"WWWWOOOOSSSSSSHHHH...." Or something like that. 'That' of course being the phonetic rendition of what it feels like running a huge, powerful fuck-off motorcycle at dangerously illegal speeds through the series of perfectly tarmac'd twisties just before you hit Rhayader on the A44. (Trust me, I'm a behavourial engineer with a PhD in Self-Delusion). Spookily enough, it's also a fair approximation of the noise any decent huge, powerful fuck-off motorcycle makes in exactly such circumstances. And so, being an empathetic and hedonistic kinda guy, it's the salutation you'll be joyously bawling behind your visor when the adrenalin kicks in while replicating such antics this summer. Possibly not aboard a huge-powerful fuck-off motorcycle... but even a Ducati 600 Monster, a GPz500S or a big Supermoto will do nicely.
Because this, my friends, is Mid-Wales - home to probably the best concentration of great riding roads our sceptred isle can offer, and all within a modest trot of those major conurbations where your riding pleasure is severely hampered by the triple killjoys of Gatsos a'go-go, draconian traffic management measures and, well, tons of bloody traffic.
Okay, okay, someone with the girth of an elephant from eating too many deep fried Mars Bars (and who indeed probably rides an Elefant) is gonna email Bertie and point out that the B5763896702 from Unpronounceable to Uckmuckmurty is three miles of unfettered yahoo, but every time - and I do mean every time - I've made the five-hour plod up there from civilisation it starts sheeting it down the moment I wibble over the border and doesn't stop until I exit again. Indeed the last time I took a gurlie for a weekend of pillion pleasure by yon bonnie braes (whatever they are) she was so soaked and disgruntled that she insisted on being dropped at Edinburgh Station for the return bout and took up with the owner of a Citröen van shortly thereafter.
But I digress... The thing about the Welsh Marches - so-called because they cover a north-south swathe of Powys, Shropshire and Herefordshire through which our medieval armies trudged trying to conquer the truculent Taffs (or vice versa, if you please) - is that they occupy some of the most bucolic, least inhabited scenery in the UK through which some of the least inhabited but well-maintained roads meander seductively hither and yon. That's an awfully long sentence, the sub-text of which is come to Wales and enjoy motorcycling like you can nowhere else. And as I live here, for once I know what I'm writing about. I also know that not everyone wants or can afford to get their jollies thrashing around some superannuated airfield in a welter of Track Day show-offery, but here in God's Own Country you can ride almost as fast as you like in a largely speedtrap-free zone, with or without your mates and pillion pals and enjoy the sights, the scenery and the sandwiches as and when you damn well feel like it.
So, I've plotted three primary riding routes which can easily be accomplished in a day, and all within striking distance of the industrial Midlands, South Wales and Bristol. And with starting points approximately three hours fast schlep from the capital, Londoners can take in a B&B and try 'em all over the course of a short weekend. What's more, all three routes cunningly intersect at a crucial fuel stop-cum-nosherie, so you can mix 'em up to suit your mood and timetable. Be advised however that these roads really just provide a basic framework and perusal of the road atlas will suggest detours and deviations along both A and B roads that will invariably provide their own rewards. And I do like a nice deviation. Indeed just to whet your appetites, I've suggested a few of these as adjuncts to each of the following epic jaunts.
So get smart, fire-up your soul, strap on your full-face... and enjoy. Continue for the first route
