Excerpt from my blog It started inauspiciously, with a where are you phone call, where I was is on the Sofa, freshly full of Paella and quietly knackered after a day on the hacking-off pneumatic gun smashing the shit out of a friends house re-furb.Lacking the ability to raise my arms beyond shoulder height, Id already mentally prepared for an afternoon of blissfull rest, but the boys were having none of it. Three separate mobile phone prompts had me togged up and wheeling the bike out of the shed in short order.So somewhat reluctantly I led the brigade into the valley. It all started quite sensibly and wellAfter fuelling up, we patiently posed through the villages, speeds and noise at a responsible minimum. 26 miles later wed disposed of a couple of streetfightered fireblades and navigated through traffic light enough to break up the flow and the group. Regrouping at Brecon, we again meandered through the spring sunlit market town and out into fairly deserted b road country.Upping the pace a little, we leave responsibility back in the town where it belongs. 5 miles in we blitz an unsuspecting sportsbike, making his own sweet way, till he gets swamped by the superbike pack in a first corner me first feeding frenzy. The road is ours for an uninterrupted hoot all the way to the next way point.The road gets all combat ready as we blip and blast across the MOD ranges of the Epynt, Red flags mean the real boys are out with real toys, just out of sight of the road (and out of range we hope). With no real straights for 12 miles or so, were butt shuffling, shoulder dropping and short shifting on roads that coil and uncoil like a sleepless rattlesnake. Part farm track, part tank addled tarmac and some perfectly resurfaced swiss army bends, useful for anything as long as its sideways.Crashing back into A road civilisation for a few short miles, its now officially competitive. No overtakes, but theres plenty of Front Wheeling in my mirrors as the faster boys demonstrate their intent to the slower riders at every opportunity. Sweeps and swoops as we gallop through and over the mountains, keeping near perfect formation, I feel like the wing commander of a fighter flight, headlights in attack order as we seek opponents for a dogfight.Denied our enemy, we spill onto another b road and peel through some roller-coaster scenery and arse crimping corners as they tighten on us like thumbscrews. Slowing very occasionally for the blind crests and farm entrances. Now hunched over the tank, now stood up and braking hard, heeling over, knee pointed at the exit, bike wiggling on the power as the bend is apexed, and the next, and the next.We plot up in a pub carpark for a giggle and a smoke, touch warm tyres and tut-tut at close overtakes and fumbled lines. Short spin for a cuppa and fill up, then were on the home stretch, or at least pointing back in the right direction (ish).Its always faster on the way back, weve passed the psychological midway point and theres a beer at the end of this road rainbow. Up and over again, little traffic resistance, we pass a couple of ancient Austin 7s full of cardigans, knitted hats and snotty kids enjoying a slow dawdle through the breathtaking scenery. To us its a road with a green blur for a border.We retrace our steps a little back through the ranges, descending to then rising up the Beacons once more, now were proper fast, proper confident, slicing and dicing the traffic, were in the groove, settled in formation, not stupid fast, not bullying ,but making progress and scaring squares, eyes stuck in tin box travel mode swivel to follow us as we waft past, all leather and noise.More tea and meets with mates at the burger bar with views to die for, we see friends freshly setting out for an evening spin, as were arriving most are leaving for home, we sup up and head out.Past the lakes and up over bleak moors stained pale by early spring setting sun. Suicidal Sheep hold their death urges in check as the squadron barrel rolls through the remaining home bound traffic. Clear road views allow wrong side corner overtakes, we can see hundreds of yards ahead and the sheep mercifully stay away from our flightpath.Into the home run, with only four miles of down followed by five of up, its winner take all to be first back to the bar. I sneak a lead through snaky off camber bad tarmac, we totter responsibly through the village and head up again to the high country we know so very well.Mug the first car, hard on the gas and up through the gears, reeling in a mini close to the next corner, out past and in for the apex leaving no room for the following pack. Sit her up and gas it again for the next uphill left, Im giving away 70 horses and 30 kilos to the blades behind, but its all relative cos Im in front and theres more cars ahead. Once more Im blessed by timing as I stuff myself in front of the queue on a right hander, expecting lights fading in the mirror, theyre on me, that cant have been nice for the drivers they just beat up.Now were just proper silly, rushed overtakes late passes and two long straights between us and the destination, full gas, full lean, full commitment, fully crazy, fully loving it. Eventually a lone blade cracks past and brakes brickwall hard into the turn off.We got there. Then the adrenaline rush and back slapping, shoulder punching, bar room boasting that leaves our fellow drinkers wistful and wanting detail so they can get some vicarious kicks from our blast. But listening to a story aint like being in one.