Brecon or Bust / The Powys Dakar 6th October 2002
They always say that if an event is a success, the format must be changed and fine-tuned in order that it can be even better next time. For some reason I buggered about so much with the hitherto successful format of the 'Brecon or Bust' that it didn't even go near Brecon one year. I took the pragmatic approach that if this one wasn't going to be much cop, at least the hapless riders could compare it unfavourably with other years!
The weekend began early for our family. A certain Mr Atkins from Colchester had brought a mobile collection of broken bits of plastic, bent metal and gaffer tape for me to puzzle over on the Friday afternoon. Luckily, the end-product of a busy biking season and outright winner of the first prize at the recent 'Most careless XRV rider' award wasn't as awful as it looked, and after a judicious bit of sub-frame bending and plastic forcing it started to look more like an object of desire rather than ridicule. This impression was rather enhanced by the exceedingly low-light conditions on my driveway at 8-15 PM.
A bit of twiddling with the headlight adjusters, bringing the beams down from the owls in the treetops to become the usual oncoming-car blinders that every good Africa should have, and a teensy bit of corrective surgery to the God-awful mess that young Adam was making transplanting his Remus 'Terminator' exhaust system back on board. By 'News at Ten' time Adam was back in love with his mobile playpen, and like any doting uncle and aunt, Sue and I were pleased to see the BMW-purchase related depression lift from his youthful shoulders.
We had arranged to spend most of Saturday arsing about with his bike, so the fact that we had completed this sorry task in record time the night before was not lost upon us, we accordingly planned a quick jaunt around some of my fave roads in South Wales. I woke quite early, as the sun was out and virtually burning the roof off by 8 AM. I had one last finishing touch to make on Adam's bike - a special new logo to go on the Spartan-looking matt-black fairing, gracefully cut from silver Fablon in the correct typeface. His bike was now an 'Africa Twit' with an optional 'a' in case he trashed it again in my presence!
We managed a relatively painless departure, Sue and the children were given spending money for a shopping trip, so my apprentice and I snuck quietly over the border for a bit of motorcycle-related tomfoolery.
Basically, we rode every road I could think of and a couple of tracks, all at the now-customary 10/10 riding style that we seem to have acquired from somewhere. The semi-demented rate of progress continued along the A470 toward Brecon, where we had a brief brush with three Power-rangers on their CBR Fireplaces. They sure went mighty fast as they overtook us into the first corner, their brake lights also looked mighty pretty as they nearly overcooked it. Adam and I thundered into the corner without even flinching, let alone sticking knees out and all the other crap that those of their ilk do, and we virtually pushed them out of the apex. In my red mist I distinctly remember noting that two of them had numberplates the size of a cassette case, and the third had none at all. This should have acted as some sort of premonition, as very soon the tamed 'beasts of the bypasses' inexplicably turned off up a minor road.
Oncoming vehicles occasionally flashed lights, waved hands and grimaced at us, so obviously there was some sort of Police checkpoint ahead. Sure enough, on the outskirts of the amusingly-name Libanus, a fluoro-jacketed little Hitler stepped out from the comfort of his unmarked Volvo estate, missed the chance to stop me and pulled my teenaged acolyte over instead. I nipped into a layby a few metres down the road, and giggled for a while as the outraged Mr Atkins was told a load of lies about why he had been stopped. Make no mistake, he was stopped because he was riding a bike, and as any copper knows, bike riders always have something to hide.
How they failed to notice his extremely loud exhaust, I don't know. But they eventually got him with a 2 mm-out numberplate-related improvement notice and a 'producer'. At this stage I went over to a) make sure he wasn't being beaten up and b) to see if I could inflame the proceedings. I strutted up and exclaimed 'That's him officer, he's been following me, and I think he's committed an offence! They were doing the usual 'Nice and Nasty' routine. Pathetic really, I nearly asked them why they weren't out fighting real crime, instead of pursuing Mr Meacher's recent diktat on hassling bikers in National Parks.
Anyway, Adam was now in a foul mood, and by the time we got to the Drovers Arms he was champing. To calm him down I booked him in for an MOT (one was needed soon) and the requisite work to be done and stamp on the improvement notice given at my local friendly bike workshop, Lucas' of Ross.
We had to rush to get back to Ross in time, but I knew that it was the only thing to do to cheer him up. By the time that Neil had inspected the source of the problem (actually there was nothing wrong with the plate in current regulations - the only requirement being that it be readable at 35 meters) He also quickly MOT'd it - deliberately not mentioning the exhaust, as here in the real world it didn't matter a jot. We sat in the shop, chatting with Phil Hodges; new Cambrian Rally supremo, who sorted us out with all the relevant information and advance booked our application forms for the 2003 event. We also talked to Gordon Lucas about building us up a set of Excel-rimmed wheels each for a very nominal sum. This was a very amicable end to a day marred by a bit of extremely insensitive policing.
The evening saw the arrival of our motorcycling mentor Dave Edge, and his new girlfriend, the attractive and vivacious Becky. Since his timely separation and subsequent divorce, Dave has regularly appeared with at BTBC events, usually with a different girl each time. We have this theory that he misuses his police warrant card to get these ladies to accompany him to his house (apparently it has a blue outside light) and has a specially constructed 'cell' that he holds them in pending questioning, strip searches and helping him with various 'enquiries'. We spent many a merry moment drinking beer, swearing in front of Becky and messing about trying to get some hideous top-box lights working on Dave's knackered-looking GS. We had arranged to meet some others, notably Jason Bennett, Ted Scott and my mate Matt the womaniser in town a bit later. We still had to wait for Paul Clarke and John Burkinshaw to appear. They had previously booked the bridal suite at our house.
Another great worry was The Earl of Sandwich himself, Carl Blackburn. Who had called earlier to attempt to bribe us for a room to himself, been offered the couch and still proclaimed that he would come down to grace us with his presence at our ride out. Paul and John duly arrived well on time, but Carl had gone 'missing' in an amateurish lane-change crisis at the M5 junction on the M6. As always, we insisted that our house guests dress up in their finery, and we readied ourselves for the pub. Carl arrived about an hour later, so we duly careered off to Ross for a night of lagerisation and frolic.
The pub RV was heaving as usual, however, it was quite easy to spot Big Trailbike riders, as they are usually BIG (tall or wide or both) and generally either on their own looking like they want to talk about bikes with someone, or deep in discussion with other big men (or Ladies) talking about bikes. Very soon we were in a large group talking about bikes and Matt the womaniser was attempting to steal our ladies from under our very noses. We actually didn't notice, so that is pretty sad isn't it?
Paul was self-appointed taxi-driver for the evening for some strange reason. I actually prefer him to be pissed, as he kept saying to JB 'don't have any more' and 'that's enough' (He asked me to, honest. PC) - good advice which he signally failed to pay heed to! Before very long our table for 10 at 10 at the local curry house was beckoning, so we took our Kronenbourg-filled tummies for a Herefordshire interpretation of what a good curry should be like.
Needless to say, as we arose in the morning; JB and Adam from my (thankfully absent) eldest daughters bunk beds (how sweet!) and Paul and his baritone-snorter room-mate Carl from Mimi's Barbie-themed princess-palace, there were various farmyard noises and odours emanating. It would appear that the standard Northern bowel, with its seemingly endless capacity for chips, black pudding and ale could not stand a hearty ginger and garlic-infested southern curry.
As I was leading the run, I did a bit of pre-ride planning on the loo and attempted to get some sort of action going. I couldn't abide the idea of being late for my own run, so ran around frenziedly making tea and carrying large cans of oil to the BMW owners who were topping up their bikes with the customary pint or so of oil that the ride down from Sheffield had exacted in total-loss from their lubrication systems. The Dangerous Brothers and Jack arrived very punctually, despite the fact that Mick was navigating - luckily he remembered from last time! BTW thanks for the super rear light Mick, I love it!
It was about 09:28 and I couldn't believe it - we were off to the RV and at the rate that me and John Dangerous rode we were bang on time at Bennetts garage. What an enormous group! I counted 18 bikes plus a couple of mean-looking pillions - Sue included, and more importantly, most, if not all of the guys were what I would term as 'aces' who rode on the limit and one girl who rode on the Edge (Dave of course!) Today would be a fast day.
I attempted a PC-stylee pre-ride briefing, but what was the point really? These men were going to be fairly pushing us along, they knew all the 'rules' and were impatient to be off. I took them on one of my personal favourite roads of all time, the B4521 to Abergavenny. This should serve as a light aperitif for the joys to come. A bumbling, hapless and unaffiliated F650 rider (possibly A.Snail) was repeatedly overtaken by our group members on the brief section of A49, and we left him a broken man by the wayside. Possibly to later trade his bike in for a lawnmower. (what is it with F650's on the Brecon or Bust?) The 20-or-so heavenly miles of savage S-bends and sudden shocks that this road still serve up to me despite many years of riding it were just the ticket for a brain still resplendent in an amniotic fluid of 1664 and Kingfisher beer. As we approached the border controls at Abergavenny, the excited-looking helmet-encased faces told me that it had been a good decision to come this way. We skirted town and headed straight for the Oasis café for a sandwich, a hot drink and an adrenaline-enriched chat about the ride over.
Ever mindful of my responsibility as group leader, to shout 'Two Minutes' just as people are tucking into bacon butties or maybe even still waiting for them, I timed it to perfection and managed to pry everyone away for an impressive rumble through town on to the next bit.
The Gospel Pass, from Pandy to Hay-on-Wye, is quite frankly a twisty, slippery, vegetation-strewn very dangerous single track road that gets bombed out with tourists in summer. Quite what we were doing on it riding indecently swiftly in Autumn made perfect sense: There were also lots of wet leaves on the road and some rain-swept gravel but did we care? My bike seemed too bloody tall for a lane like this, my head was in the trees and I couldn't see the ground! The views over the surrounding countryside a mere 500 meters below us as we topped out were awesome. I remember once scooting down the last bit of road to Hay behind a friend on a mountain bike and his near-miss with a wild pony that leapt out from the bracken. This time the bracken was even taller, and we were travelling three times as fast - would we survive?
We pulled in just outside Hay for a fag stop, although cigarette-smoking was definitely in the minority today, we simply had to stop for a chat. Archie was getting ribbed for some incident with a small dog. Apparently he unavoidably clipped it with his bike, so a few of the others were having a few laughs about it. Our new 'London-Irish' friend Pat was asking us in his great accent about the possibility of getting the road rolled up and transported to London for him. The sky was getting more blue than Rabbi Lionel, so we rapidly plugged up and hit the road again for more fun.
Just outside the excitingly-named village of Three Cocks we encountered a herd of playthings on their sportsbikes having a very tame-looking wheelie session at low speed by the side of the road. Most of us chopped straight through this lot, but two of them looked playful. Sue had given me a warning crimp with her thighs as we crossed Talgarth, but to no effect. I was out for the kill, knew the road and wanted to get in front before the double whites up the hill to Pengenfford on the fast'n'twisty to Tretower. Seeing them dawdle about following a Morris Marina got my blood up, so I accelerated to a still-legal 30 and overtook them all, just before the double-whites began. The road over the pass has been recently resurfaced, and is a real thrill to do at absolutely top speed. I was pleased to see that Adam had dropped the dead donkeys too, and was looking very large in my mirrors.
It was really funny what happened next, we slowed down for a small village on the other side of the hill, and after a short while this blur shot past us at 85-odd in a 40. It was one of the twerps that we had humiliated in Talgarth doing his bit to reinforce my views on certain types of motorcyclist!
Rejoining the A40 briefly, we scooted up towards Robin's place at Bwlch, taking a short cut to Llangynidr and on to Talybont-on-Usk. Thundering past sightseers and army lorries in laybys (the SAS are selecting at the moment) I set off a few of my finest backfires for them to enjoy. I also blasted a passing motorcyclist - imagine my surprise when he joined us later at the top of the road, it was Charlie Money and his pillion SJ (assume it is Sarah-Jane?) the backfire had announced that it was indeed us! Another couple of Transalps turned up, but they were local boys doing naughty trails, great fun, but purleeease put some mud on your numberplates first!
After a short break we carried on our smooth progress down almost (but thankfully not quite) to Merthyr Tydfil and then back over the A470 Storey Arms road to a little-known turn off to a nice woodland centre with a café for lunch. This was the great thing with a high-calibre group like this, no one was getting lost, there was no waiting about and we were going so well that we had plenty of time for socialising and getting fed.
As lunch stops go, it was fairly idyllic, warm sun beating down, plenty of benches to bask on, nice and quiet with plenty of trees and a kitchen that soon rustled up all manner of food for us. For many years I have got increasingly fed up with pubs and their miserable attitudes, slow service and high prices. Here we got what we wanted and it was a most restful stop.
Oh hell, did I say 'Two minutes'? Off again! More juicy roads to do; over the top to Penderyn, the Ystradfellte road past Sarn Helen and on up to Cray. Brief moment of fast road and possible cop persecution on the A4067, and then heaven again on a lovely little Roman road back up to Trecastle. Everyone managed to avoid the hideous rotting sheep carcass, but quite a few smelled it! We also didn't leave any riders balancing on bridge parapets, which is always on the cards really on this road. More peg-scraping madness on the A40, refuel and then it's Brecon to pick up the start of the Builth road to Upper Chapel. I don't see anyone for ages in my mirrors, so I think that I've cracked it and shaken them off, but Dave Edge is suddenly THERE right behind me, analysing and possibly dictating notes for a satirical book on my riding! Luckily I am able to dump him off on the next junction before he sees too much!
We pass huge red flags which must mean something, then over the Sennybridge (SENTA) ranges for a quick photo-opportunity at the Drovers Arms. A few japes and coughs with a recently-found smoke grenade and we are off again, I am getting to really enjoy it now. The headlights in the mirrors are becoming less insistent, but I just know that I'll have to relinquish the lead for the Llyn Brianne lakeside blast - it is simply too fast for me with or without a pillion!
We take a cunning short cut up and over a mountain to avoid Llandovery - I don't know why, it's a nice town! The gravel and gradient are a bit alarming, but no-one bins it. Down into Rhandirmwyn, exhaust popping like a mad thing to impress the locals, and before very long we are there at the start of possibly the best bit of tarmac in the West. A quick briefing i.e. 'You lot f*** off and do it at your own pace and we'll see you at the second junction' - it made sense to me, but obviously lost something in the translation as there was a very disjointed-looking assemblage 8 miles up the road at the requisite RV!
I dispatched young Jason, who was itching for a mission, to round up our erstwhile ride-buddies, which he duly did. A sad case of second junction, wrong road. Some of the BM riders had decided to have a petrol shortage, which was a bit inexplicable, as most of us had refuelled a mere 50-odd miles back. They limped to nearby Beulah which had all the facilities to refuel supertanker-sized bikes.
Well, that was it basically! It was getting late, so after a quick decision about what everyone was doing - the Northern boys were off via Crossgates and that marvellous A483 Newtown road, and I was taking the Southern contingent plus a couple of overnighters at our house back to Ross, we said our goodbyes and the group split.
As the light was getting short, we didn't spare the horses whatsoever. We thrashed our way to Builth Wells, totally broke the spirits of some 'Bike' readers who were possibly doing a dull motorcycling course with Lindsay, thundered through Hay and managed a record-breaking sprint to Ross via my secret backroad route - so cunning that it saves nearly 25 minutes over the Hereford way - ask Father Ted!
Well, we were knackered. I don't know what sort of state the other guys were in, faced with a 200 mile trip home. But a change of clothes, nice meal and a few beers with our overnight guests were just the ticket for me.
Apart from the satisfaction of leading such a great group of people around, it was very nice to collect my e-mails afterwards. So many compliments and kind words, even a small spoof prayer, which with Robin's permission I shall quote:
Our Father, who art from Ross
hallowed be thy routes
thy kingdom Wales
thy will be blessed
on earth as you are on tarmac
gives us that day our daily thrash
and forgive us our cutting-up
as we forgive those who toot against us
and lead us not into Merthyr
but deliver us from sports bikes.
for ever and ever
amen.
It was a pleasure, as it happens I chickened out in the end and changed nothing from the usual plan, which is to ride bikes, have fun and enjoy a day with true friends. Remember the one and only rule - keep it simple, stupid!
Garty
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Morning All.
Well what a great trip that was - certainly one of the best of the year and definitely the fastest pace run that I have ever been on. JG - we need to get those NOX kits ASAP!
Top roads and top riders - can we do it all again for Paddy's day please?
A big thank you to John, Sue, Natalie and Mimi for putting up with me for the entire weekend and an even bigger thank you to Garty for bending the Africa back into shape - its so good that I'm going to have quite job convincing the insurance assessor that it has been crashed!
In true softy southerner style, I bottled out of the long ride home on Sunday night, stayed over in Ross for another night, and then blasted home to Colchester on nothing but twisty A and B roads - took me over 4 hrs but as Robin Dawson would say "Fabulous"
Thanks once again to everyone for making it a great trip.
Adam
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>Certainly one of the best of the year and > definitely the fastest pace run that I have ever been on. blah blah snip..
You can say that again Adam, the seat of my bike has a pleated corduroy type cover now.... from where the cheeks of my arse were twittering and grabbing at it!
Love as always, Dad XXX
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John. Just a quick one to say thanks very much for the run. Got back at 8.30pm last night after just over 500 miles.
Excellent Day Out
Thanks again from the Dangerous Brothers 1, 2, and 3
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As a first timer attending a Big Trail Bike Club day out I have to say I have been spoiled.
Thankyou to Garty for organising and leading us through some beautiful countryside and to everyone else for the welcome and making the ride a good one. Never even noticed my bum was sore until I got home and no, it wasn't from falling over the kerb on the way back.
I hope to see you all again at next years BTBC meetings.
Jack C
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The very thought of SJ as a nun, or at least in the outfit. Must run that one by her. Maybe something to do with my catholic upbringing.
Top day out, so thanks very much - especially as I happened to be passing through and bumped into you all. Greeted by the now standard Garty backfire greeting. Thanks to all for making my lady friend feel so welcome as well - she was pretty much a biking virgin until this weekend (back to the nun analogy I suppose...) and is now hooked.
Even managed to remain philosophical at getting a speeding ticket within a minute of leaving you all. Headed down towards Abergavenney with someone on a transalp (sorry haven't mastered all the names yet - but possibly Robin?) who must have been very bemused when I missed the turning on to the A479 in some little village (Bronllys?). Then got knobbled coming out of the village by a lurking motorcycle officer-of-the-law. Was really quite worried when he started shouting at me in Welsh, convinced that I would piss him off even more by replying in what suddenly started to seem to me like a ridiculously OTT well-bred Southern Counties English accent. Luckily he was a relatively nice guy (but not nice enough to let me off), although when asking where we were going he did seem to take great pleasure in pointing out that if I hadn't been so cretinous and missed the turning I would have avoided him and not got the ticket....
To be honest though, I blame the Btbc for my ticket. My speedo has gone awol (partly my fault I will admit), so after hooning around some of the finest roads known to man at what seemed like ridiculous speeds, how are you supposed to then gauge what 30 mph might be? Apparently I was doing 55 mph and it felt painfully slow....
But as I said, it didn't detract at all from a fantastic day out - the first thing my flatmate commented on when I got back was that he could clearly tell from my face that I had had a brilliant weekend.
Then again that could be partially down to that blessed nun I had for company....
Charlie Money
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All, Wow what a blinding day out!, 450 miles of sunshine and a sore arse! What more could you ask for?
Big thanks to Garty for a cracking day out in the lanes of South/mid Wales sports bike baiting, law breaking, backfiring, horse frightening, tail sliding fun!
Big thanks also to John B for leading the furiously paced ride back North taking in one of my all time favourite roads the A483 Llandrindod Wells - Newtown road.
Last ride out of the year ?? surely not??
Paul A.
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What a great days weather and riding. A big thank you to garty for organinsing both. It was good to see so many mates on what is probably the last ride of the year. Got back at 2015hrs after 507 miles and 13hours in the saddle.
If i don't see you before, I will see you at the Xmas Dooooo!!!
Regards,
Nick Davies
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Thanks a million Garty, another matchless day. Perfect weather. Damn near perfect choice of route. In fact a damn near perfect day all round.
GFT.
PS. Almost!my leccy waistcoat packed up after about 2 minutes use,after I had stopped to eat,and set off again in the freezing cold.
PPS.I hope all you long-distance wallahs got home OK before hypothermia set in.
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Dear John
I think I have recovered enough from my weekend entertainment to pen a line.
Thanks very much for your hospitality and for the great day out and also for the gloves which are excellent!
Thanks again, book the weather now for next year
John B.
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Wales? Couldn't have bin (as Bill would say)
Fab, fab,fab,fab, fab.
What a fantastic days riding. Wales has been good to us this year.
Big thanks to John for a lovely route. To John, Sue & the kids for looking after me, and to everyone who turned up and made the day what it was.
Hope to see you all at the Xmas Dooooooooooo.
Paul C
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It has been very nice seeing all the messages (and even little prayers!) from people saying how much they enjoyed themselves riding around in Wales yesterday. To those who came along and sent such kind words either publicly or privately, Sue and I say a really big 'thank you', it was a privilege to lead such an illustrious group and the positive feedback we have received makes it all the more worth it.
To those who have yet to lead a BTBC run, I say get planning something now, it's great leading a big friendly group around your part of the world. We've all (with a few notable exceptions) got a 4 or 5 month no-biking prison sentence ahead of us, so lets get our maps out, thinking caps on and make 2003 a really busy biking year!
John Gartside
Garty's, Brecon or bust 2001
Over the last two years, my 'Brecon or Bust' ride has apparently become a sort of institution, being so late in the year, it is seen as a last chance to ride out with a few like-minded bikers, test bikes and equipment to the max, check out some juicy roads and tracks and get fearfully rained on for our trouble. Yes folks, the only reliable thing on the BorB is the weather, it is always bad!
Traditionally, we start all our BTB.C Welsh rides at the Little Chef at Whitchurch. Unfortunately, this is rather too Northerly for the sort of route I had in mind, being a creature of mid and south Wales. Consequently last year we experimented with making it a two day run, with an overnight stop in a small Welsh town called Llanwrtyd Wells, where I occasionally do a bit of mountain biking . It was all very convivial, but we ended up getting some of the bikes vandalised - not the sort of thing to be tolerated at all. The police seemed to be totally disinterested in the situation as usual, after all, there are real criminals out there to be hounded, such as speeding motorcyclists!
With a bit of perversity, this years run became a 2 night/2 day spectacular with an overnight stop in er…Llanwrtyd Wells!
The gathering of the Clan. On the Friday evening, various weary bikers kept rolling in from all over the country. Robin Dawson from Tyneside, young Adam Atkins from Essex, John (Father Ted) Cameron from Manchester way, and at the very late hour of 10PM, manicurist extraordinaire Rob McGrath & the lovely Joanne. By this time, Sue had gone to fetch Mick Bingham and the 'Dangerous Brothers' from their digs in Ross, and we had quite a party going on. The weather report after the news at 10 slightly dampened our spirits, but hey, you can't have everything can you?
Mad, Bad and Dangerous to let navigate. We rustled up a quick breakfast for the house guests, and waited for the 'Dangerous gang' to arrive. It was a bit unfortunate, but none of the trio remembered the way to our house from the night before, which must bear testimony to the standard of hospitality at our house. As a result, they got a bit lost, and both Adam & I went out to search for them. They eventually were rounded up, and we set out to meet the rest of the day's crew at 'The Oasis' café at Abergavenny. Luckily, the standard of riding was very high, and we made such good progress getting there on the B4521 that the rest hardly noticed we were running late.
Three Cocks in a fountain. Here we refuelled, and met up with Robin Scott from Bwlch (formerly Sheffield) and Andy Cadney from Leicester. After a few fags, formalities and laffs we set out again to bag a very nice little road called the 'Gospel Pass' over to Hay on Wye. The rain that had fallen during the night had left loads of leaves and gravel on the road, so it was trickier than usual leading the group. We stopped off on the way at Llanthony Priory and actually managed to see some nice views from the top of the pass out towards the Brecon Beacons. We descended to the 'Town of Books' - Hay, and headed out towards deeper Wales, to the intriguingly-named 'Three Cocks', and thence over the treacherously slippery A479 back towards Tretower. Knowing the road as well as I do meant that I knew exactly where to overtake the knot of slowcoaches in cars, in fact, there are only two places anyway, which meant I was in for a long wait at the other end. I also managed a very impressive two-wheel slide on one particular corner. Perhaps I was being a little too parsimonious in trying to extract one last ride from my well worn Tourances?
Sisters of Merthyr. We then did a bit of the A40, which is a fairly fast and decent bit of road, and turned off at Talybont-on-Usk for some minor road action on the trail over the back of the Brecon Beacons towards Merthyr Tydfil. The surface water was very deep on the road, and conditions were certainly very 'interesting'. The rain was holding off pretty well, but normal speeds were proving to be very dangerous. What the hell though, we still went as fast as we dared! The cloud had come right down as well, so we didn't get to see the nice views, or get to stop at the place where Lindsay dropped his Tiger onto another blokes bike!
Lunch was at a tiny little pub on the other side of the mountains, the food was a bit uninspired really, but I always say that if you get to eat anything in Wales you're lucky - a lot of places even close for lunch! The afternoon saw us haring up the A470 toward Brecon, one of the fastest roads anywhere, and rarely policed as well. A friend and I once took a VFR 800 (me) and a ZXsomething for a test ride up here. I thought I was doing really well at an indicated 130 - then he overtook me a full 30 mph faster. I felt as if I was standing still!
The Friendly Farmer incident. There was no prospect of even cracking a ton this time, after about 5 miles we were on the back roads again heading West on a lovely little road to a one-horse town called Penderyn. Not even Adam was interested in keeping up with me on this loose stuff. Yet more yummy backroads took us out near the waterfalls at Ystradfellte, and then on a gated road to Cray. I wasn't sure whether we would be able to get through, due to the F&M crisis, but the farmer was ever-so pleasant, and even waved to us as we drove past! The bands of rain were coming in now, and we didn't want to stop much, apart from for quick re-groups and odd photo-stops. It's a matter of record that we lost nobody, and didn't have to wait long for anybody either.
I'll take the high road, you go in the ditch. Another great road favourite of mine snakes up a hidden valley from near Craig-y-nos to Trecastle. This road simply begs to be thrashed, and contains two evil surprises for the unwary - a hidden dip, with a tightening right hander and another hidden dip with a better-than-average chance of landing on a bridge parapet! I noticed the gap between me and the next rider widening appreciably after the first! It's all good fun though, and with no mishaps we set out again.
Helpful Limeys. We eventually had another stop at the café at Llandovery, this is very popular with bikers, and before long we were helping an American on a Virago to fix his clutch lever. Between me and Father Ted, we managed to bodge a good repair, but he wasn't exactly very thankful though. Tea and toasted teacakes all round got us ready for some more action, the superb lakeside road round Llyn Brianne. Ever since Clarkie gave this a 10/10 grin factor, it has been attracting BTB.C'ers eager for thrills. I have even gone round it in winter with ice all over the road. The rain was naturally a deciding factor, but by-and-large we all did our very best in the circumstances. We rolled in at the Neuadd Hotel at Llanwrtyd Wells and put clothing on radiators to dry. Simon Edler was already there waiting for us in the bar.
Cue Duelling banjo's. The Neuadd is a very odd place, I am quite attached to the place, but others see it as a sort of Cambrian Royston Vasey. There are certainly some weird people in the bar, everything is a bit scruffy, but hey, it was warm and sold beer and food. Special mention must be given to the elderly waitress - she was so incredibly cantankerous that we couldn't help giving her a hard time. The more we buggered about ordering food, the more huffy she got. We spent the rest of the evening chatting and drinking in the lounge.
Day 2 - New Blood. By the time we had finished breakfast, we were joined by Paul Atkin, Leigh Sherrett and Geoff Harvey and the 'Cotswold Cruisers'. They had breakfast too, and after a few introductions, by 10 we were setting off again on one of my famed backwoods routes to access the lakeside road again. I made a very minor navigational error, which is always a bit embarrassing, and had to turn everybody round on a very muddy road. The road failed to disappoint a second time, and I was pleased to see Harv thrashing his Africa two-up - it reminded me of me! A quick stop at the viewpoint at the top, and we were bombing down to the lonely little chapel at Soar-y-Mynnydd. I tried my hardest to make everybody come off on the deceptive bend at the summit - Adam went roaring up a gravel track last time - but nobody fell for it. The road from here to Tregaron is an absolute gem, all sorts of natural and man-made hazards and a lovely swoopy bit of tarmac egg you on to go just a bit too fast. I smiled to myself as we passed a certain little bit just after a large culvert - this is where Adam had a 'through windscreen' experience last year. You remember mate, when I had to make you a new screen out of a bucket!
Anyway, he never disappoints either, and managed to take another wrong turning on this trip, within 2 miles of this, dropping the bike in the process! Father Ted to the rescue again, bending levers and handlebars back into shape.
Chirpy, burpy cheap sheep. Tregaron is a very odd sort of town, it's in a sort of 50's timewarp, with hand operated petrol pumps and sheep wandering the streets, there is an old joke about a sheep being tied to a tree being a Welsh leisure centre, not that any of us had a chance to enjoy them. Another stonking road up to Devils Bridge, but the rain was getting exceptional now. Some of the new arrivals were getting a bit scared at the speed and we had a few long waits as they caught up. From DB, we headed East to Rhayader on the mountain road. Johnny Dangerous witnessed my closest brush with a suicide-sheep ever, which gave me a bit of a scare, I can tell you! We had a snack & cuppa at the café in town, and I started planning how best to drop people off as they went their respective ways home.
Everybody knows this is nowhere. Another of Wales' best kept secrets is the Rhayader-Llanidloes road, followed by a brief hack down past Llangurig to pick up the track through 'Sweet Lamb' up to the lonely pine forests of Hafren and hence to Machynlleth. We then doubled back to Llanidloes again, refuelled, and said goodbye to a couple of our associates. From here it was North to Newtown, to say 'tata and phew, we're all still alive' to the Dangerous Brothers, Mick and a few others. Slowly our 'Band of Brothers' was becoming smaller, from the 'Apollo 13' to the 'magnificent seven' to the 'Guildford four'.
The rain had now really set in, there wasn't much fun in riding in this, although I think that my GP-style drift cornering was almost perfected at this stage, some of the 'Corinium Fal cons' were moaning a bit about going too fast, so we led them steadily back East, waiting at odd intervals whilst the disparate cruising speeds were matched.
The Sad Café I took pity on the poor b-st-rds and rang Sue to get some emergency tea & crumpets on at our house. We had a rather more serious case with a blue and incoherent Mr Atkins, who had to sit lost in some very large borrowed clothes for a half hour whilst we plonked his clothes in the tumble-drier to dry it out a bit, ready to face the brutal journey back to Essex. In fact, I felt so bad about it that I lent him some gloves & boots as well. There's only so much you can do riding in lace-ups and MX gloves! Well, it was all done, everybody was on their way and no-one had died. In the Army you get sand-coloured berets with flying dagger badges for less. A couple of riders will doubtless never want to do it again, but most of them enjoyed it I suspect. There is a certain vicarious pleasure in taking on the sheer brutishness of Welsh weather and it's always good to confront your fears. My Brecon or Bust is all this and more. Check out http://www.garty.co.uk/brecon.htm for details of the next one.
Garty