July 1st, Bala and The Welsh Monsoon.

The power of positive thought alone was not enough to save us from the deluge that poured from leaden grey skies over Wales. It took stamina, a good cape and more importantly, high spirits to ride through countless gallons of water spewed from above. We all guessed that we may well get wet at some point and clung on desperately to the notion that it would surely brighten up, after all, it was the first day of July.

There were 14 of us putting together our bikes in the unseasonably empty car park on the outskirts of Bala. It's usually a busy place at this time of year but the wet summer days have kept the disappointed, sun seeking masses away. The vile weather god played his wicked hand to perfection and offered us a carrot of dryness as we rolled along the south shore of Llyn Tegid. Crossing the main Bala/Dolgellau road and heading north west, we prepared ourselves for the wilderness and the start of the days first climb.

At Dolhendre, a small enclave of traditional stone built houses and a telephone box, the road rises sharply. It's a nasty start to a series of inclines that climb to 512m over about 5 miles of very wild terrain. Afon Lliw cascades down from the high ground draining the early morning rains that we thought might have passed. Whilst Neil King flexed his freshly retired racing legs on the severe gradient, some of us stopped to remove a layer. A brief encounter with the sun lured us into a trap, by the time we crested the summit, our capes were draped across our backs and our noses channelled the torrents of water away from our mouths, save us from drowning.

It was a grim place to be at that moment in time. I hoped that we might descend into clearer skies or that the usually beautiful Coed Y Brenin forest may offer some shelter from the storm. The road drops a long way and water poured from the trees, came up from the ground and seeped into every cuff and collar. I felt very exposed wearing very worn shorts that had become transparent and offered little protection from the elements or to any one riding behind me. For this anus horribleous crime I apologise, rest assured that the offending shorts have now been destroyed.

After teaching young Sam Burton some manners on the climb over to Dolgellau, we regrouped and dropped into the town, bedraggled and in need of refreshment. The old railway line running along the south shore of the Mawddach estuary is a good alternative route to the busy A496 to Barmouth on the far bank. However, it was also very dirty and despite the rain having eased a little, thick grey mud was being thrown up from everyone's wheels. By the time we reached the Barmouth Bridge and crossed its rickety planks, we looked like a rugby match on wheels.

Splitting up in the deadly quiet seaside haven, we had a range of cafes to choose from. The chips were good and a blast from the hand dryer in the toilets directed down your shorts was heavenly, if not a little offensive to one or two of the other cafe users. Sat in our plastic chairs that are synonymous with beachfront cafés, a trail of mud and slurry slithered from our clothes and bodies leaving a pool of filth at our feet and beyond. Will was in the laundrette with his clothes turning in the tumble dryers but the luxury would be short lived. Still the rain fell. It showed no signs of letting up and wave after wave of heavy downpours came in from the west and across the sea. Eventually it was time to leave and face the inevitable.

We were surviving and fortunately, the temperature was not uncomfortable. Crossing the river again and making use of our return toll tickets, we could see the thick watery clouds covering the high ground in front of us. It was a great shame but we opted to alter our route in favour of a less extreme journey. Leaving the estuary road we climbed up the brutal set of hairpins that take you up to the foot of Cadair Idris and past the waters of the beautiful Llynnau Cregennen. Heavy cafe legs were soon gone but a barrage of heavy sideward's rain greeted us at the top. Turning to the east the wind was behind us and we sailed along the quiet road in the shadow of the high rocky crags toward Dolgellau. We negotiated the towns one way system for a second time and headed further to the east retracing the steps of our "coast to coast" ride that we had done in 2004.

Opting to do a section of main road had cut the length of the ride and we climbed the Bwlch Oerddrws on the eastward A470. It was busy and the climb was made more uncomfortable by the gushing water running into the road and falling from above. The summit was a welcome sight and as I waited for the last man, tired legs dictated the ever lengthening gaps between us. From the top of here the road snakes around some sweeping bends before swooping down the valley. Despite the wet conditions we still hit 50mph with Will clocking 51.7mph. Behind us, the swollen waterfalls of Pen y Brynnfforchog crashed over the craggy rock faces signalling the end of the world in this upside down summer deluge.

The end of the world was just around the corner from Dinas Mawddwy in the shape of the Bwlch y Groes. Following the river the road gently undulates for five miles or so before the river course turns 90 degrees west and the road makes a tight, twist and turn as it rears up steeply to the north. The westerly wind is redirected, funnelled and magnified through the narrowing valley as the road clambers up its west side. The final sections are steep and unrelenting. The jet of wind brings vast sheets of rain and mist up the valley like something from an epic adventure film where they all wake up in the sunshine after the storm has knocked them all unconscious. Jimmy Froggatt battled with the camera to capture the scene. Water running down his face, steamed up glasses and frustration at the digital technology. "where's the button, what do you press, how the F*@?k does this thing work" Jimmy had the camera upside down. I didn't fair much better though and struggled to capture anybody grinding their way up those final savage gradients. I only hope Mike's camera didn't suffer too much in the hands of idiots.

The top of the Bwlch opens up to give the weary traveller a stunning panorama across the hills and mountains to the north. The watery landscape was punctuated with patches of golden sunshine and black clouds, hanging like giant bats from hell. From here on in it was downhill all of the way. Chris Schofield had a puncture just after the top and stood pumpless waving his popped inner tube around. One of our older gentleman had ridden past the poor lad without stopping but he shall remain nameless. Phil Bridge also ripped one of his tyres further down but did manage to stay upright, unlike previous trips to Wales where Phil has always ended up sliding down the road on his arse. The most spectacular occasion occurred in 2005 on the descent from Worlds End. Phil was witnessed traversing the river crossing at speed by the seat of his pants through a magnificent wall of spray.

The ride back to Bala saw us come into the town in ones and twos spread out over some time. It was the end of a tough ride that had been eventful and very wet. We only had 77 of the planned 89miles on the clock but to have ridden into the clouds upon Cadair Idris would surely have been a momentous bad decision. Despite the weather, there really wasn't any seriously miserable faces amongst us. The whole ride had been something of an epic challenge that held together in good spirit. It's when the chips are down that it takes a bunch of people like this to keep smiling, ripping the Disney Mickey and making the most of the brown end of the stick. For this, I thank everyone who turned out.

After the ride we had a meal at the Old School House. The last time I'd been here it was bustling with business but I think we saved the day without another customer passing through the doors. Some dry clothes on and some hot food, I think everyone felt a lot better and had enjoyed themselves....thoroughly! Roll on "Wild Wales", August 26th.

Chris Riley.