in weight.

It's now around ten hours since the event began. It's a good job I'm doing this for fun, I tell myself, or else I might be having a really bad time. I notice belatedly my sandwiches advertise themselves as 'Tuna Crunch.' Paul is keen to know how a fish can be crunchy. I feel it's probably wiser not to ask...

Before getting back on the road I put fresh batteries in the dead light and make a perfunctory attempt to dry some of my wetter bits with the hot air blower in the toilet. The group departs together into what is now a very cold and clear night.

The climb back onto the top of the Blackdown hills goes painlessly enough, then, near the Holman Clavell inn, something quite unexpected happens. The moon is shining down from a starry sky, almost bright enough for moonshadows. My facial muscles go into spasm. What is this bizarre yet strangely familiar sensation? Yes, it's a grin. I now appear to be enjoying myself. As we emerge from the trees into full moonglow, lights become almost unnecessary. We hurtle down the A303 into Ilminster. I remember suffering last year on an interminable climb up to the A30 above Crewkerne, but this mountain now seems to have been replaced by an insignificant pimple of a hill. Although it's the same road. Hmm... I appear to be having a Good Patch.

Steve is perfecting his human yoyo act. He falls off the back of the group and periodically slingshots past on climbs, turning an improbably high gear at an implausibly low cadence. Then we catch up and the process begins all over again. I'm feeling strong enough to swing on lianas from branch to branch, but settle for tromping up to Winyard's Gap in the middle ring instead. What exactly was in those sandwiches?

The Halstock control rates three of M. Michelin's stars (vaut le voyage). It's a big bright warm village hall with an even warmer welcome. Tea is thrust into our hands more or less as we come through the door. We barely have time to festoon the radiators with soaking kit before the food arrives. Steve falls asleep slumped over a radiator, and a cosy smell of singed fabric and smouldering hair wafts through the hall, mingling with the smell of food from the kitchen. Roger Philo is stamping brevet cards, having packed at Beaminster. There but for the grace, etc... It turns out that Tim and Pauline Wainright have also packed, so presumably Tim's dynamo continued not to cooperate. Brian Cardwell arrives, having fallen behind us after a visit from the P*nct*re Fairy. Paul wonders how Steve has managed to get his jacket so baggy and holey--bricks in the back pockets, perhaps? I realise several surprising things: I'm appreciably up on last year's time, I'm feeling wide awake, I'm still enjoying myself.

There's a hint of light in the sky as we set off again, so I decide to use the rechargeable until it gives out. The group makes excellent progress along easy roads amid the first twitterings of the dawn chorus. By the time we reach Hazelbury Bryan the greys of twilight have given way to the pale colours of a cloudy dawn. We begin the climb of Bulbarrow hill. Let us know if you're going to fall off again so we can all have a laugh, Paul says, referring to my mishap the previous year when I overshot the granny ring.

My rechargeable battery pack fizzles out just as we reach the Winterbourne control. Once again, service at the control is superb. Half the riders seated at the long table seem to be dozing, but I'm still feeling weirdly awake and in high spirits. Before we set off again I put my bar bag back in its proper place--no need for lights now. As I extract my mitts from the bag I encounter the sandwiches intended for yesterday's lunch, now slightly shop-soiled, and a couple of long black slimy objects that had been bananas in a previous existence. Er, where's the bin? We slog our way back to the top of Bulbarrow hill to discover that the view is of nothing but cloud, which is a bit of a pity, but the descent is entertainment enough in itself. With Brian, Robert, and me sharing pacesetting duties we make excellent progress to the foot of the climb out of Mere, which splits the group slightly. Just enough for Brian to get stuck for a few minutes behind a herd of cows...

We get another warm welcome at the George in Codford. It seems Steve made quite an impression when he passed through on the Hard Boiled 300 a few weeks earlier. Something to do with stretching out on the seating, falling instantly asleep, then waking with a jerk and consuming improbable quantities of food. Either that or they remembered the stylish and capacious jacket. Brian arrives, then Paul, who turns out to have punctured shortly after the last control--I wondered where he'd got to.

By the time we tear ourselves away from the food and comfy chairs the sunshine is warm enough for us to shed a layer or two of clothing. We potter off down the Wylye Valley, discovering yet again that it's not all that flat. Though it's flatter in the Brimstone, when it comes at around the 100 km point, than it is in Porkers, with 340 km down (and up). Within a mile or two my dynamo headlamp bracket snaps off (the third to fail in this way), so I unplug the lamp and stow it in the bar bag. We discuss metal fatigue until the climb to Dinton makes leg fatigue a more topical subject.

As we roller-coaster our way to Sixpenny Handley I ponder the differences and similarities between my first and second Porkers. Porkers 1996 took place in well-nigh perfect conditions and was definitely the highlight of my year. Porkers 1997 has taken place partly in dreadful conditions and is definitely the highlight of my year (so far). Part of the satisfaction stems from having confronted a personal bugbear--heavy rain at night, an unpleasant experience for the purblind. But most of it, once again, comes from the ride itself. For 400 km you inch up the steep side of hills, and swoop down the gentler side. The descents are brilliant. Brain-boggling. Mad cackling is compulsory. And apart from one bend somewhere beyond Combe St. Nicholas (location provided on request), braking is optional. As Brian points out, it would take much longer to ride this route in the opposite direction. (Shawn, the previous sentence is not, repeat not, to be construed as a suggestion.)

The climbing in the final leg of Porkers is concentrated in the first half of the stage, on which there are no flat roads. A steep climb turns into a long climb and is followed by a long climb that turns into a steep climb, which gives way to a long long climb, then a steep climb, then a long STEEP climb, then a sort of shortish steepish climb which scarcely counts at all in the circumstances. I begin to fade on the (steep and long) climb out of Bowerchalke, but that's OK--it's the final climb of the ride. I'm reduced to shameless wheelsucking for the rest of the way. Which is not too far, luckily.

Robert, Paul, Steve, Brian, and I all finish together. It's a novel experience for me to do a ride this hilly in a group. We fall ravenously on the vast spread of food that Jean Shaw always provides--the crock of gold at the end of the Wessex rainbow. Some of us fall asleep in our seats, then wake up and eat. The others eat, then fall asleep in our seats. Done it again, heh heh heh. Next year can only be easier. Er, can't it?

Home | Tall Stories | Low Tales | Trike Links | Top