Who is Brian Barry indeed.

Jason Randall reporting for blog duty. WHAT?! WHAT THE HELL?! I hear you shout, STONE THE FUCKING CROWS JASON IS BACK! I hear you shout again. OH MUMMY! I hear you shout a third time as your hands begin to shake, as your vision begins to blur, as the room starts to spin, foam frothing at your mouth. THE BICYCLE MANIAC IS BACK! I know, I know it’s been a while. You’ve missed me pretty bad and I’ve missed you more. But just compose yourself, get a tissue, wipe your mouth and relax. It’s me Jason. Haha

I know that over the last few months you’ve had to put up with a lot of drivel that the COW has been churning out over at his infantile dairy, Sofa on Wheels. These days when I look at it I wonder if it’s just one big joke, if he’s just making fun of serious riders of the road like Chester and myself. In fact when I think of it like that it makes me angry, why does he continue to mock us?

But I don’t want to waste any more words on that birdbrain. At least not for the moment. That’s not the reason Jason Randall has resurrected himself from internet obscurity. I have more important things to waste my precious words on. Jason Randall sits here right now reconnecting with cyberspace, donned in nothing but Doyle his sacred Mongolian wolf’s pelt, Wolf’s Bane resting by his keyboard, a hot cup of Earl Grey tea just to the right of the mouse pad, to fulfill a promise he made just a few months ago.

In this post I will tell you how my cycle path crossed with one of the cycling world’s mightiest warriors. That man’s name is none other than Brian Barry, the Dynamo of Dyfed.

April, 1975, Chester and I were planning a cycle trip to Wales, a mysterious land that lays along the western marches of England. When we were just young lads Chester and I were nourished on dark and terrible tales of a strange land called Wales by Chester’s grandma, Nana George. We knew all about Taffy the Welshman who sneaks over the border into England by night, coming into our homes and stealing our food. The evil Prince Llywelwyn who savagely murdered an English dog called Gelert with a sword. Merlin the Wizard who could turn you into a chicken with a cats head. Guydwyn, an ancient mountain monster who would strangle his enemies with a chain so powerfully their heads would pop off. Nana would explain how he used the skulls as wheels of a flying bicycle. Chester used to piss himself.

But Chester and I weren’t scared little boys that pissed their pants anymore we were older now and Nana George’s xenophobic scaremongering had long since died when she was trampled to death by horses in a freak farm accident.

Chester and I were big boys now with big cajonas. Nothing was going to stop us.

We packed our gear, saddled up our cycles and set off for the the border and the weird wild world of Wales. Our destination was Newport a large port city in the South East of Wales. We had made great progress. With the wind at our backs we cruised into the city by the end of the morning and were presented with an obstacle that would transform the nature of our trip dramatically.

Newport is divided by the river Usk and so the only way to continue our tour was across the Newport bridge (shown below). The road for cars had been closed due to road works but the cycle lane was still open. Chester spotted it first,

“Jason, I can see the cycle entrance onto the bridge but what’s that whirling around in front of it and causing all that commotion?”

I told Chester to rear up and pulled out my trusty spyglass to get a better idea of the situation. Once I found my range and focused I could see a small shape circling around the entrance to the bridge on a bicycle, it was swinging some kind of ball on a string. It seemed to be yelling at our general direction.

“advance with caution Chester, we may have a problem” I warned.

As we approached the entrance the circling cyclist came into full view, he was smaller and stouter than I had first thought, maybe some 5ft and 4 inches, his hair was a thick tangled mess of black curls. He had an equally thick and unruly mass of a black beard. He looked thoroughly disheveled, he was dressed in old military kaki but cycled only barefoot and to our horror he whirled a large flail.

Mallory, Brian's weapon of choice

“Hello boyos. I suppose you want to cross my bridge” He slavered, salvia dripping down his beard as he circled around and around.

“I suppose we do” I snapped back as Chester gave me a disquieted look.

My petulance did not go down well at all, the whirling Welshman became irritated, skidding to a 180 degree halt in front of us.

“Do you want to feel Mallory’s kiss boyo? Is that want you want? Do want to feel her sweet caress all up and down your body? Do you want to feel her spiky fingers rubbing you this way and that? Is that the way it has to be? You bloody English coming here and supposing what you can do. Do you know who I am boyo? Do you fucking well know who I am?” He shouted as he swung his great mace ball.

Chester sensed the danger of the moment and dismounted his stead. He got down on his knees and spoke.

“He didn’t mean any harm, sir. We are embarking on a cycle tour of your famed country. We want to experience all the many wonders of Wales as we traverse its routes, roads and trails. We are true cycling aficionados with pedals of steel and big balls. We mean no disrespect and my friend Jason here will gladly listen to whatever it is you want from us so we can cross your bridge and we would be extremely honoured to know who you are”

The wild man kicked his bike stand down and dismounted. He dropped the flail to the floor and took a step forward. Clutching at his kaki shirt with both hands he suddenly ripped it open, buttons flew though the air as he revealed his bear chest with the words BRIAN BARRY boldly tattooed in blue ink. In smaller italic font underneath were the words Fuck Yeah and below that was a beautiful tattoo of Baron Von Drais’ Laufmaschine, the god father of all bicycles.

“That’s right boyos. Brain Barry. The Brian Barry.. and if you want to cross my bridge you will want to pay Guydwyn’s toll.”

“Guydwyn?” Chester responded, his hands beginning to shake.

“You’re not in England anymore, you’re foreigners now, outlanders, but we have something in common, one sacred link of chain that can never be broken, our love for the bicycle. Guydwyn, the Lord of Cogs and Chains has sent me here to guard this bridge, to not let any pass except for The Two. Many a false cyclist has tried to get past me and they’ve all ended up in the Usk, bike and all. Just yesterday I tossed the bruised and bloody body of some fool from Nottingham into the river, that is, after Mallory had had her wicked way with him.” He chortled.

“But in Guydwyn’s prophecy it is said that The Two would one day come, that they would be mounted upon two pedal driven recreational vehicles, that only they would be honoured to know the gatekeeper’s name, and that only they could pay the toll. You will come with me boyo’s, you will come with Brian on the Vortex route, a treacherous path for only the most adept cyclists. It will be long, hard and dangerous but Guydwyn has summoned you”

To be honest I thought this guy was completely demented, who the hell did he think he was but Chester felt there something about him, some kind of aura, something we should trust and so it was that Brian Barry escorted us across his bridge and into the wild and inhospitable lands that lay beyond.

It turned out that Brian was an absolute fruitcake. A very scary fruitcake. Not long after leaving the bridge an unfortunate motorist got a little to close for Brian’s comfort, in a flash he was whirling and thrashing at the car with his flail Mallory, with one ferocious swing the passenger window of the car was completely shattered and the mace embedded itself into the head of a passenger who was screaming in agony, blood was spraying out of the window all over Brian who was shrieking and yelling in delight, the driver of the car who was also crying and screaming for mercy hit the pedal to the metal in desperation and instantly the car jolted forward, Brian had to quickly yank Mallory free from the passengers head before his balance was compromised thus skillfully averting a dangerous cycle crash. The car sped off and Brian’s bloody head turned back to look us, he gave us smile and quick wink and then pedaled on.

On a rainy night in Swansea a band of men had confronted us after we left a pub. They turned out to be some rowdy locals looking for a fight, they were making fun of Brian’s filthy shoeless feet, calling him a dirty tramp and saying he needed a good kicking. They demanded that Brian get on his knees and promise that he would buy some shoes but Brian wasn’t having any of it. He strode up to the biggest of the group and in a lightening fast motion pulled the man’s head down by his hair and shoved it straight through the pub window with shocking force. Not all of the glass had broken leaving razor sharp shards dangerously surrounding the mans neck. Almost upon impact Brian violently shook the man jolting him up and down, left and right puncturing the man’s neck in multiple areas causing blood to spray all around the window as the man screamed and writhed in agony. Brian was howling and screaming in ecstasy.

“Who’s fucking next? Hey, who wants to go next?” Brian bellowed.

But no one wanted to go next.

Brian was scary but you felt safe with him. No one was going to fuck with you.

Brian led us on a huge circular route of Wales, we took in all the best sights, slept in the best camp grounds and cycled all the greatest trails. After almost doing a complete circle of Wales we stopped at Pontypool where Brian explained that the real nature of the Vortex route would begin. We continued on another circular route but slightly smaller and so on and so on... We peddled for days, weeks, months... years. We had lost track of time, at some point on our journey the road would end, with only mountain and moorland ahead of us, the first time this happened Chester and I thought we had reached our final destination but Brian had other ideas. On such occasions Brian would then provide us with some straps with special cords attached that enabled us to strap our bicycles onto our backs, we would then have to begin grueling treks up and down mountain sides, over the scrub of the moorlands and through stinking bogs. For such a small man Brian would often range far ahead. The further we went into the Vortex the more we depended on Brian for everything. Brian knew the land, he knew the animals, the plants, the trees. He knew where to find water and where to hunt. Over many a merry camp fire we happily gorged ourselves on choice cuts of mountain lamb. Brian would pounce of them from a rock as they grazed upon the hill side, wildly swinging Mallory before landed a crushing blow that would shatter the animals skull on impact. How that man hunted, how he sensed a kill, the skill at which he wielded Mallory, the way he always knew which rock to leap from, he was a legend, a wild warrior, our guardian angel in the dangerous depths of the Vortex route.

Brian often talked of Guydwyn, he told us that Guydwyn was worshipped by trueborn cyclists of Europe.  He wasn't sure of his origin,

"Maybe Germany, maybe France, some say Cornwall but for me he's Welsh through and through" he once said.

He explained that by just coming with him on this journey we were paying the toll that he had asked for. It made sense, we had paid a heavy toll or rather our bodies had paid it, all the hiking, biking, trekking and wading was physically exhausting. Brian was pushing us to to the limit, he was making us feel the burn, he was pushing us to the max.  This mad man was pushing us ever closer to Guydwyn the monster of the mountain or as Brian would call him the God of Cogs and Chains, the God of Cyclists!

It wasn't all hard slog though, sometimes Brian would lighten the mood just when things seemed to get too tough.  Brian would stop in the middle of a bog or the moor,  he would straddle his bicycle with the saddle positioned just in front of his hips and say in a deep husky voice “How much do you love your bike?"  He would then thrust his pelvis back and forth against the back of the saddle in a sexual motion,  "Very max!” he would answer.  Brian took life to the max, he took cycling to the max, he took violence to the max.

There eventually came a point where Chester and I thought we couldn’t go any further, we hadn’t seen a mountain lamb for weeks and our parched mouths longed to quench our thirst, it was getting late, there was a full moon. But suddenly Brian announced that we had made it, deep in the heart of the Welsh mountains we had found the ancient track, we were ordered to mount our steads and ride. At the end of the track we came into a small grove that was lit up by a circle of burning torches and at the centre of which we saw a huge white statue of polished marble, how could I describe such beauty, it was amazing, but picture a naked Peter Crouch wearing a backpack and flipflops sat firmly in the saddle of a Raleigh Chopper, grasping one of the handle bars with his left hand and swinging a bicycle chain with his right, picture the human skulls impaled by the spokes of the wheels. It truly was Guydwyn the God of Cogs and chains, the Gog of Cyclists, our God.

Brian ordered us to mount the chopper, it was so big it was easy to fit both of us to the rear of Guydwyn, Brian began to chant some incantations in Welsh, the wind began to pick up and swirl around us, lightening flashed in front of us and suddenly we were flying.

Guydwyn took us on the sacred flight that all true cyclists must take. On the journey he explained to us that in the future there would be all kinds of bicycles and all kinds of fools riding them. He explained that they would presume to be true born cyclists, he said these people were dangerous to the scene, their inexperience, their assumptions, their fallaciousness would one day put the scene in complete jeopardy. He said there would be strange new technologies that these maligners would use to spread their falsehoods, a great interweb that would one one day hosts cyclelogs where these frauds would mock the entire cycling scene and all it held dear. He said that one day we would forget his warning but that the spirt of a great cyclist, a cyclist who had also ridden with Guydwyn, would come to us and warn us of the danger.

That was many years ago now. Guydwyn was right about everything. We did forget his prophecy. But the spirit of a great cyclist had come to us to warn us of the danger. Kid Williams our old leader our mentor, it was him that warned me about the dangers of COW. He told us we must bring the gang back together.

And that is exactly what we have being doing since. Who would be the first member of the Gang to contact? Chester and I were in no doubt...

Brian Barry.

The Vortex Route