We rode through Sauble Beach (the first time I have seen it during daylight hours) and into Southampton, where the fun began. We arrived at the intersection and my gut told me to turn right but the route sheet said left. Alan told us that there had been changes in the route to take us into Carey's for the control so we turned left. About 2k up the road after a dog sprint we looked at the route sheet and I called Carey. His line was busy so I call Bruce to let him know that we were lost and left a message. A lovely couple stopped and got us back on track. The only problem was we had to encounter the dog we had just outsprinted. Off we went for our second sprint. The route from Southampton to Port Elgin was lovely and I would like to see it during the day light hours sometime. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore and the smell of water was wonderful.

We came to the end of the road and could not find Green St. We asked some kids partying and Green St. was right where we were standing. We headed up the road and then into Carey's as he was pulling out to try and find us. We had showers, lasagna and drinks and decided to stop for 4 hours.

We were up at 2:45 and set off at 3:30 am for the last half of the ride. It is a challenging morning ride into Markdale, with relentless hills. I was glad to have ridden the route 2 years ago. We found our way round the lake without the extra gravel section Phil P., Alan and I had done in 2001. In Markdale, we dug into great omlettes and coffee at Sidekicks. We found Bowle's Hill with a great deal of difficulty, and had a great descent. The climb to Eugenia was long and hot, and the tail wind didn't seem to help. As we pulled out of Eugenia, proud of our ascent, we had our third dog chase - nothing like a 4K climb with a sprint at the end.

Lori Matthews, Frank Rasky, and Jaye Haworth approaching the secret control

We rode the hills into Feversham, and then on (I thought) to the Pretty River Valley. The route had been changed to bring us into Duntroon and decrease the time spent on 124. This was a great descent.

We had a quick stop in Duntroon, and then it was on to the climb out of Glen Huron and Creemore. I had to resort to my granny gears to get out of Creemore but we made it to the top and then off to the descent/ascent on the Purple Hills. Here is were we made our fatal error missing our right turn (Albacerki spelt wrong).

Overall, it was a great ride. I'm glad to say that this was my last 600K brevet. Thanks again to all who helped out.

Last Fixed Brevet?
by Oliver Moore

Perhaps we should institute a club prize for control-host of the year - awarded to the most pleasant ice-cream server, the quickest Tim's clerk, or the most helpful doughnut vendor.

This year, though, all those pretenders would finish a distant second to Carey and Donna, who generously turned their home into a checkpoint on the Huron Shore 600, offering showers, towels, food, drink and soft beds to a small herd of smelly and tired cyclists.

We were six at the start, though Alan had decided already then to do a shorter loop. We rode up Jane in scattered groups, with Alan and Michael up front, Jaye and Lori behind, and Frank and I wandering individually up and down the road. By the time we reached the Marsh, Alan hung back to wish the others "bon route," while Michael and I rode on ahead.

Not always riding right alongside, but generally around each other on the road, Michael and I forged on with only a bit of confusion now and then over befuddling route instructions. Around Creemore, we missed a turn and, as we turned around, picked up a fastish group headed for Collingwood. Michael could probably have stayed with them but I, having a wee bit of trouble climbing some of the hills on the fixed, hung back; Michael ultimately chose to slow down a touch and not chase the titanium-and-kevlar set.

After just a quick stop in Collingwood, we were off into the heat of the day, with some serious climbing (well, Ontario-style serious) ahead. I groaned inwardly when I saw the "Welcome to the Blue Mountains" sign, with that sinking knowledge of gruesome times to come. Despite our differences in bicycle choice (he had gears, the bugger), we stayed relatively together and tried to ignore the nagging wind that, while never strong, insistently sapped our strength.

By the time we were riding along Georgian Bay I had started to drag behind, occasionally falling into a half doze but trying at the same time to enjoy the stunning views. (Sailing really is a more civilized sport than cycling, it occurred to me for not the first time). It was getting cooler as well, and we were both ravenous, so we stopped about an hour away from Port Elgin for some pizza. A lot of pizza.

Jaye Haworth, Lori Matthews, and Frank Rasky at the secret control

As we rolled through the charming streets of Port Elgin, I knew that going on without sleep would be foolish. Michael seemed eager to ride straight through, but I knew I'd be in far better shape after a few hours off the bike.

Braving the few hundred yard of gravel en route to Carey and Donna's place, we were greeted with a warmth rarely seen at controls. Offering lasagna, garlic bread, fruit salad, and strawberry shortcake, they opened their home to us, making us feel extremely welcome. As planned, Michael carried on while I showered and fell into bed. About two hours later I had a vague sense of voices and noises outside but ignored them and went back to sleep.

The alarm woke me at 1:45, and I was out the door at about 2:20. Club member Bruce Hogg had very kindly left my drop bag near my bed, giving me spare batteries, more e-load, and - most importantly - a clean pair of shorts. Lori and Bruce were nowhere in sight as I bumbled about, but I did find Jaye half-dozing in an easy chair and bumped into Frank, who seemed to be sleepwalking. I checked at least twice to make sure I'd grabbed the route detour Carey had provided - the one that would get us around the washed out bridge - and was finally on the road again.

I kept mostly awake by the cool temperatures but was slowed, as always, by the aggravations of night navigating. (The town of Paisley sticks in my mind as a particularly hideous place - the street signs have a pseudo-nostalgic design, rendering them largely indecipherable even in the full glare of my lights). Riding in an almost full moon was pleasant, though, and the false dawn and sunrise were glorious. The sun finally crested the horizon just as I was struggling to find where the route went from Townsend Lake. By the time I hit Markdale it was full daylight.

The people at the Markdale Becker's seemed incredulous at how far I'd come, but privately I was much more amazed at how long it had taken me to cover the distance from Port Elgin - detours notwithstanding. My pace picked up somewhat after that, although I went through an enormous dry spell without finding water and struggled through a few knee-killing climbs, which nonetheless offered beautiful views once on top. Finally refuelling just before Reddickville, I carried on through the Purple Hills and on to Alliston.

By then, to be honest, the ride had ceased to be all that much fun. I was tired, sunburned and ready to be home. That mood deepened as I left town and struggled to figure out the route instructions, which I'm pretty sure would never have got me anywhere close to Beeton. But after Beeton I perked up, pretty sure that I would finish one of our toughest 600s in well under 35 hours and confident that I had only one big hill left

The Weston Wall was a grim few minutes, but I could smell the barn by then and I laughed my way up it. I was well-pleased as I rolled into the Centro at 3:30 - my pleasure tempered with just a twinge of regret that this might well have been my last long ride on a fixed-gear; a regret that was, in turn, softened by the knowledge that I can do this gorgeous ride again next year, with the route inconsistencies ironed out and 18 gears at my disposal.