Lessons in Estimations – A Weekend of Detours in the Welsh Mountains

Words and Photos by Michael Drummond

Hosted by Tailfin, mid-September 2025 saw the inaugural Detours bikepacking event kick off in the heart of Wales. In a unique format, riders would forge and navigate their own route through the Brecon Beacons to gather points before spending the evening together sharing food and stories of their individual adventures. Despite a rowdy weather forecast, PINCH FLAT compadre Michael Drummond took it upon himself to make the trip across the Severn to discover what Detours was all about.

Before the Detours weekend, I knew of only two types of cream tea: Devon or Cornish. Then I saw the Welsh option on the menu and realised I had been living a sheltered life indeed. While it sounded delicious, I felt compelled to remain sheltered, lean in to what feels safe and what I know. Safe knowing that it’s always cream first, and tea should be the colour of peanut butter. 

And, while yes, it’s an unusual place to start – the end – this is how things were wrapped up. Back-to-back cream teas with a dear friend, a short presentation on the intricacies of zips, and discussing how social media has a tendency to influence people to bite off more than they can chew in the great, and often hazardous, outdoors. All of this would not have happened without the opportunity to get lost, try hard, underestimate Wales, and overestimate my ability. One could say… biting off more than I can chew. Whoops!

A Game of Points

Detours delivered on all of the above, but these were not the only takeaways from the brilliant, soggy, tactical weekend spent hurrying about the Brecon Beacons.

On paper, the rules for the weekend sounded simple enough and should translate fairly well into the physical world of matter, atoms, tyres and waterproof jackets. The latter an essential, second only to goggles or a paddle.

With ten control points scattered across this gorgeous stretch of Wales, each worth ten points, it was down to each individual to cobble together a route. The goal was simple – collect as many control points as possible – and if you come back with ten, amazing work. That’s 100 points! But, there is a catch. 

Only nine hours are available to tackle whatever route has been conjured up, whether that be on hurried and bustling tarmac roads that cut through the landscape, or meandering byways that hug the contours of the land while clogging the tread of both tyre and shoe. You just gotta make it work. Because for every minute beyond that nine hour mark, a point is lost and all that hard work begins to be undone. Like tugging at a loose thread, the fabric of time will unfurl into nothing and leave some riders high and dry. 

Jokes, no one was dry. 

Arrive too late, and you’ll get nothing – except a delicious hot meal, great conversation, lots of happy folk, beer, ice cream, a hot shower. But apart from that, just absolutely nothing.

Oh and a film premiere!

Base Camp - Tailfin Flotilla

Talybont-on-Usk is where the story really begins, at least for Detours anyway. A quiet gathering on the Friday evening with a few portaloos, a delicious cheese board, a crammed gazebo and a lot of layered up lovers-of-two-wheels. This is where I left the evening, opting for a long sleep, the rain tapping on nylon providing an effective lullaby until dawn. 

First light wouldn’t be the first thing that comes to mind in the morning – more miserly neutral haze – but offerings of blue slices amongst moody formations ensured plenty of wardrobe adjustments right up until the first pedal strokes. Of course, these would be under an amuse bouche of drizzle, the palette cleanser for what was to come. 

Can’t wait for mains!

With rain jackets on and zipped up before we’d even left the start, it wasn't long before we faced the first of what would be many less than ideal gradients, where I and countless others became synchronised in some kind of bizarre TikTok dance of jacket-on-jacket-off. Our motley dance troupe were all going for the closest, and arguably easiest, first ten points. Worth it? Maybe. It felt nice to at least tick one off I guess.

With a solid group practice in, we were all set for the day: jacket on, jacket off; hood up, hood down; left foot out, now do-si-do.  If nothing else, Detours gave us a fighting chance in a dance off against Ashley Banjo and his posse.

That group practice turned out to be vital too, following those first ten points it became increasingly obvious all routes are not made equal, and much like Einstein said, distance over time, means riders will begin to dwindle, or something along those lines. As some riders sought bean chilli and a small party on Gospel Pass, others opted for a wild byway high up on the ridge, the preference and style of each rider, clear in their own detours.

With some controls being as far east as Longtown on the border with England and Devil’s Pass tempting hungry riders way out west, routing smart and riding hard was essential, particularly considering the the point-a-minute penalty, the knowledge of which soon shadowed over all of us.

Following the final gathering en mass, coincidentally at a rather beautiful chapel, I was joined by Bristol local Sam for a block of riding through torrential rain so hard it was laughable. Continuing then down boggy drove roads, save for passing riders, I was very much on my own, left wondering if they were literally coming or going, my shoes submerged in the mud .

Was I faster? Are they behind? Am I lost?  Do they have more points? What bikes that? Why are they going that way?

Like a bicycle based version of a Scooby Doo episode.

Lesson in Progress

Unlike Scooby Doo though, there were no heroes or villains as such, the only titles of note maybe Ultra royalty like King of Chaos, Justinas Leveikas fleetingly seeing him and Sami Sauri whizz past me in the opposite direction. Whilst fleeting it’s probably the fifth time Justinas and I have crossed paths at various events, and in his own words ‘I think I’ve seen you more than my family this year!’

Rapid pleasantries were also traded with the alarmingly fast Seb Breuer, even after tackling a pad change under blue sky, a necessity considering he rode to the event all the way from Germany.

My eyes firmly set on that bean chilli, a little boogie and a hot brew down in Hay-on-Wye, my route allowed me the pleasure of climbing up the ‘gentle’ side of Gospel Pass. After assisting the repair of a chain-based mechanical, I relished my routing decisions as I dodged serious gradients and helped out a fellow Detourer.

Alas I couldn’t dodge the ice bullets that ricocheted off helmet, and Wahoo, stinging bare skin and leaving me red and giggly. But while hail pummelled me on the way up, that bowl of chilli along with smiling faces, cake and all the sweets I could ever wish for did plenty to soothe my now wearing body.

Just like that the storm broke, sunshine spilled across the valleys, and water shimmered on the winding road down to Hay, Wales sure to remind us while many call it God’s Country. Divine contrasts. Brutality followed by brilliance. 

Officially soaked through, Hay was a chance sink a few brews – third wave coffee rather than cold lager – enjoy local pastries, and dehydrate socks and toes. While sat reducing the water content of my feet and shoes the cogs were whirring. The internal freehub never stops spinning.

Plotting what could be feasible, I was fuelled by a bullish determination or perhaps misplaced confidence, naivety or some sort of die hard conviction that if I wanted it hard enough, my legs would tow the line on the gauntlet I’d lay down. Consulting the map, at 2.30pm there was no reasonable justification to ride 85km in the opposite direction, rather than the leisurely 20km to the campsite, but Brecon was a beacon, drawing me in like a moth to the flame. My target was set. I went for broke, and broke I became.

I rolled back late. Not scandalously late, but late enough to haemorrhage points. My haul: 70 collected, 68 docked. But for all those points lost, in the form of two rainbows, a glorious sunset, a spot of hike-a-bike and a valley all to myself, I gained far more, even in spite of a rather unusual sidewall tear.

By far the biggest joy though, rolling into cheers, a round of applause and tables upon tables of content, engaged and satisfied souls sharing food and stories of what Wales had given them. And I joined them, dining out on the idea that above all else, it’s about embracing the glorious folly of trying.

(A personal note of immense gratitude to Sam for taking my tent to dry it out in the drying room – where many were really taking the time to hang socks and cook bones back to normal operating temperature – allowing me to focus instead on the array of amazing food on offer.)

Dinner and a Show

Amidst all the chewing, drying and showering, it was obvious why the event had been sculpted in such a way. There wasn’t much that was mandatory over the weekend, apart from a specific control point and the final campsite. And what did these have in common? People (and food) with the space to be inquisitive, share their love of the outdoors, having taken on something simply for the sake of it, smiling through the storm.

Huddled into a dome perched a little away from the campsite, post-dinner, Chris Hall shared with us his experience of riding around the British Isles self-supported and get word from frame builder Jon Thompson of Tomo Bikes on the making of high end bespoke frames here in the UK.

The night closed up with a wild short film that was created by and featured Manu and Katrien along with their two children as they took on the Highland Trail 550 on cargo bikes. Yes, you read that correctly, an inspirational film of a family that are richer for their exploits in the outdoors, and one that I will recommend you watch, rather than minimise through words on a page.

As the curtains closed on the cinema experience, the one and two person tents littering the campsite, became polygon beacons of light, like gems in a cave, as head-torches flitter to finalise sleeping arrangements. One-by-one, the lights faded to black adding only to the thick night sky, pasted generously with stars. 

Final Detours

The culinary joys in the morning were equally excellent, helping to collate the belongings strewn inside my tent and equally to gather myself. A few good-byes were in order and it felt like they all came too soon, as just a mere handful of us fancied the soggy, rough and muddy option out of the valley and onto the next. 

Quinda Verhuel was one of those drawn to the rough stuff and so we took it upon ourselves to follow the steep, rocky trails that rose onto the ridge. The calm of a world just beyond the murmurs of traffic on tarmac, stillness that provided a beautiful backing track to a meandering conversation through the simple things – racing, life, art and what’s important as we reminisced on our first experience racing together and where we met in Morocco during the inaugural Atlas Mountain Race in 2020.

It’s a wonderful and quirky delight that comes with this world on cycling’s periphery, passing interactions which form long-distance friendships, a genuine appreciation for the second lives we each lead, and a simple gratitude that all these lives find confluence at various points down the line. Our day of nattering wasn’t constrained by time, nor checkpoints to hunt down, or dinner call to make, this ride was to be a simple, joyful gradual return to modern life outside of the Beacons, and became a detour in so many other ways, segues in conversation, idea generation and revelation.

The ultimate detour at the end of the day, was in fact at the end of the day, and just 1.6km from the very end of the route where Quinda and I sat down to enjoy those back-to-back cream teas that almost made me forget the rain.

Almost.

With all their fickle beauty, a weekend in the Beacons taught me that the best rides aren’t the neat, efficient ones. They’re the messy, weather-beaten, slightly overcooked adventures where the detours are the whole point.

Thanks to James at Tailfin and everyone else who attended, shared a laugh, joined the ride and got the whole idea. I’m hooked.