Pub talk is cheap. Here’s how it goes: ‘Day 2, total bastard, day 3, yeah we probably underestimated that, but tomorrow has less climbing that yesterday and less distance than Tuesday. We’ll smash it‘. While my brain was subdued by alcohol, my legs were clambering for attention. In the anatomy edition of Monopoly, they had definitely not passed go nor collected £200 of freshly rested muscle.

What nearly broke me on Day 4 wasn’t the maximum elevation, which we’d already pegged as being only a little more than half of what we’d done so far, it was the sustained climbing of multiple lower summits. Before all that though we were going to the seaside.

Barmouth is pretty much the Wikipedia citation for ‘God’s waiting room‘. But I can’t love it any less for that. It was one of the original tourist towns. With ‘holiday specials‘ transporting factory staff from grimy industrial works to clear skies and clean air. Bodies pressed to tiny steam train windows catching first sight of something never seen before. The Irish Sea must have looked like Mars. And while we’re back into faded glory, what a thing that is.

We’re 10km away from sticking our toes in the sand.  I’m weary and so is Ads. He’s ten years younger than me so clearly I’m suffering more. Therefore it seems fair he takes point on the fantastic path out of Caernarfon hugging the river before arcing towards the sea.

The track is wide but the wind is brutal. It’s blowing spitefully in our face so we’re nose to tail pushing hard and missing out on a vista that’s more New Zealand than North Wales. It feels properly wild even in sight of towns on the headland. We’re in and out of coves, sylph like bridges appearing close are snatched away as we hove to port or starboard.

We’re giving it plenty even on day four legs and I misjudge my turn on the front and wrap my seat bag strap on Adam’s brake lever. That was two seconds of excitement I’ll remember for a while.  Calming down a bit we merged onto the old railway running parallel with todays single line bridged over the water. It’s fun to ride until the raised sleepers get a bit tiring but the views across the bay are worth the discomfort.

The town itself is a bit of a disappointment. The weather isn’t helping. The beach is storm tossed and the ice cream booths hard shuttered against the wind. We peer into a hotel, last updated in the 70s, and see an elderly couple sipping tea because there is nothing else to do. Because I’m old I start humming Phil Collins’s ‘Home by the Sea‘. I feel this cultural reference is lost on Adam.

We climb out on a steep pitch reminding us our legs are not really up for what’s coming. Not just legs, but – for me at least – other vital skeletal accessories primarily shoulders. Not ridden a dropped bar bike much, and certainly not for four consecutive days so there’s some unpleasant crunching replacing smooth rotation. Other body parts are also clambering for attention but I’m ignoring those on the grounds there’s nothing I can do to improve their lot.

Can’t do much about the road out of Barmouth either. It’s as close to a main drag we have to do all week and it goes on far too long. We eventually hook right where – after careful consideration of the guide book – we manage to  miss the easier route to instead climb for about ever to the summit of Moel Goedog. This does give us some fantastic views of the Llyn Peninsula and across to Cardigan Bay.

It also gives us the opportunity to descend briefly on some slick moss covered roads with all the grip of polished glass. The climb is almost a relief until it isn’t with its false summits, 360 degree headwind and hard earned metres. Every little climb feels way more difficult that it was even a day ago. The metres click agonisingly slowly off the total and suddenly this feels as hard as everyone told me it would be.

Even at the summit I’m feeling a little disgruntled. A bit ‘seen it all before‘, a bit more ‘how much more of this is there?‘ and then we REALLY crest the summit opening up the view of Porthmadog and the Snowdonia crescent. It is beyond awesome. I’ve ridden up Cadair Idris and Snowdon. I’ve climbed big hills in this part of Wales and looked down into the valleys but I’ve never seen it like this. If it was CGI, you’d dismiss it as too damn perfect.

The pictures are fine but they don’t capture what you feel. That is better saved on the organic image store in your mind. We mucked about a bit trying to turns shapes into sense, but 2D is not the right medium. If you ever think abut riding this route, then this is the one reason you must. There aren’t many bikes up here and it feels like a privilege.

Photos done, we head down to Porthmadog, get a shot of the steam train before diving into a café on the main street serving ice creams to damp tourists at 16 degrees centigrade. Only in Wales 😉  We don’t tarry as it’s really not warm and we’ve a long way to go. Even after dealing with the biggest climb of the day we’ve still a few lumpy hills to clear, and the weather is not doing us any favours.

This confluence of these mildly unpleasant conditions hosted a debate on whether we should ride the optional loop out to Criccieth. Eight miles of down then up which felt like making up the numbers. We both knew though, if swerved, this would be something living long in regret. It wasn’t really a decision as individually we’d decided it was going to get done. Definitely the right choice, even after the long climb out, as we were rewarded with blue skies breaking out over the sea.

That’s where we’re going I thought. And we did on another disused railway. An easy gradient first climbing and then descending with barely any appreciable variation in speed. With a tailwind at last, sustained 30+ kph felt ridiculously easy. It was good to see the odometer roll over 90km with the shining sea calling us. It’d called us around the impressive exterior of Caernarfon castle and into the Anglesey Arms where we drank overpriced beer looking out to our final destination.

[url=https://flic.kr/p/2gCEJPD][img]https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/48328996227_6cb5ab8809_b.jpg[/img][/url]

I toasted Adam ‘only 65km to go and bog all climbing, a day on easy street‘  How bloody hard can that be?

I think you probably know the answer.

A day of two summits and some miscalculation. This was always going to be a wild day through the Cambrian mountains. Adam and I know that terrain well from a biblical Trans-Cambrian back in 2017:  The twin summits of Foel Fadian and Myndd Y Waun blocked our way to the safety of Machynlleth. It was a hell of an effort to get there fighting the rain and sleet driven on by gale force winds.

So a happy memory then. Today we had some of that headwind and a lot less of the rain. The bits wondering whether a helicopter might be the Gentleman’s transport of choice bridged the two rides. We started on a climb apparently designed to remind your legs this was day 3, and no it wasn’t going to get any easier.

In fact it got a little harder as we headed into Hafren Forest. Familiar to mountain bikers – we spotted singletrack heading deep into the woods and considered an early coffee in the visitor centre. While the need for the bean was strong, it wasn’t worth trading hard gained height for.

We’d lost the sun but not the humidity. So I was happy for a sit on a mossy bank off the road while Ads attempted to fix his squeaky cleats. This chain lube based procedure gave me sufficient time to munch on an energy bar, and consider if this was the right time to explain the noise was coming from his pack. Since he was clearly having so much fun trying to diagnose the problem, I thought probably not.

We remounted – squeak still in attendance – to grind up the summit sporting a viewing point. This is where the Ospreys were re-introduced a few years ago. We took some pictures of wild scenery entirely absent of said Ospreys

After some dithering it was apparent the climb to Foel Fadian wasn’t going to happen unless we actually got back on the bikes. The guidebook characterises it as a ‘gentle climb‘. I’m not a confrontational man, but I am taking issue with that.

It might have been the headwind swirling in our faces. It might have been the fact I’ve driven that route many times (waved at The Star on the way past. Wondered about a pint. 10:14am. Thought best not), it might be the weather fronts rolling in promising rain now and maybe hail later. Whatever it was, it wasn’t bloody gentle. Especially the top section where I felt the urge to go ‘Full Strava’ leaving me dragging in litres of clean Welsh air while hanging over the bars.

Finally it was done and we could see it was all downhill from here. From the highest point on our route (if you were tending to masochism you could really hurt yourself by adding many more summits. The route tends to skirt the western sides of mountains where it can. Thankfully) we had an 8 mile descent into Machynlleth. The top section of which is simply epic.  A wild juxtaposition of panoramic landscape and steep, dangerous corners. Hard to keep your eyes on both.

I’ve never been much of a road descender. Always looked down and wondered where the rest of the tyre might be. Followed by a concern that rim brakes and slick rubber can’t offer much in the retardation stakes. Now though up front I’ve most of a 2inch knobbly tyre arrested by a proper hydro brake. Same out the back although I’m not leaning on that much.

Taking a bead on Ads,  I give myself a stern talking to re: worrying about skewer tightness and chance of tyre explosion and instead swing the bike through a patchwork of glorious scenery grabbing my eyeballs when I should be grabbing the brakes. The bike is amazing – even heavily loaded – super stable and giggly fun pitching into the corners. We hit over 70kph which might not be much for a proper roadie, but for me it’s pretty much light speed. As the gradient backs off both Adam and I are gabbing away filled with adrenaline and a bit of relief.

We see pack-laden riders toiling up this climb and we wave and we smile. And inwardly we think ‘you idiots, why ride it this way?‘ In about two hours, we get a reasonable idea. 20 minutes later though we’re in Mach. Mach being Mach has a market cheerfully selling everything from old furniture to New Age tat and shit.  I love the place, it’s a refreshing change from so many Welsh town trading on fading industries.

We have cake and coffee. And because we’ve loads of time, wander about a bit until the big tower clock strikes midday which is the trigger to eat  more food. We leave reluctantly – in my case very reluctantly as during our meandering I’ve lost my riding glasses –  and head over the Millennium bridge, built to save the squashy from the tin cans racing along the A487.

Which brings us to  the base of the afternoons climb. A quick scoot on the B4404 then over the bridge to start 9 miles of ascent.  There is no way to say that which doesn’t immediately chuck synonyms at your brain with ‘hard, tiring and what the fuck?‘ being the three I remember most.

The first part  though is mostly easy, as it’s adjacent to the old Corris slate railway, which brings us into that town where – unsurprisingly based on our trip so far – everything is closed. We press on to Aberllefenni built entirely of slate. Walls, roofs, garages, patios – a legacy of the mining here which defined much of the history of this Welsh landscape.

The old slate works are another sad cipher for heavy industry long gone. Quite sombre heading up the climb, where the gradient increases to the point where I’m wondering if my dismissive view of the front detailer as yesterdays technology is a metaphor for what we’ve just ridden through.

Whatever, it’s a tough climb going on a little too long. I’m trying to estimate the summit by charting the marching telegraph poles holding close to the road.

So tight is my focus I almost miss the five riders heading down- all big grins and hearty hellos. They are clearly the camping types with luggage clinging to every tube. A couple I notice have those old school rim brakes. I cannot help but think dark thoughts regarding their ability to stop at the bottom. Still on the upside they’ve 8 miles to climb up over Foel Fadian. That cheers me up a bit.

Topping out, I grab the phone and catch Adam with far less gears fighting his way over the top. We have a moment to catch our breath. Then ‘Well that was a total bastard. Beer do you think?‘ I do indeed and after a quick nod to Cadair Idris to our left, we make haste into the strengthening rain. It’s mostly downhill and we’re definitely relieved as today has been harder than expected. It’s not the miles it’s the elevation. I don’t feel the weight of the packs, but it definitely has an effect.

That effect me being desperate for sustenance as we roll into Dolgellau. A tip from my mate Dave (who runs Bike Corris MTB guiding company) has us diving into the legendary TH Roberts. An old Ironmonger turned awesome cake cafe, it has all the fittings of a Victorian shop and a selection of so many fantastic looking confectionary, it’s all I can do not to demand ‘one of each right now‘ and ‘another of the same to take away‘.

Today has been tough. Legs starting to really feel it. Sun has mostly been replaced by headwinds. The climbs are longer and harder. The landscape continues to be breath-taking, and the simple pleasure of getting up to turn pedals is a gift not to be underestimated.

Tomorrow we conclude will be easier. To that end I go full nosebag in a fantastic local restaurant adding Gin and Wine to my recovery drinks. It’s not like 100km and 1200m of climbing is going to be hard is it?

Will we never learn?

Before diving into day 2, permit me a sidebar to discuss mechanicals. Specifically Adams’ as I didn’t have any. Other than a strap on my ancient MTB shoes making a break for freedom before we’d officially started. Which doesn’t count. Ads had stuck rigidly to a servicing regime that could charitably termed ‘looks good from a distance, pass me a beer’. While his cassette didn’t actually quite fall apart or his rear brake completely fail, they were definitely both in the red zone.

His tyres however were something else. Barely vulcanised for a start. Do people really race these things? There’s more tread on my ancient Five-Ten’s which were mostly slick to start with. Even with about a pound of sealant slopping at each end, any air at the start of the day was long departed by the rides end. After three days of desperate pumping, they finally gave in and mostly sealed. Unless you touched them. Adam blamed my rubbish pump for his woes. I was keen to point out that I wouldn’t know not having had to use it.

Anyway as you were, Day 2.

Pre-trip this was the day worried me most. A bucket load of climbing spread unevenly over a bit north of 100km. The guidebook suggested this would take eleven hours. No way was my arse co-exisitng in the same space as a saddle for that length of time. Our plan – a somewhat ambitious term for gin based hand waving the night before – was to get it done in 6. Including a stop for lunch. Which on reflection was another planning oversight. We’ll be back to that.

First though we had to get to lunch. Climbing out of Brecon was all the fun a steep pitch the far side of a big breakfast can be. It’s odd as my bike only really felt heavy when I had to fetch it over a gate or suchlike. So riding it uphill wasn’t that much of a trial once accompanied by a smidgen of mental fortitude. Ads bike was lighter and, he had less kit which should have made it easier. However, in a moment of team spirit he’d handed over his spare 11-46 cassette to the old man whose need was clearly greater*.

Half way up that first hill I could feel the want.

After getting that done, we switched back to grass-middled roads distanced from morning traffic. The NCN8 is an amazing route. Sure it meanders up and down valleys flatly breached by the main roads. This is the price of riding through stunning scenery with almost zero risk. Short of being mowed down by a tractor or terrorised by a bike hating dog, it’s a million miles from my normal horror of road riding.

Sometime though there is no option but the main drag. After testing all my gears again on a couple of nasty pulls, we turned onto the main road heading to Builth Wells. A slight tailwind, a freshness in the legs and the aforementioned ‘destination anxiety‘ (heightened as the second half of the ride with the bulk of climbing), there was what passed as a 2 man chain-gang for men that cherish their ignorance of all things road riding

Well this one does, but I also love the speed even of these loaded bikes compared to the glacial thrumming of a 2.6 MTB tyre. We hit some short hills and they hit us right back, but we still made good time to Bulith.

Bit early for lunch. Stop for a coffee? Not this pair, we were on a mission. Not sure where to due to continued navigational uncertainty, but the sun was out and the internal GPS was hard coded for an ‘early finish and cold beer‘. Switching direction to due north as we crossed the bridge, there was a lovely river ride out of the town.

So much of this route is on old railway tracks (which is pretty sad when you think what they used to be here for) and river paths. We crossed the Wye and numerous other rivers so many times I eventually stopped taking pictures.

I’d also stopped eating. Not sure why, but it was timely when our vaguely planned stop at Newbridge-on-Wye hove into view as the munchies had taken hold.

You kind of expect any town ‘on-Wye’ to be a picturesque place full of tourist cafes, fresh coffee and a excellent selection of cakes. It’s not like that at all. It was more disappointment made real by brick. Three pubs, two closed, one mostly falling down but being painfully slowly restored by tired looking owners and surly teenagers.

Still the kitchen was open and after all the time it takes to hunt down a difficult to find tub of chicken, we were mostly sated, and keen to be on our way again.

50km in which was good but still with 840m of climbing to do. Which wasn’t. Having all of the stats projected onto phones and GPS’s is great. Until it isn’t. Sometimes I’d rather not know, but we’d looked at the profile often enough to accept the next few hours were going to be a bit chewy.

The road climbed steadily on much patched tarmac before merging into a gravel trail that – again – wouldn’t be much fun on a racer road bike. It was ace on ours including a short rocky downhill section I’d fancy a crack at with a MTB.

This is the old coach road and it wouldn’t be something I’d want to tackle in a coach. Or after rain. But today it was a welcome distraction to the almost endless climbing. It was certainly better than what followed – the might-be-a-road which skirted the slopes of Carn Gafallt. 20km of sheep shit basically. Not much of a view either. Unless your idea of a great vista is sheep shit and endless conifers.

We got that done where the route sadly bypassed Rhayader. I have many happy memories of that town. Some of them rather drunken. Today tho we needed to crack on via the Aberystwyth mountain road. Well named and annoying in that down a bit, up a bit,  down a bit more, up IS THAT A CLIFF? Sort of way.  Cresting that pass at 350m, it was mostly downhill to Llanidloes.

Mostly not being entirely. Ads was asking for the ascent numbers. 150m, 100m, 75m, 60m, nasty little climb, legs tired, little tweaks of hamstrings, 30m, 15m, 12m.  I went ‘metre by metre’ ‘12, 12, 12, 11, no sorry 12‘. If nothing else it made us laugh.

We finally rolled into Llanidloes at 1530. By 1531 we were in the nearest pub chatting to two old fellas heavily laden with sufficient camping kit to suggest they were on a ‘Shackleton Tribute Tour’.  They’d come the other way and spoke wearily of the climbs we’d be descending tomorrow. Again I was smug in our choice of route direction. It didn’t last.

Carol (my long suffering wife) and daughter turned up from a day walking the Elan Valley dams. They brought with them a resupply bag into which Adam cheerfully abandoned about half his kit. For reasons still somewhat opaque, I added a few bulky items to mine.

Very happy to have smashed the ‘big day’,  we intended to celebrate with a slap up feed and possible an assault on a Welsh cheese board. Less happy to find the only food being served were pub crisps and not very good fish and chips. Still on the upside, tomorrow was an easier day.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

*I loved that 11-46. The 46 especially. And as the week went on, I loved it even more. The fact it was Adam’s and he could have fitted to his bike made it just that little bit sweeter 🙂

This series of six entries was originally posted in a single thread on STW

The problem with that web site is its’ lack of editing functionality. And a MaryWhitehousen tolerance for profanity. The former showcases my lazy proofreading and questionable grammar, the latter cramps a writing style essentially scaled out from the word ‘Fuck’.

So here we are. At sea level with 425km to go. Before embarking on our epic-lite journey, let’s take a moment to remember how we got here. Read that? Right, we’re almost ready.

From the header image, the navigationally proficient will have correctly identified our direction of travel as South to North. This is unquestionably the right way, even though it is uphill*.

As neither Adam or I have those navigational skills, we made extensive use of GPX files and an old school guidebook. Adam further invested in one of the Sustrans maps which provided valuable only in lining his seat pack for five days.

Bikes:

Alex – PlanetX Tempest, 700cc wheels, Schwalbe tubeless G1 tyres. 40/46 gears.  Weight: 18.5 kilos or about double the weight of the unloaded bike.

Adam – Ibis Hakka with 650B wheels, Schwalbe Thunderburt tyres allegedly running tubeless. 42/40 gears. Weight significantly less. He had added lightness, I had added gears.

Gear:

Adam – a mahoosive Lomo 13L waterproof seat pack and a small bag hanging off the bars. Alex: Alpkit seat pack with Exo-Rail, Alpkit frame bag, Alpkit top tube bag. No camping gear as we’re not mental.

Here we go, some actual travelogue content…

The day finally dawned. After much worrying over a deteriorating forecast and my lack of any useful preparation, the waiting was over. Dropped off by the Wales Millennium Centre, we dodged the University graduation ceremonies to snap the obligatory ‘start here‘ photo.

First objective achieved and by pure luck we stumbled onto the route after excitedly pointing out the NCN8 sign. All went well for about 3 minutes until predictably we got completely  lost. This despite a verified GPS route loaded into Ad’s Garmin 800 and the sam present on my phone via the ‘BikeGPX’ app.

Over the week we became pretty skilled at hunting out blue and white signs or interpreting what the map was trying to tell us. Today however was a voyage of discovery. Sometimes discovering the same bit of car park from a number of different directions.

Having run out of alternatives, we transited under the A4232 to enter Hamadyad Park. Well this was unexpectedly lovely. Away from the traffic, we relaxed a bit enjoying the sunshine reflecting off the river. With no idea how fast we had to ride, there was limited time for hamming it up over the first bridge before passing behind the stadium and Cardiff Castle.

The Taff trail is fantastic way to exit the city. We shared it with (mostly) cyclists beyond pensionable age enjoying the sunshine and avoiding cars, other than a few well signed road crossings. Passing under the M4,  we joined the old railway track and had our first experience of ‘how fast dare I ride through these shoulder high barriers‘. Not as fast as I thought apparently as I bounced off the second one.

Time for a break then after riding for about 2 hours. Forecast suggests today is to be the sunniest of the week, so we’re determined to enjoy it. While still having a bit of ‘destination’ anxiety’ meaning stops soon become starts.

Now though we had a different problem – where to find a much needed coffee hit. Pontyprid was not that place. Blimey it’s a bit depressing especially when you consider its hayday in the age of coal. We quickly scooted back onto the disused railway line until the equally dispiriting Merthyr Tydfil appeared on our right flank.

Rather than descend into that madness, we popped out onto a minor road looking for a local café. Found one only opened six weeks previously, which might explain why the till was something of a mystery to the proprietor.

Sustained through the magic of a chicken baguette and impressed by the 80+ year old fella we met who was still cyclng every day, we started the first proper climb near the Cyfarthfa ironworks. Another relic of a different age where heavy industry dominated these valleys.

The scale of it was such it proved almost impossible to get your head around how vast the site must have been. Although that distraction didn’t last long as we headed into the Brecon Beacons – a landscape I know reasonably well from many years campaigning  mountain bikes up and down these hills.

We came at it a different way but the two reservoirs (Pentwyn and Talybont) were familiar. The riding wasn’t familiar at all –  being  a combination of long gravel tracks and shorter punchy road climbs. Here I suffered the first loss of the trip – the light off the pack on the 5 mile shallow descent (on the old Brecon Railway) line past Talybont dam.

The bikes for this kind of terrain are  brilliant, really glad I wasn’t on super narrow road tyres pumped up to 100PSI. We were comfortable descending at reasonable speeds with marble-y gravel pinging off the frames.  Looking across the dam, I  recognised the trail we climb on the classic gap loop over the other side of the valley. Strangely I wasn’t that bothered to be missing out on a mountain bike ride.

After those amazing views, it was a bit of easy road work to reach our first nights stop via the Brecon to Monmouth canal.

At the end of which my thoughts could be summarised as ‘bloody good fun, glad first day is over and I’m still able to pedal, but my arse hurts tho and I really need a beer’.

We sorted the beer at least, toasting our first destination under a still hot sun. This was just the warm up though. Tomorrow was going to be far tougher. So let’s not go mad on the beer.

We didn’t. Because we were staying in a hotel knocking out double gin and tonics for not much cash. So we drank quite a few of those instead.

*I was asked which way climbed more. Even after gently explaining the start and end points were both at sea level, my questioner still refused to accept I’d provided sufficient detail in my answer 😉

I consider myself moderately numerate. Much of my day is surfing the line between causation and correlation. I kind of know how numbers work – although someone will be quick to point out this mathematical rigour applies not at all to my notorious bike buying policy.  True enough, that’s why the maxim ‘lies, damn lies and statistics’ is rooted in truth.

Next week the numbers ride off the page and onto the tarmac. 237 miles, somewhere north of 20,000 feet of ascent, two mountain ranges, climbs too numerous to count but a single 8 mile instance is sticking in my mind. 35 pounds of loaded bike, 11 gears*, 5 days, 2 wheels, 1 mate and no bloody idea at all how it’s going to go.

How’s what going to go? Ah that’s where the numbers don’t tell the story, they merely act as chapter headings. The Lon Las Cymru is the ‘official’ route for those wishing to transit the country of Wales from coast to coast. Start in Cardiff, finish in Holyhead taking in the Brecon Beacons and the national park of Snowdonia.

This idea was dreamed up by my mate Adam with whom I suffered partial drowning back in 2017 on the Trans-Cambrian adventure.  Deciding it couldn’t possibly be any harder – or wetter – than that mental and physical challenge, he then essentially handed the whole thing off to me to organise.

Logistics planning has gone well. Instantly sacking off any idea of tentage, my  accommodation criteria was a Google-Venn of twin rooms, large breakfasts and a pub no further than a drunken stagger away.  If possible located within the same building.

I have prepared myself equally well. Adding a bike to the ShedOfDreams(tm) and half a stone to my age-ravaged body. The first was merely the intersection of a shiny new thing on sale and a credit card, the second a combination of hotels, boredom and a wearingly consistent lack of willpower.

This laser focus on athletic perfection has led me to believe that I must – contrary to the screams of the aesthetically demure – go full MAMIL, so exchanging my grungy MTB wardrobe of baggy shorts and shapeless tops for figure hugging lycra. I demonstrated my commitment to ‘pudgy aero’ to Adam a couple of weeks ago. It’s fair to say his reaction was not quite what I was hoping for.

This after I’d bought two new pairs of shorts in a ambitious medium size. I intend to grow into them. Or stitch them together to make one al-sized pair. Anyhow that’s as far down that particular rabbit hole I think we need to go, so let’s talk bikes instead.

When I bought the Tempest, I disparagingly compared it to a crap 90s mountain bike. Having now ridden it properly off road, I’ve half changed my mind. It’s actually a bloody brilliant 90s mountain bike. It’s not some hard-charging six inch slack full suspension monster swapping out technique for bravery.  No you actually have to ride the sodding thing properly.

The 2in tyres have hilariously little grip, descending on dropped bars narrows your view to a fuzzy middle and flashing periphery. The brakes are fantastic but the tyres are not, so unexpected sideways movements get normalised pretty quickly. You can have as much fun at 10mph on some non technical singletrack, as you would on a death-tech rocky steep on my other bikes.

I like that. And I like the bike. I’ve enjoyed riding it these last few weeks. Returning home from a holiday in a hot country serving much cold beer, I really had to get some miles in. Every one of them have been fun, either exploring interesting looking trails, slithering on off road tracks or testing out the luggage pretending I’ve ridden 200 miles not 20.

Whether I’ll like it a week Friday is another matter entirely. Each day ups the climbing until the crux of that bastard climb above Machynlleth**. At that point I expect my forensically packed kit to be strewn carelessly behind me in a fit of rage at finding the shifter has no more clicks.

Packing has been an amusing confluence of want and need. Ads and I have traded shared items. His latest ‘first aid kit done, one plaster, one small bandage so don’t fall off second’ was possibly a response to my suggestion that a single tub of chamois cream between us would be absolutely fine. Frankly I think he’s still holding the lycra incident against me.

An experienced bike-packer*** may frown over my selection of random items. Picking through mandatory foodstuffs – such as a full cheeseboard and a choice of desert wines – they will wonder aloud if the concept of ‘you can stop packing before the bag is full’ has passed me by.

It has. I have tools for removing stones from horses hooves. Other essential items include fresh shorts for every day because washing sweaty ones cramps my beer drinking riff. I have also packed sufficient outer clothing to ensure my lycra clad torso doesn’t trigger riots in some of the smaller Welsh towns.

So not very fit. Bit fat. Too much kit. Not enough gears. Navigationally useless. Never ridden a road bike for that long on one day, never mind five. Yeah but weather looks pretty good – sure we’ll get wet it’s Wales after all, but flooding is now only a remote possibility – great accommodation booked, a mate who didn’t try and kill me last time things got difficult, and a whole load of stunning countryside to ride through.

Oh and a re-supply mission from Carol half way through. Come on that’s reasonable. No way that cheese is going to last five days.

Ready? Laughably no. Excited? Oh fuck yes.

* I’d like a few more. Specifically extra big ones at the back and a smaller one at the front. There may be some engagement of the pushing gear.

**I have my own versions of the ‘Hors Cat’ categorisation. ‘Shit, Bollocks, Bastard, Total Bastard and Fuck me,  you have to be joking‘

***Apparently according to the experts, we’re not bike-packers. Bike-packers are not credit card lazy arses staying in comfortable B&Bs. Being a serious student of taxonomy and the importance of categorisation, I’ve given this some thought. That thought being ‘Go fuck yourself cockwombles’.