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And so begins the story of a 100 mile cycling, and 25 pint cider-drinking, weekend in Somerset.

(as embarked upon by a bunch of exercise-shy musos…)

FRIDAY

Olly and I — due to one having a proper job and the other having a guilty conscience about not having a proper job — decided we couldn’t leave Bristol at lunchtime with the others, so reaching the evening’s orange-hued destination of Tucker’s Grave Inn entirely on two wheels.

Instead we left after work (or, rather, “work”) and caught a train to Freshford, one of the quaint little “request stops” between Bath and Westbury.

We arrived super early at Temple Meads train station in case of queues (of course — there were none) so sat ourselves down for the first beer of the weekend, a sharpener if you will. At which point, we get a flurry of frantic messages telling us that, en route from Bath, Kate’s chain had broken and Nick was sending an emergency chain cutter (for the uninitiated, you have to cut the chain again in order to mend it) to Temple Meads in time to catch us before we caught the train.

This much actually went according to plan — Nick’s brother-in-law earning himself some grateful thanks, both for the speedy delivery of said implement, and (I now learnt) for lending Olly a bike for the weekend in the first place!

So back, more-or-less according to plan, with the minor change of plan that instead of following the others straight to the evening’s final destination of Tucker’s Grave Inn, we would find them in Monkton Combe where they were detained at the Wheelright’s Arms (oh woe).

However, it was not even to be that simple! 100 yards out of Freshford station, on the first hill of the trip, Olly did an over-zealous gear change and totally spannered his chain. We upended the thing to try and fix it, but no amount of yanking would release the thing — stubbornly jammed between the frame and the inner cog. Shit! We’re not exactly looking like professionals here!

After 20 minutes of flapping around to no avail, and with the daylight ebbing away — the plan was never to arrive anywhere in the dark! — a quick status update to Nick revealed that our great leader’s sense of humour was (uncharacteristically) in short supply.

He cycled the two miles down the road to collect us, though by the time he reached us Olly had availed himself of a kind old man’s tools (experience paying off, there) and rectified the situation. (By now Olly was so covered in chain oil that he almost betrayed his successful moonlighting career as a Black and White Minstrel).

No sooner had we left, than his chain came off AGAIN! My own patience wearing thin, and eager to get my first cycle and first pint (OK, assiduous reader my second… well the first was a bottle of Sol – it doesn’t count!) of the evening, I left Nick and Olly to fend for themselves, under the pretext of getting the chain-cutting implement to Kate all the sooner, phoned in my order of “something brown and frothy” to Sue at the Wheelwright’s and recorded this sympathetic piece to my iPhone en route.

I arrived at the Wheelwrights 15 mins later, and as I did so reflected that this is the second time the pub has played host to a pre-weekend stuttering start. The last time being an early Cantores Literati weekend, singing in Bath Abbey, where half the choir, thinking Monkton Combe was in Bath, and by extension straight off junction 18 of the M4, were about 90 minutes late so postponed the rehearsal and sat in the Wheelwright’s Arms drinking ourselves into a premature daze, much the same as Sue, Chris and Kate this time. Bad light was our enemy that night too; not being able to find the lights in the chapel when we eventually started our rehearsal it was by the illumination of zippo lighters and mobile phone screens… until we gave up and returned to the pub.

Anyway, back to August 2009… I was followed quite quickly by Nick and Olly. Some speedy chain maintenance — this time of Kate’s bike! — took place and we were soon on our way.

Once I’d checked that high spirits hadn’t been to ill-affected:

The cycle to Tuckers Grave was absolutely fab — mostly flat across some clear and scenic cycle paths. The 5-miler ended with a hill that ’separated the men from the boys’ and when we finally got there we were greeted with luminous cider,  a campsite in a pub beer garden (setting up camp in the dark was a challenge) and a dinner, kindly laid on by Bushtucker Nick — the most awesome of campfire fondues. An “awesome” start to an “awesome” weekend. (Chris kept saying “awesome” all weekend, and now so am I)

SATURDAY

Chris and I were agreed it was a pretty awful night, much as this candid camera shot might appear to contradict (why oh WHY have I posted this?! — proofreading Ed). And as my tweet attests, great as the fondue tasted, it left a bad taste in the air the next morning!

Mr and Mrs Abbott together whipped up a fortifying round of bacon sarnies for breakfast and, after a brief admission of, erm, “anal bruising” from Olly (stick around to watch Kate’s matronly disapproving look at the end of the clip!) we made our farewells to Tucker’s Grave — their splendid Cheddar Valley (served by the 4-pint jug) and peerless Butcombe (served only in old-man jugs) — and set off.

The next leg of the journey was to Evercreech, as coincidence would have it, the home town of Claire’s new fella. We even lunched at his local! The first steep climb aside, this was my favourite leg of today’s journey. I carelessly cycled ahead of the others and took a wrong turning. When I realised they weren’t following I decided I had to rely on my own resourcefulness and cunning (dangerous) and iPhone (safer!) to get myself back on track, crucially without retracing any of my misguided steps — partly because that would be uneconomical and partly because the point at which I realised I’d lost them was after I’d descended the mother of all hills and there was no way on God’s clean earth I was going to attempt it in reverse!

So I sent the message to Nick, got the iPhone out and thrashed my way through some unscheduled Somerset cycle routes. The one thing I missed out on was a mid-way half, which they stopped off for so I could catch up. I hadn’t made it clear that I was seeking alternative routes to Evercreech! So I got to The Bell about twenty minutes before them (but naturally made good use of the time).

After the previous 24 hours’ stodgy fare, and with the impending barbecue, I was determined to have a salad for lunch… until everyone started ordering Ham, Eggs and Chips at which point I turned into Homer Simpson.

(which reminds me, loads of Family Guy quotes this weekend — must start catching up on this; I’m only on series 3 of about 8)

Post-lunch, we had a bit of wander round St Peter’s, Evercreech parish church, which is picturesque inside and out and has a fascinating gallery/balcony running down both sides, the length of the church.

We then set off for the next leg, which was basically all the way to our  campsite in Walton, nr Street with a stop at Glastonbury for barbie food (at Morrissons — “don’t they have a Waitrose?”).

En route we got some lovely photos of the gang, with Glastonbury Tor in the distance. By the time we got to Glasto my legs were on their last legs and I was very pleased to see the sign declaring Street only 2 miles away. “Oh no”, says Nick, “we’ll take the scenic cycle route to the campsite — it only adds on another one or two… or three miles”. So another FIVE to go, God help us!

And the last bit had a real sting in the tail, a 20-30 metre climb just as we approached the A39, on which the campsite was situated (why put campsites by the main road, we ask?!).

But all pain was eased at the thought of long hot showers, a hot meal and all the cider and ale we could drink.

There were nearly tantrums when it transpired that the two bottles of wine purchased with our barbie food wasn’t going to sustain our thirsty tour guide even as far as peeling the onions. And my phone enquiry to the local hostelries about a take-out service yielded nothing.

Still, we chowed down our delicious snags and burgers and headed down to the further of the two pubs (the near one looked a bit rough, and anyway if a pub’s got ‘pike’ AND ‘musket’ in the name you probably want to treat it with caution).

The splendidly named Royal Oak showed much more promise so we made our way down to there, to the pub denoting regality, tradition, maturity and…. and… five men with tattoos kickboxing each other outside the main entrance.

Nick and I were sent in to scope the place out for standard of drinks — and mortal safety — and in spite of the poor cider and ale situation assessed that it was probably OK — for one. The 6X wasn’t especially palatable but the cider was accetpable, so most of us had that.

Time to move on, and whilst we were reluctant to head to somewhere that, from my phone research, appeared to have Blackthorn as its only cider option, most of us were in a beer mood by now, and certainly in an escape-from-getting-a-kicking mood.

At the Pike and Musket they had Brains SA (which, reassuringly, stands for Skull Attack — it would have been more at home at the other place) and was fan-bloody-tastic!

In spite of the great tasting beer we were flagging and, even at 9.30pm, our first pint of Brains was looking like our last. Our own brains had to go and rest…

And then! We hit upon a brilliant game, which shall henceforth just be known as ‘Favourites’ whereby one member of the group declares a favourite category (e.g. ’symphony’. Yes this was one of ours; God, we’re so public school). Sure it’s not Monopoly, but it sure woke us all up and sparked some lively debate.

We had about four more rounds and then decided to call it a night. The stars were out tonight (wow guys – we totally missed a classic opportunity for a Take That singalong) on a wonderfully clear night — unadulterated by any street lighting — and some of us, literally, fell asleep under the stars.

And later clambered into Chris’s tent a bit cold… :-/

SUNDAY

8am, and sun shining — unreservedly — for the first time this weekend. Splendid. And all agreed they’d had a much better night’s sleep — fast acclimatising or just the aid of an earlier dinner and a vat-load more booze?

Today was all about the cider. Oh that, and the small matter of the one-leg 30-mile cycle home (for those of us not catching the train) via a 250 metre climb through Cheddar Gorge.

First to the legendary Roger Wilkins Cider Farm in Mudgley, the one that Emily and I so signally failed to find during Wells Week Dumb Day. And man did we miss out!

If you like your cider (and actually I’m only take-it-or-leave-it normally) then this is your paradise. Basically, there’s a barn. There are two kegs as big as your house, dry and sweet. And there’s cheese. Mix and match the cider, have as much cheese and pork crackling as you can stomach, and settle up with Roger before you leave. A bargain too.

After my second or third glass of cider I asked Nick what he thought was the upper limit is in order to complete the 30-mile cycle home. He replied only with a minimum…

Cidered-up to the eyeballs the six of us prepared to go our separate ways — Olly, Sue, Chris and Kate sensibly taking the train back to Bristol from Highbridge (many had already done 70 miles already since Friday), Nick and I to brave the cycle all the way back.

The thing about taking that latter mad option is this. Although 30 miles was likely to hurt, although a 250 metre climb over less than a kilometre was going to kill, even though we were pissed as newts and I probably wasn’t going to be able to walk for the next week, none of that compared to how FANTASTIC the feeling of accomplishment would be when I hopped off my bike 30 miles later at my front door.

Our plan was to do as much as we could by the time of the Spurs kick off — first game of the season against Liverpool — and we share a certain kinship on this score — and then navigate ourselves to the nearest pub and watch the first half.

We covered most of the route from Mudgley to Chew Magna by about 15.30 (we set off at 13.10) so were nearly home, but did as we promised and rewarded ourselves with 1.5 pints each of Seafarers ale and the first few minutes of the match. We could feel ourselves flagging and knew the second hardest bit — the climb through Knowle back into Bristol — was still to come, so set off promptly. Oh and sodding Park Street! — which is a killer on any day of the week, let alone the Sunday after a cycling weekend.

But to my surprise and satisfaction I did the whole of Park Street and all the way home without getting off.

I was shagged — and still am. But I was right; I’ve done two half marathons and several other races, but never cycled so much in my life, and the accomplishment takes some beating.