It was a sickening moment. I had already ridden over 110 hilly miles on one of Britain’s toughest long-distance bike rides, with 260 still to go. But I realised that I was miles off route.

I was taking part in the Bryan Chapman Memorial 600km audax (long-distance cycling) event. It commemorates Bryan Chapman, a cyclist who’d supposedly cycle the length of Wales to get his favourite mechanic to fettle his bike – then ride home.

We set off at 6am on Saturday morning from Bulwark Community Centre, a building in Chepstow that’s amazingly hard to find even when using Google or Apple Maps. My usual eve of ride butterflies were fully justified for once – I knew this would be my toughest ride, with the extra menace of the weather and fear of a mechanical on a lonely Welsh mountain.

I enjoyed riding in a group for the 74km to the first control at Bronllys in the Bannau Brycheiniog (Brecon Beacons) national park. It felt like slow progress for the first half of this stage, but I knew the secret was not to burn too many matches too early.

The Bronllys control was at the lovely Honey cafe, and I knew from Dave Atkinson’s account of his 2024 Bryan Chapman that a fried breakfast was the order of the day. Here I made my first mistake. Hearing several people ahead of me asking for a ‘small breakfast’ I did the same. I could have done with something more substantial.

As I prepared to leave the cafe, I noticed that the crowd I’d arrived with had all gone. I’d be riding alone on the next section. I’m happy riding solo, but over these distances company can make all the difference – not least in avoiding navigation errors…

The route north of Bronllys included a lovely lane following the river Wye. I knew we’d have long stretches of the main A470 road that links north and south Wales so this pastoral route was a delight. I passed the old Erwood railway station on the old Mid Wales Railway from Brecon to Llanidloes, closed in 1962, the year before the Beeching axe.

Just before Builth Wells, I enjoyed a nostalgic moment seeing the Royal Welsh Show ground at Llanelwedd. My late father took me to the show a couple of times in the late 1970s and 1980s. It was where I tasted Quavers for the first time!

This was when I ran out of energy. I stopped for ten minutes to eat some bars on the long climb out of Builth Wells on the A470. This was a low point, on a busy road, with other Bryan Chapman riders passing me. But I was soon feeling better – and paused briefly at the crossroads in Rhayader to eat another energy bar to see me to Llanidloes.

The old timbered Market Hall made an impressive sight as I entered the town. I found two Bryan Chapman riders eating lunch outside the Little Welsh Bakery. This is where I made my second fuelling mistake. It turned out that the bakery, lovely though it was, had a very limited choice of food. Rather than find somewhere more suitable for an audax rider, I bought a quiche and a coffee, which I ate on a seat just down the road. No wonder I struggled over the hills to Machynlleth…

The serious climbing was about to begin. This was a miserable time for me. A week ago, I was marvelling at my new-found hill climbing prowess in the Chilterns. Here, I had to stop frequently to recharge and go again. I was just behind three female riders who were making their way up the hill with quiet efficiency. I envied them. Just to add to the joy, the rain arrived. I knew the weather was far worse in south east England, but it didn’t help…

I was now on the Machynlleth mountain road, and at one point decided that a ten minute power nap would help now the sun was out. I lay down on a grassy verge, closed my eyes and rested. It was amusing to feel wild flowers brushing against my face as I tried to sleep. After a while, I concluded it was time to move on.

I knew the next control was at Dylife, and savoured the view of the stunning gorge just before I reached it. Dylife was a lead mining centre until the early 20th century, and the landscape carried the scars. I was grateful for the orange Club biscuit and water I was given by the volunteer at the controls. At this point I was about 100 minutes within the time limit.

At last I could enjoy the long, long descent towards Machynlleth, and the views of the mountains of Eryri (Snowdonia) in the distance. This is the kind of transition in a ride that restores morale that was so low just minutes earlier.

Machynlleth was briefly the unofficial capital of Wales during 600 years ago when Owain Glyndŵr established his parliament here. The town bid to regain that status in 1955 but my hometown of Cardiff won the prize. Wales finally got its parliament back when the Senedd was established (initially as the National Assembly) in 1999.

Now came the moment that proved fatal to my hopes of completing the full 600km route. Just north of Machynlleth my Garmin told me to turn right. I thought nothing of it, and followed a lovely lane along the Dyfi valley. I was listening to Mark Beaumont’s account of his round the world ride while I relished the easier gradients and soft early evening sunshine. It was only when I came to a junction with the A470 that I realised the sickening truth. I was following the second day’s route; the Garmin hadn’t distinguished between the northbound and the southbound tracks. The reality hit me: I was too far along to turn back, and had no choice but to tackle the steep climb from Dinas Mawddwy on the A470 to Dolgellau.

Google Maps claimed the route had only moderate hills, but I knew from driving the road many times that this was a cruel lie. Sure enough, my Garmin showed the ascent topped 18 per cent, while the road markings were mocking my progress by urging me to slow down (arafwch nawr)…

At long last I reached the summit, and prepared for the descent to Dolgellau, one of my favourite Welsh towns. But I grimaced as I reached the Cross Foxes pub, where the direct road that I should have taken via Corris joins the A470. On the freewheeling approach to town, I saw the old Little Chef had been replaced by a Starbucks.

By this stage, I had concluded that my dream of reaching Menai Bridge was over. Was I quitting too cheaply? I went through the calculations in my mind. My 100 minute margin was now just over 30 minutes, which was not enough for the climbs through Eryri to Ynys Môn (Anglesey) given my poor climbing performance so far. If anything went wrong overnight, I’d be stranded on my own on a lonely Welsh mountain. Prudence as well as my heart told me to head for the control at Kings Youth Hostel for a decent break and a reviving meal before cycling along the coast to the sleep stop at Aberdyfi.

Rob McIvor and others had warned me in advance that the lane from the main road up to Kings is amazingly steep. So I was prepared, and made my way slowly up the sylvan valley of Afon Gwynant to the youth hostel. I was surprised to see loads of cyclists there given my late arrival. More confusingly, they were in jeans and tee shirts. Then it dawned on me: Bryan Chapman organiser Will Pomeroy was running two other versions of the ride. These riders were on the three day route, and were staying at Kings. I was envious…

As I devoured my dinner, I discovered the rider opposite me was the wonderful volunteer who charged my Garmin at Chepstow on the London Wales London audax last month. I encouraged him to take part in LWL next year.

As I set off for Aberdyfi, I felt contentment about my decision. I felt no sense of loss about cutting the ride short, much as I’d have loved to complete the full Bryan. A Wales end to end would have to wait. I had the bonus of riding the coastal section on a fine evening, with views to the mountains of the Llŷn peninsula, one of the most magical parts of Cymru. I did look wistfully down to Barmouth bridge, which the full route crosses though…

Just before Tywyn, the Garmin told me to turn right off the main road. After the earlier disaster, I was taking no chances as twilight gave way to night, and carried on. I had to walk past a road closure in Tywn, but before long I was overtaken by other riders not far from Aberdyfi. I was in awe of the fact they’d been to Menai Bridge. I smiled to myself at the idea they may briefly have assumed I’d done the same!

It was such a relief to get off the bike. I spent time getting my act together, charging devices and taking a rudimentary wash (there were no showers). And eating. Eating loads.

Eventually, I crawled into my sleeping bag liner on an airbed in a darkened hall. I barely slept for people coming and going, and beeping of wake up alarms. At one point I suffered cramp, which wasn’t easy to deal with without waking people. I gave myself until 6am before getting breakfast and preparing for another very long bike ride.

The road to Machynlleth was flat in parts, and I made reasonably progress. At last I came to the turn that I shouldn’t have taken yesterday. It looked just as lovely, but for me laden with the knowledge that this was where my Bryan Chapman fate was sealed.

I was now back on the A470. It’s hard to believe that this twisting, single carriageway road is the main artery between north and south Wales. True, traffic is light, but that surely reflects the fact that anyone in a hurry would head into England and then back into Wales to stay on faster roads. It made it a better cycling option than you’d expect.

At Carno, I saw a group of ‘our’ cyclists outside a Spar shop, and took the hint to fuel. I enjoyed a coffee and bar of chocolate, the moment only spoiled by heavy drops of rain. I donned my waterproof – a good decision, as it rained for the next 30 minutes as I headed towards Newtown.

On the last leg to Newtown, we turned onto a lane through Aberhafesp, which was a control for previous editions of the Bryan Chapman.

At Newtown, I saw riders leaving Greggs, and enjoyed a break eating sausage roll and a steak bake washed down with a coffee while I chatted to a fellow rider. We talked about the big climb that began soon after Newtown.

Having read this far, you won’t be surprised to hear that I struggled on this stretch. The gradients weren’t brutal, so I put my rather pathetic performance down to tiredness. But eventually the climbing ended, to be replaced by a miraculously long descent almost all the way to the border town of Knighton, the next control.

That control was at the Offa’s Dyke centre, a very impressive modern building with displays telling the story of Offa’s Dyke, the historic border fortification between the Anglo Saxon kingdom of Mercia and the Welsh kingdom of Powys. Unfortunately, the food on offer (no pun intended) was very limited. I had some bara brith (Welsh fruit cake), a packet of crisps and a pot of tea.

It was obvious that this modest ‘meal’ wouldn’t be enough to sustain me but an urge to get moving and a certain fatalism stopped me seeking further supplies in the town. On leaving Knighton, I was confronted by a steep climb on an urban street, which almost had me on my knees. Any hopes that the long climb would be followed by a long descent as after Newtown proved ill founded. This was one of the lowest points of the ride for me, I was conscious of how far I still had to ride. I kept telling myself that it didn’t matter how long it took me to get back to Chepstow. Today would come to an end.

Reaching Hay on Wye was a milestone for a host of reasons. My grandfather was born in this border region in the 1890s. I found the familiar town deserted on ths Sunday afternoon. There was no time to linger: I had an urgent appointment with the Gospel Pass. This is the highest road in Wales, reaching 1,800 feet. I remember being surprised when I first learned this, as I’d assumed that a road in the mountains of Eryri would claim the crown, rather than this route on the English border.

Against all expectations, I loved the Gospel Pass. The scenery and the weather (dry and bright, if cloudy) helped. But above all I relished completing a climb I’d been contemplating for 30 years, knowing that I had an 11 mile descent from the summit.

On the way down the Vale of Ewyas, I came to Capel y Ffin. The name means chapel of the border in Welsh, and I first came to this lonely spot in the 1980s when my father was researching a press trip for the Wales Tourist Board. Further down the valley, I wasn’t surprised to find the control location, Treats, closed. But given my shortened route I no longer had to collect control validations. I did phone organiser Will Pomeroy to let him know I was out of time, and was reassured when he said the control would stay open into the early hours.

I briefly pondered seeing if there were any trains from Abergavenny to Newport and then on to Chepstow, but never seriously saw this as necessary. Even if trains were running, I’d probably have to ride from Newport to Chepstow, and had no wish to repeat that experience from 2013. Onward – and upwards.

After a slog of a climb from Llanfihangel Crucorney, my mood was restored with a lovely evening ride to Monmouth along quiet lanes.

It was a special moment when I cycled over the Monnow bridge in Mommouth, the last surviving fortified bridge in Britain. The end was in sight, although I had to negotiate on foot the closure of the bridge over the Wye towards Chepstow, chatting to the resurfacing gang as I went.

The next 10 miles were fast, as the road crossed into England and descended the Wye valley towards Tintern. On my Land’s End to John O’Groats ride in 2019 I remember this being a surprisingly slow section the other way, and now I knew why!

I paused to mark my final crossing back into Wales on this epic bike ride, over the 1827 Bigsweir Bridge. Aside from the steady climb from Tintern Abbey I was almost home.

Almost. I still had the task of finding Biulwark Community Centre. Google Maps was as frustratingly misleading as yesterday. But there I was. Saying hello, thank you and goodbye to Will and a fellow volunteer, grabbing my drop bag, and heading off into the night over the Severn Bridge for a bath and bed at the Severn View Travelodge.

There was one moment of drama. As I cycled over the M48 Wye Bridge, which immediately precedes the Severn Bridge, a police car slowed. Odd, I thought, but then it was gone midnight. The officer asked if I’d seen a man on a phone on the bridge. I hadn’t, but then spotted someone a hundred metres ahead of us. The police moved on to intercept him, presumably fearing a troubled person preparing to jump into the river. A sobering moment.

I’ve written a separate blogpost about the lessons I learned from the Bryan Chapman. In the meantime, here is my video highlighting an unforgettable experience.