Job done, in its way - a way that might be described as a 'qualified failure,' given that, even though I didn't manage to do any of the things that I was aiming for, were it not for a few unfortunate occurrences, it could have been a very different story.
First worries came before I even got out of glasgow, as my fresh chain failed to mate with my now-that-I-come-to-think-of-it rather aged cassette, resulting in a panicked purchase in Birmingham and a lack of re-indexing that left me without a top gear on the day. Not that I really missed it.
After a heavy night's sleep (after a heavy night's dinner) my bleary mind forgot that I'd left my brand-new bidons in the fridge, only being alerted to this fact when I started reassembling the bike from the back of Rhodri's car in Welshpool. Shockingly, there was nowhere to pick up a bottle at the start line, and I was forced to resolve to ride dry. This was not a good start, and as I reset the wrong distance on my computer, robbing me of the ability to monitor my average speed, was symptomatic of a lot of the day. Nevertheless, I got away safely, only having to double-back a hundred yards or so when I shot past a turning having blasted past my group, the third leavers of the day at a quarter past 7.
The first hour was unreal. Strong coffee still gumming up my dry mouth, I was focussed on getting to the first feed station quickly. It took me about 40 minutes to catch the tail end of the previous group, and as we started climbing past newtown I slid by unhesitantly, no-one making any effort to match my speed. Judging by numbers, by the top of the climb I was in the top ten, having badgered a bidon off a helpful hero on a red allez. The numbers (such that I could read) were scary - my heart rate was at hour-in-the-gym levels, and average speed was climbing faster than I was. As I assumed the David Millar wrists-on-the-bar time trial position running down the valley, it was clear I was passing people putting a creditable effort in.
Turning off the main road at the first feed stop, something didn't seem right. With enough fluid to keep me going, I didn't want to stop, but after a short, steep sprint to an unmarked junction, I had to double back and ask directions.
'Just head straight over, and there's a right-hand turn' was the confident response. Right.
Cranking up the 20% slope, over cattlegrids and moor, there were no signs. I couldn't remember seeing any of this on the route profile. 'Assassines!' I hissed as I passed a right hand turn with a very conspicuous absence of signage. As it turned out, being so early and so fast was my downfall, as it was the downfall of several others. Being so stubborn, however, was what cost me twenty miles.
The steeply undulating country didn't invite backtracking. Or telephone signals. When I found a payphone, it helpfully informed me that it didn't accept coins, and had no other method of payment. Fantastic. As I pottered about there, another lad caught me up, and I took him to the A road before realising just how far off we were, and blasting back to pen-y-bont. I was fuming.
Unfortunately, anger could only get me so far. The extra, unexpected undulations had taken it out of me, and re-taking riders that I had passed hours before was a soul-sucking experience. By the time I got to brecon, and roads I really knew, Dad had already packed up and gone home, figuring he'd missed me, and the long drag to storey arms started to hurt. I was still passing people, and no-one so much as got on my wheel, let alone overtook me, but as me odometer indicated that I should have been finished by now, both in time and space, it was difficult to keep my spirits up.
Back in the valleys, and roundabout after roundabout made it into a multi-sprint event, the lights and traffic through the 'Brad being particularly infuriating. Nevertheless, I passed a few riders going into Caerphilly, and cheerfully welcomed them to the pain ahead.
How nobody passed me on that mountain I don't know, but whilst my mind was shouting 'Attaque!', my body was giving up. I hadn't ridden it on a 34-25 before, and those three fewer teeth don't half make a difference. I bullied my body up there, past riders with miracle bailout gears slower than walking, and dived back down into town, trying desperately to catch a bunch that was always one set of lights ahead.
At the castle, we were diverted onto a grass hundred-metre finish, presumably to discourage sprints for the line. Instead of the rehearsed air punch, I had known for the past two hours how I was going to cross the line - my hands came up to my face in exhasperation and disbelief. Almost 7 and a quarter hours for a ride that could have taken 5 and a quarter. To rub salt in the wound, the fastest time recorded until I left was just over six hours. If they'd actually had all the signs up in time, I could easily have beaten that.
Just to top it off, I contrived to lose my multi-tool in the car park. Perfect.
So there you go. Four months of training and nothing to show for it. But it's not the end of the year yet. I have another sportive in three weeks' time, a hundred miler from Glasgow to Edinburgh. I have a lot to prove.
Good trails!
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