Cycling The Four Counties 200km Audax, Hampshire

Cycling The Four Counties 200km Audax, Hampshire.

It had been two months since the car caught fire and I had decided to cycle to work instead of looking for a new one. It's around 15 miles door to door and I used to cycle it along the main road, a dirty, noisy affair and I swore never to repeat the experience. I had, however, discovered minor roads and canal paths which meant I only had a couple of miles on "A" roads, four or five on minor, quiet roads and the rest along the canal. On good days, winter and summer, I rode this route, watching the swans parade on the canal with their newly hatched cygnets, single file, condensing from ghostly outlines to graceful white galleons as they sailed through the early morning vapours which rose in steaming wreaths from the water's placid surface. In winter I would arrive at work encased in frost and ice and I creaked and squeaked ominously on arrival!

However, to get back to the story, all this cycling gave me the benefit of acquiring a good "aerobic base", I believe the phrase is, which manifested itself in quicker times along the route and less sweaty clothes to wash! I learned this jargon from a cycling magazine one of my work colleagues was kind enough to lend me and in it I found an article about Audax UK, describing non competitive long distance events that were open to anyone. Rides from 50km to 600km, plenty time to do them, stop along the way, take pictures, blether to other cyclists and generally revel in the atmosphere of a challenging endurance event. I consulted my wife, who, fearful of becoming spouse to a cycling junkie replied "Yes dear, it'll give you something to aim for", sent off two sturdy SAEs to Pam Pilbeam in Denmead near Portsmouth and started cleaning the bike in preparation.

The reason I chose this event, the "Four Counties", was the fact that we were holidaying on the South coast during the ride and I thought it would make a good start to my audaxing efforts. Nice weather, quiet country lanes and no hills - well, we're talking about the south of England here aren't we? Flat, right? No? Dawn, my wife, who is from Bristol, laughed and I developed a cold sweat at the thought of 202km of vertical ascents and screaming downhills. Could I do it? Would I last the pace? What had I left myself in for?

Sunday, 6th September, half past seven in the morning. Weather slightly nippy but the forecast was good --warm sunshine but the remnants of an American hurricane heading for us and due to hit at any time! I hoped it hit from behind and propelled me up the fearful Harting Hill. Staying at Dawn's friend's house, we had scrutinised the route sheet the night before and near the end it said: "Climb Harting Hill and take first right at top". Jill, my wife's friend, gasped and had to sit down. She warned me that she could only make it up that hill in second gear - IN THE CAR!! aaaargh!! More cold sweat!

Now, as I stood outside the Pilbeams' spacious abode, sipping a mug of hot tea, I watched as the others arrived, mostly on super lightweight bikes, clipless pedals and brightly coloured attire. Quite a few were sporting the latest team names and sponsorship deals of the pros. One chap had cycled the 70 miles or so from London to do the route and was then going to cycle the 70 miles back. I felt my knees go weak and I gulped down my tea, partly to counter the sudden fluid loss due to another cold sweat attack but more importantly as Pam was about to ring the bell to start us on our way. Now I must say that I've had a bike continuously for about 20 years and I've toured around a bit, mostly in the north of Scotland on old road bikes, heavy and cumbersome but I now had a decent mountain bike, and it was built like a tank. Huge knobbly tyres inflated to maximum pressure of 65psi, mudguards, rack, the lot. A most eminent commuting\touring machine with big panniers, but I balked at the thought of propelling it's considerable weight through 202km of rolling southern countryside. I was also the only person there on a mountain bike. I was also, apparently, the first Scotsman to do the route!

Ding went the bell and we were off. I settled down at the rear of the group of about thirty super fit cyclists. In no time at all we were strung out over a distance of about a quarter of a mile, the leaders increasing the gap at a frightening pace. However, as I warmed up, I noticed that I was overtaking a few people at the back. As I passed, I nodded and said hello. I received blank stares in return. I imagined them thinking, "fool's on a mountain bike, won't last long, maybe to the first control!" I was mildly surprised as I overtook some more and settled into a steady pace, admiring the views, the thatched cottages, trundling along at a pleasant 17mph. Then a strong tail wind caught me and I flew along at anything up to 26mph on the first fairly flat stage to Stockbridge. The route sheet was a delight to read, being of the form: @ RAB 2nd exit (SP PURBROOK HEATH) SO @ next RAB R + L over ford After IBM sign take 2nd left (SP FARLEY MOUNT)

I was impressed by the quietness of the roads and the pastoral scenery. The Pilbeams had chosen a grand route and had obviously done their homework. At Kings Sombourne, however, the Andover Arms pub was no longer a pub, having become a private residence and the occupants had failed to place a prearranged sign for us to follow. This oversight necessitated conversing with a local to gain sufficient information to continue. I was apprehensive. I have a broad Glaswegian accent and I imagined any local coming into earshot of me running inside and barring the door, screaming something about daughters and locking up. However, the lady I asked for directions to the ford merely gave me a concerned look and pointed to my feet. "You're in it love", she said. Oops, I had stopped in a puddle in the village centre and had mistaken the ford for the remnants of a heavy shower, or perhaps the contents of a large incontinent cat's bowels. I stifled a cry of "hoots mon, yon's nae a ford, woman. Where I come from the haggis can pee more than that!" but meekly thanked her and cycled off!

I zoomed into Stockbridge having covered the 33 miles in 2 hours, not bad for me, I thought. Got my card stamped at the café, had a bite to eat and a drink and as I was still feeling good, headed off on the next stage, the 39km to Kingsclere. This stage turned out to be rather tough, being much hillier than the first but on more quieter lanes. It took me up steep hills and down steeper descents, through ancient forest, past tumbling streams. As the route unfolded, mile upon mile, my legs tired a little and the granny ring started to whisper faintly in my ear, "use me, use me, you idiot!" "Pah, I thought, stuff you" and I manfully continued cranking on the second! An hour and three quarters after leaving Stockbridge I rolled up to the Little Chef at Kingsclere and stuffed my face with sandwiches and crisps, oh and gallons of water!

I had about 20mins rest at Kingsclere, lying on the grass and enjoying the warm sunshine. Then it was time for stage 3 - 47km to the Oak Park Golf Club. Pam had said it was quite an exclusive establishment but that they would serve me. Well they had served cyclists on the route in the past! I wondered what it could be like as I navigated easily towards Basingstoke. Easily until confusion over a mini roundabout in Swing Swang Lane (love the names down here!). I turned right. It should have been left but more help from the locals, this time gained by a chap from Devon I was cycling with, put us back on the route. One thing I noticed on the hills was that if I was near other cyclists on road bikes I could easily overtake them as they stood and groaned on their pedals. I on the other hand, just sat comfortably in the saddle and pedaled twice as fast in the granny gears! At the top however, they would zoom past me and I would settle back into my nice mountain bikey, relaxed touring pace. The instructions on the route sheet passed by, line by line and I mentally straightened my shirt and tie as I panted up the wee incline into the golf club, stage 3 completed.

Card stamped, I staggered into the plush interior of the restaurant and slumped against the bar next to two very tall and very rich looking golfing types. I mentally felt their gazes move in my direction, slide down their aquiline noses and thump heavily on the back of my neck. What actually happened was a large blob of sweat ran down my forehead, slid down my nose and exploded on the polished wood of the bar. "Yes sir, what would sir like?" I swung round, imagining the Sultan of Oman fresh off the greens with his harem and retinue, swung back and realised the barman was talking to me! I composed myself, wiped my laboured brow and calmly stated my intention to horribly murder the manager, ravish all females in the vicinity and round off my visit by burning the entire establishment to the ground… Well, going by his expression that's what he thought I had said. Ah, the accent again! Usually, when furth of the border, Dawn translates, but lacking her linguistic input this time, I repeated slowly and precisely, as if I was teaching him to speak English, "A.. baked.. potato… aaaand.. chiiillay.. pleeeeze" He let out a lungfull of air, presumably sharply vacuumed by the first interpretation of my discourse, wrote down my order and turned to operate the till. On an impulse he turned back to me and said with a smile - "Will sir be taking it outside?" He made it sound like I was in a house of ill repute and had just ordered a half hour session with the owner's moggie!! I didn't have the heart to say, "No, sir fancies sitting next to that fat bird with the chandelier earrings and diamond studded suspension bridge necklaces. Serve it in a bucket and don't bother with a knife and fork. Sir will make do with a shovel!!" instead, I replied, "Yes, sir will"

The food was very nice and I tip-toed back with the licked clean plate and empty glass and set off on the final stage back to the Pilbeams' at Denmead. However, there was an "info" control to be negotiated at Milland, a sleepy little hamlet with a pub and a bus shelter, oh and of course, the info control. I'd read in 'Arrivee' of the "dreaded info control" and I conjured images in my mind of a parchment scroll defended by naked cannibals and tribes of hideous half humans. It's impalement for you my boy. Hey, it's almost 202km on a hot sunny day, bloody hell and I hadn't even tackled the "hill" yet! And they say they hallucinate on the PBP!! It turned out to be no more than some landmark, whose details I had to jot down on the brevet card and speed off before the hordes could say, "boil that cauldron!"

Harting Hill, the dreaded declivity on the road to hell. Was it really overhanging at the top? I could hear the crash of cars as they tumbled backwards from it's fearsome summit, unable to surmount the horizontal roof which barred all sunlight from it's base and left rusting wrecks to decay in the swamp at it's foot. AAaaargh!!!! Get a grip, there it is, pant up the slope, hey this is easy, piece 'a cake, nae torra at a'! Round the curve, colour drains from cheeks and runs back down the black sticky road. The sun has melted the tarmac and it sticks to my giant knobbly tyres. I granny down and go up backwards at -3mph, time reverses and I grow younger with every turn of the cranks, or is it older? eh? I sweat violently in the heat and urge myself on. My brain detaches and flies to a nice cosy room at home. Sweet glass of port and an admiring gaggle of friends… "That sounds absolutely terrible, did you have to walk up it….?" "Certainly not, How insulting… I cycled the whole way!" "That's marvellous…you must be so FIT!!" The vision blurred and waved away and the soft tones of my imaginary fan club turned to the harsh rasping of full grip tyres on melting road. I had come 120 miles and my bike felt heavy as though I was towing a bus load of sumo wrestlers on their way to the annual "who can pack as many sumo wrestlers into a bus" conference! My legs ached and I was starving but I mamged to heave and puff and finally pull over the top and swoop down the long incline between green hills and fields. The rush of air was beautiful. The sky was slowly darkening, so much so that I had to take of my shades…oh no, they'll see my bloodshot eyes, ah, who cares, it's a wonderful evening. Up over a small side road through a green pass, down down down to the fields, then up up up Chalton Hill (not as bad as Harting, but sporting just the same) and finally down down down again to Denmead and the Pibeams'. Dawn was waiting outside with the car to whisk me off to a hot bath and a huge meal courtesy of Jill. Just as well she was there as, in the gloaming, and coupled with my befuddled state, I couldn't find the finish!!! Dawn said, "there it is" just as I cycled past oblivious and she shook her head as I wobbled up the drive, stood the bike against the wall, ceremoniously removed my helmet, much as a king would remove his crown before bed I imagine and walked up the steps into the cosy fug of the Pilbeams' kitchen.

202km, 125miles (the computer said 140miles, which is the figure I quote to disbelieving friends!), 11hours 5mins, an average speed of around 14mph, on a steel framed mountain bike. I bought a cloth badge and medal to commemorate the occasion, thanked the Pilbeams profusely for the route and the tea and sandwiches at the end and stepped out into a glorious evening. The air was fresh and clear. A few stars had begun to show in the deep blue cloudless sky. I filled my lungs and pushed my trusty warhorse towards the car and anticipated an evening of port with a gaggle of friends.

A few pointers for those thinking of taking up Audax cycling: For rides of 200km+ get a light bike! My mountain bike weighs a ton but I also go climbing and hillwalking and the tree trunk thighs do help a lot when cycling! Since finishing the route, I've ordered a new road bike and have signed up for another ride in Fife. I've also sent off for details of solo "permaments" in Scotland - routes that can be ridden at any time. The biggest problem I encountered was lack of water. I've only got one bottle on my bike and in the heat the lack of water made itself felt. There's plenty of opportunity to eat at the controls and distances between them, usually around 20-30miles can easily be negotiated non stop. If you don't know anyone just turn up and cycle. You'll soon make friends at the controls and keep an eye out for roadies to help pace you!