Newport 200k Audax - a last minute dash in the RRtY challenge.

The Newport Audax is a "permanent" ride which means it can be entered on line and done at a time of the rider's choosing.  The organiser is very... well... organised and as soon as we entered had emailed us our route sheets and gpx files and stuck the cards in the post so on Saturday morning we were set to go.

I took my carradice off my bike and put it in the ginnel thinking, I'd better not forget to pick that up - won't that be annoying.

I loaded my bike in the van, \TSK arrived with his and we struggled to get that one in then loaded the kit bags and set off up the hill.

As I drove up the road in the driving rain, I thought, "Shit, I forgot to pack my waterproof trousers".  Still, I wasn't going to turn us back now, I'd just struggle through the day in my rain legs.  The rain legs serve to keep the wet off thighs - the important bits and the bits that get the wettest in the rain.  They do not keep the rain off the shins when riding through puddles, but I'd cope.

After 25 minutes of driving, I suddenly realised I had left my Carradice in the ginnel - as I predicted.  It contained my rain legs, waterproof coat and my wallet and phone - not only everything I needed but also everything I did not want to leave in the alley way for the day, right next to the pavement.  Without hesitation but with a lot of swearing, I turned back.

"Is this rain going to last all day?" I asked, using my error as a reason to seek my waterproof trousers whilst also trying to convince myself that more time driving in the rain now would equal less time riding in the rain later.

All I got in reply was "Yes," then a hopeful, "Do you want to sack this off?".

I thought about the four rides I've done so far, how lucky I have been with winter weather (The Dean excepted), the prospect of starting again and the prospect of finishing next winter.  No, absolutely not.

Waterproof trousers and Carradice acquired, we headed back into the driving rain turning to sleet and then snow the further we went over the Snake pass.  Happily at least we wouldn't be riding in that down in Cheshire!

We drove a lap of Handforth to park the car and as we did the rain came to a dignified stop.  We dressed then headed over to the petrol station to start our ride from its designated start point.

To compliment my food stash I bought the obligatory salty crisp-based snack, opting for "Fish n Chips" as a small package to stuff in my bag for later.  No point in double-bagging my receipts and buying my emergency mars bar here - I could use that particular token later.  We both used the facilities and TSK got his receipt in the form of flapjacks.

As an excellent start, I was almost reversed into by a car as I fiddled with my Garmin then, Garmin still loading, proceeded to turn completely the wrong way.

We finally started our ride around 5 minutes after the clock on account of it suddenly being rush hour in Dean Row.

30 miles of fairly main roads went next - Cheshire main roads though.  This part of the route is designed to get riders to a destination far away early in the day when the traffic is light so that they can conclude the day milling around on pleasant country lanes to get home.  On any other weekend, we may not have been so lucky with our late start but with a lot of people away on holiday, even Saturday late morning traffic was not at all bad, plus we had a tasty tail wind.

Our first control was at the Hall Farm Cafe in Radway Green near Alsager.

Had we started at the normal time, this would have been a quick cup of tea and a scone and away but with our delayed start, we arrived in time for lunch and with oatcakes on the menu, who was I to argue?

Unfortunately the oat-cakes, though delicious and packed with fresh, tangy cheddar and mushrooms, were under-sized and under-accompanied by any further sustenance.  We had more cake to bolster the experience and though our receipts put us in time, we left a little behind time.

Although for now we didn't realise it and rode lightly.  We sniggered through Woore (arguing it should be forever twinned with Ware) and Ireland's Cross (gross political understatement) and Pipe Gate (parliamentary scandal involving underground services).

Through the crossover of our figure of 8 at Mucklestone and down through the lanes to Wales at last with our Newport stop 20 miles later, still a little hungry and needing a sit down from the romping pace the tail wind had pushed us to.  We locked our bikes up and whilst I got out cash to furnish my receipt, TSK went in to purchase fruity cereal / yoghurt affairs and more coffee for his receipt.

We munched on, looked at our watches and, after a customer toilet stop, set off on our way again, confused as to why we were riding the line of the cut-offs, despite some roaring tail winds.  To be honest, we'd not been trying too hard so damn that "morning" cafe lunch stop

We put down the hammer a bit now.

The hills were coming, the floods (run off from earlier rain) were growing and our long coffee stop in the morning had us struggling for time - and we were now riding into the head wind.

Floods are inevitably at the bottom of roaring descents right before turning back up hill.  In the interests of dry feet, we stopped to almost nothing to minimise splashing and make sure no motorists were approaching to try and drown us in spray.  Mostly it worked although TSK did have to face-off an Audi driver who wasn't going to relent with a quick swerve right into his path to stop him approaching any closer.

What it didn't do was help with the hill climb effort in the slightest and every climb was started from around 3 mph.

In Wheaton Aston it was time to deploy my emergency Mars Bar purchase then wait for TSK to do the rounds of the shop making decisions.  I still ate some of the banana he procured though didn't I?  I must've needed it because it didn't come back to talk to me again.

We'd made up a little bit of time but the struggle continued as I became determined to make enough time to cover a puncture or any other mechanical mishap that might put an end to my game.  It was 35 miles to Wrenbury and finally the lanes improved.  They were drier, less flooded and less covered in mud and gravel.

Whilst my inner cyclo-cross rider had loved it, TSK was struggling on his skinny carbon fibre bike.  Even I had a minor breakdown when one particular pothole did for my stash of dried fruit and nuts and left the majority of the packet strewn across the road in the mud whilst I scrambled to dump the remaining contents of the muddy packet into my bike bag without spilling any or pouring in any drips of muddy puddle.

TSK went quiet at the back so we broke things up with a water stop in Audlem and then I single-handedly neglected to drink the water, instead opting to carry it over all the hills.

There was celebration as we passed the highest point on the ride (not very high) and then we rolled into the village of Wrenbury.  A voice behind me said, "There's a beast in Wrenbury if you fancy a brew".  He said Bistro but the Beast of Wrenbury stuck.

There were coffee tables and chairs outside the Spar / Post office so we went in there instead to pick up our receipt from the dedicated stop point.  There was a coffee machine and hot sausage rolls which we consumed standing up indoors to warm up whilst chatting to the shopkeeper who had a quiet day due to everyone being out at the Jazz festival in Nantwich.  At 7:30pm our hot sausage roll went some way to persuading my body I'd had dinner.

We were back on the bikes with good time in the bag now - almost an hour as I recall.  It was a good job because on the first hill I suddenly realised my hill climbing legs were over for the day.  The best I could do now was limp home and draft TSK for a while.  I checked the route elevation to realise that I was at the bottom of a generally trending upward curve towards Wilmslow.  Bollocks, this was going to be tough.

Of course, a ride in Cheshire is never as steep as it looks on a Garmin file and with the lights on in the fading background light, I hardly noticed most of the easy climbing as it was concentrated in a beam of silver/grey light and I spent most of the ride concentrated on a massive shadow of my ass / Carradice, projected by TSKs infinitely more powerful and aptly named Moon light.

Middlewich came and went in close company but without incident.  Then back onto back-lanes through Church Minshul - routes we have done before and TSK knows quite well but me, not so much.

Most of this section of the ride was taken up by the intense concentration of attempting to eat my "Fish n Chips" crisps from my bike bag with gloves on - a feat I mostly accomplished including regularly sucking the salty grains off my gloved fingers not really trying to think too hard about where those gloves had been.

We got close enough to the finish for me to know that we'd done 120 miles (somewhere near) but I didn't have the logic to work out how far that was and look out for potholes at the same time so I relied instead on the ever-present glow of Manchester and the presence of low-flying aircraft which cheered me up a little and distracted me from my backside - now painfully suffering from a flat day of sitting down a lot and my toes, punched to pieces by regular pothole-related impact with shoes.  Now how far was it from Ollerton to Wilmslow?

We passed through Alderley edge and onto the back-lanes to Wilmslow which I do not know as, when I lived in Manchester, the main road between Alderley Edge and Wilmslow was pleasant and traffic-free enough to still be able to enjoy and feel safe on a bike - oh how times have changed for that road is now full of four-by-four wielding clueless rich people who see cyclists as impoverished targets who need to be put out of their misery - if they notice them at all.

I wish I'd ridden those back lanes more in my youth as I would have known where I was instead of being spit out unceremoniously at the roundabout on the edge of Wilmslow right adjacent to the petrol station in a mixed jubilation of "We've finished!" and "I always wondered where that came out".

We hopped off our bikes and bought out various treats for the drive home - mostly involving chocolate milk and more salt-based snacks.  As the local police parked up to pop inside for their evening feed, TSK and I packed our haul into Carradices for the short ride back to the Mercu where shelter from the wind and dry clothing awaited.

All eyes were on us as we set off down the road.  Whether it was that age-old suspicion of cyclists or the awe that we were still out, riding at 9:23 pm... I hopped on my bike and promptly tried to shove my foot in my moving front wheel - much to the audible hilarity of the entire shop.  "Jesus Christ", said TSK, "Don't get us arrested now!".

Further offences may have included public indecency as I replaced all clothing items for the drive home.  Not to mention a lack of care and attention as I snaked us back to Sheffield full of the joys of spring and gobsmacked that, except for the odd drop of drizzle we had remained dry and happy all day.  The only thing I can be dismayed about is the effort spent in taking all my waterproofs out for a lovely ride around Cheshire, Shropshire and Wales but then, can you imagine the consequences if I hadn't?

Lessons learned:

• saving the TT bars for the headwinds - I ran out of shoulders later in the day.
• Whilst spinning up hills is efficient, I still need to balance it with some standing to avoid 120 mile bum.

Split analysis:

1. 23.16 mile 13.5 mph HR 132
2. 1 hour cafe break!
3. 27.76 mile 14.2 mph HR 140 Lots of smaller hills to be blown up
4. 32 mins Waitrose
5. 8.9 mile 13.7 mph HR 143
6. 7 mins shop stop
7. 27.7 miles 12.3 mph into a headwind now & the big hill HR 146
8. Audlem water stop 7:56
9. 6 miles 11.5 mph HR 141
10. Wrenbury post office 19 minutes of warming up
11. 34.8 miles 12.1 mph HR 135

Total time: 11:58.  Riding time: 10:03 ish

More off

My off has gotten more off.

No big plans now.  Getting out of bed before 7:30am and getting to yoga was a major achievement this morning.  I've tried to go running twice but now accept that it is not a possibility.

It is time to accept that this is a hard rest week.

40 miles on Sunday completely wiped me out again.  I had some good hard runs at the odd hill here and there but there was nothing left again on Monday.

The rest is working its magic gradually.

I'm being strong and patient but I am so wiped out, that's not difficult. 

I'm less moody than I've ever been on a rest period because I know I really need it.  Because I am not feeling guilty about not doing one of three sports.  Because I know I tried so hard that rest is not an excuse it is a necessity and because I don't want to tip myself over the edge.

I'm falling asleep writing this so it is really time to go to bed.

Off offity off off

I had arranged a ride this weekend.

After the panic of not getting in my March Ride Round the Year done, I entered the only 200 available to me, a plod over to Kirkby Steven from Clitheroe, including all the lumpy bits.  It's the 200k I want the North West Passage to be (but in March, not February).  It was also slated to be a beautiful day (as it is).

It looked lovely but the question rumbled, after last week, could I even manage it?

Throughout the week I rode to work, determined to work through a few niggles on my bike from last week.  Cleats were moved (yes again) and the saddle hitched around.  By Thursday, it still wasn't really all fixed.

On Friday, with this super-hilly event looming, I had a rest day and drove to work and promised myself I would have a day off on Saturday too.

I mooched about the house, tidying for a guest visiting - making up the spare room, finding things long lost and pondering the coming months.  I packed my things for the Sunday ride, got the bike out to give it a clean and maintained the shit out of it.  I now have all the gears back, the brakes are re-aligned properly and I've dropped the saddle a smidgen yet again.  I don't know why because I was just supposed to move it backwards.

I had a nap, the friend arrived and then we chatted over dinner before all retiring to bed.

By about 10pm, I knew I wasn't going out on Sunday morning.  There was no way and when the boy's alarm went off at 6:30 am, I slept straight through, saw them off at 7:30 and then fell back asleep until 8:59.  There is no "clocks back" about this, to be honest, that's roughly the time I have been feeling like getting up a lot recently.

I like this little breathing space I have given myself.  Despite spending most of yesterday getting ready for the ride, I gave myself time to reflect on what is important for me moving forward.

I will still try and achieve the RRtY with a 200k next weekend.  TSK and I are already planning something, to email a man about a nice flat Cheshire 200.  Strength and consistency need to take over though now, in readiness for TAW and tapering towards the end of May.

No more long nights in the office.  There will be early morning rides again and then home to work on my strength and mobility.  The tennis ball is my new best friend.

A few weeks ago I did a little bit of running, with the intention of doing local fell races again.  Not competitively but just because I love the excuse of going out somewhere in the Peak in the evening, enjoying myself and then coming home knackered and hungry.

After a conversation about the Trunce last week, I realise the first one is tomorrow which gives me the perfect excuse for another mini vacation today.

It's beautiful outside and I have to get out, I know I do... but what I'm going to do is go and fidget in the garden for a bit and then maybe, just maybe, take my bike out and have a little ride on it, see just how comfy we can get.

Then, I hope above hope, next weekend can be a breeze, a pain and injury-free breeze.

The Dean 300km Audax: The First Attempt

10 days before The Dean ride, pleasant 12 degrees C temperatures were forecast.  As the week passed, the weather warnings started rolling in for snow and high winds but my determination was set.  I duly blinkered myself to the forecast, hoping it would be over-stated dramatism on behalf of the Met.  Marcus Scotney tried to dampen my spirits by sharing the, "windchill to minus 5" domesday scenario but I just packed more clothes.

We checked into the travel lodge on Friday afternoon at about 3pm.  Plenty of time for faffing and it was rife.  I hadn't had too much time to sort my bike out and a few changes that I had made in the week had not been ridden on yet.  There was that annoying low squeaking sound that came from the front brakes from time to time but not often enough to remind me about.  There were batteries to protect Garmins against the cold and food to pack and locks to sort and a saddle position that I hadn't really tested in anger.

The Travel Lodge was a steamy nightmare and not in a good couples relationship way.  I gave up on TSK as a bed partner at 2am and crawled under the desk onto my roll mat and sleeping bag (prepared for such a scenario) to get myself a solid 3 hours sleep before the alarm went off at 5am.  I was solidly grumpy when it did.

We hardly spoke two words to each other as we breakfasted dressed and headed to the start but it was only through lack of enthusiasm and no disrespect was intended.  He asked, as we departed with the group, if I'd locked the car and I said I hadn't.  He gracefully set off back to the car park to lock the new car as I rode along with the group.  We were split at a merge off the roundabout and, getting dropped further back, I put in an effort to get around the only other lady rider and two men, onto the back of 6 or so other riders at "the front".  After a few short minutes I concluded that the pace was too fast and dropped off.  Maintained a pace for a while as the other lady caught me but she was of a mind to sit on my wheel rather than chat so I decided to stop, sort out my saddle position which was feeling a little crooked and wait for TSK.

He arrived, asking if I was alright as I tooled around with my saddle and we plodded along together for a while until he announced that he was diverting later in to Tewkesbury to buy some new cycling shorts since he'd neglected to pack any and was presently riding in boxers... and big fleecy leggings.  I sent him on his merry way and proceeded to be left further and further behind.

As it started to snow I was met by two American accented riders asking, "Are you doing this crazy snowy bike ride then?" One was fully bagged up and looked like he'd been out overnight but no, they were riding my event and he'd just ridden up from Cambridge the previous day for kicks.  They were late to the start.  They also left me for dust.

Eventually I reached a rail crossing.

It was closed.

I looked.

No trains left, no trains right.

I checked the route.

And waited.

And waited.

I decided I had time to check out those brakes.  To my frustration I realised that one of the front brake pads was sitting solidly against the brake disc.  Not enough to make a substantial noise (except very occasionally with just the right pressure) but enough to have imposed a substantial resistance against the front wheel for the past 20 miles. I pressed the lap button to depress myself into finding out approximately just how much difference.  Actually, 1.4 miles per hour of difference.

I'd averaged 10.7 mph (level crossings counted) and was presently running a risk of missing the time check for the first checkpoint.  I got a wiggle on and then the snow got more serious.  I resentfully relented to change my coat and put on my rain legs to protect my quads from the cold and wet.  If I was going to be out all day, I was damn well going to be comfortable.

It was snowing so hard I resorted to putting my hood under my helmet - partly to keep my hair dry but also to add the peak to my helmet to stop the snow getting in my eyes as it blizzarded down.  This was not light snow.

When it finally relented and I changed back into a lighter coat (but left the rain legs on to last the day) it was pleasing to see a gentle coating of snow all around making the landscape a whiter shade of pale and defining the Malverns in the distance which suddenly looked like proper mountains.

I almost rolled out the other side of Stow-on-the-Wold, swearing as I detoured via the Tesco for the guarantee of a quick Mars Bar and a receipt from the Kiosk and customer toilets.  I was within 30 minutes of the time limit and a bit on the edge.  Andrew had texted me to say he would be in the cafe in Newent as I was arriving and I should look for him there.

Onwards then to a new country and Newent, over the Welsh Border.

I crossed the river Leadon on my way to Newent... or rather the river nearly crossed me.  Sandstone red water lapped at the road's edge and flood warnings hinted of what was soon to come.  The water swelled under the limited bridge space, boiling from the other side like stale blood.  As I thanked my way across the concourse which felt more like the Mont Saint Michelle sliproad than a B-road in rural Gloucestershire, a full-on fire engine roared the other way past me and I hankered down, shoulders braced to the rush of wind following it across the "bridge".  Was there any more insane traffic this ride could throw at me?

I missed the "Welcome to Wales" sign - or there isn't one.  In my rush to get away from Stow, I reasoned with myself I would need 3 hours to do the 38 miles.  I then forgot all this and decided that the cut off time was at 11:30, not my intended arrival time.  I spent the last 30 minutes absolutely burying myself trying to make up the time and avoid being late.  I couldn't even get bottom gear and I powered up all the hills.  There was no time for stopping now!  I rolled into Newent at 11:28 and as soon as I arrived realised what I had done.  I had made up 1 hour slack in the time periods but in doing so I had nearly destroyed my legs.  TSK was impressed by my time.  Me less so.  He left, I sat down to my early lunch to ponder my life choices over cake and lasagne.

This time I got my papers out and had a proper look and a proper plan.  My next stop was Chepstow - where one can chose between the town and the services 10km away on the other side of the Severn Bridge.  TSK and I agreed that the services would be best as the bridge would be cold and windy and therefore we would not want to do it when cold, having just stepped out of a nice warm Chepstow cafe.  It seemed like a good plan.

The ride into Chepstow was enchanting.  Distant views of the Malverns, Highland Cow standing face into the wind on the hillsides above the Severn estuary, some icicle bushes - where passing motorists had splashed water into the bushes which had frozen into a labyrinth of inch long tentacles dangling precariously from the evergreen leaves.  I continued to mash my way up hills in too-big a gear until eventually I decided I needed to stop and fix it.

As I huddled over my bike, a whippet came past and asked if I was OK.  "Fine thanks" I said, "just messing with my gears".  As I looked up I realised he was wearing shorts.  I sent him on his way.  Jesus, don't get cold, but thanks for asking, like!

The descent to Chepstow was close on Epic for the conditions and my hands turned to solid ice so I could hardly brake.

Then Chepstow hit.  It was familiar from times I have dropped off TSK for the 600km Brian Chapman Memorial ride and brought back bad memories of another sleepless night in a hotel room that was too hot.  I circulated the one-way system with a BMW that I was to see three more times in town as I bypassed the bypass clearly and he got stuck at light after light, frustrated by this blue cyclist that kept crossing his path.

Finally I climbed up the wall out of Chepstow.  Still, there was warmth in my hands - finally - and then I dropped down to a dual carriage way again, saw the BMW one more time as I joined the bike path to the Severn Bridge and then the biggest challenge of the day.

The 40 mph North Westerly winds had struck and there was me, riding West / East across a fucking motorway suspension bridge.  As I angled 35 degrees into the wind, riding exactly 1m from the edge of the bike lane to avoid colliding with the 2 inch twists of steel separating me from the rest of the motorway, the breeze blew a b-flat note through the eyelets of the holding bolts.  No other cyclists were to be seen, just two stoic motorcyclists passed the other way, cautiously doing 10 mph past me.  I held my breath, squealed just a little bit every time the wind tugged my front wheel taking me two feet closer to those steel ropes and each time I wobbled back violently towards the edge.  The steel pillars and maintenance gurneys offering me occasional let up - but not much.  It felt like I didn't breathe again until I got to the other side.  No, I didn't breathe again.  I laughed.  I had survived it.

99 miles done, and I wasn't even suffering 100 mile bottom.

I couldn't quite believe it was 99 miles.  It felt like lunchtime.  Possibly because lunchtime is when I'm normally half way through a ride.  Possibly because I ate a toastie and a large hot chocolate.  The waitress asked if I wanted large, I said, "I'd say yes to anything you offer me right now."

Some riders were lurking in the corner, "I'll try anything once", I said, "but that is something I don't want to repeat in a hurry".  They laughed.  They knew exactly what I meant.  When I sat down to eat I was shivering.  I hadn't been cold outside but stopping indoors was doing nothing to warm me up sufficiently.  Only the consumption of hot items was working.  My rest stops were clearly necessary now.

I textd TSK.  He said I wasn't far behind him and he'd probably wait for me at Waitrose at Malmesbury.  I thought that'd be nice, as I ate my food but then I didn't want him to wait and miss the cut off and I didn't want him to think I didn't want him to wait so I didn't send a reply.  I didn't want to miss out on my stop at Chepstow - I couldn't.  I was really starting to need my break by then.  The climb into Chepstow had been hard and the bridge harder.

I'd lost time on my way to Chepstow too.  I was back to being 30 minutes ahead of time - although I'd ridden an extra 10km since the control to get to the services, I still counted myself as a little late when I left the services at bang-on the cut-off time.  If I were to lose any more time to - for example - a mechanical or a longer stop, then that would be it for my day.

As I rode out of Chepstow services, the wind started to pull at the electrical pylons and cables, making whistling and whining noises.  I plunged into the beautiful Forest of Dean, thankful of its shelter from the 40 mph gusts as the wind rustled the trees but not me.  I shared a moment with a roe deer as we made eye contact  across a clearing.  Her eyeing me with intrigue and calm - ready to bound away if necessary but sure of her ability to outrun me and my mechanical device.  She was absolutely right to be sure of herself as I hauled myself and my load up the hill.

Note to self - secure locks on audaxes may make me more relaxed but only serve to extend, not shorten, the time I spend in cafe's.

There were few vehicles in the forest which made it a very special place to be.  In fact I wondered why there weren't more people around.  Farmers don't stop for the weather though and after exiting the forest I had my third scary traffic encounter for the day as I squeezed into a high-sided verge to allow a tractor carrying two hay bails on spikes to pass precariously close, shedding the loose straw from his load out of the trees and onto my head.  That's it, I was done with traffic.

Soon I was fighting my way up to the Somerset monument, staring at my Garmin OS Map as the reality of a chevronned climb (that's >14% or 1 in 7).  I made a deal with myself that if I rode this I could walk up Hackpen Hill later when it got dark and was snowing.  It seemed like a good deal and just as I was about to slalom it to take the steepness out, a motorist obliged and kept me on the straight and narrow.

I had reached the top of the world for a while.  I swore at the monument before commencing my down hill to Malmesbury and hoping the rain would hold off.  It didn't and by the time I was joining a folorn looking TSK, it had started to snow again.  I inadvertently left my glove outside and joined TSK in the cafe for dinner - which turned out to be quick but insignificant (cheese and bacon pannini) and a desperately needed fresh fruit salad.  It's amazing how a day subsiding on scooby snacks suddenly encourages a healthy desire for vitamins.

We left Malmesbury control dead on time again.  I was happy I now had a navigator to follow - I'd already made a few minor navigational errors on my own.  Whilst I had quickly spotted them, retracing my pedal strokes, even a few tens of metres was time-consuming.

I also let myself go in terms of planning and effort though - not knowing when we had to be at the next control or how far away it was, I stopped pushing myself nearly as hard.  That said, with it snowing and the effort I'd already put in to not much gain, I don't think I could have gotten more out of myself.  I always had it in the back of my head that Hackpen Hill was to come and for that I would need all of my energy.

We left Malmesbury in the dark and snow, now eating into our time to do the next stage as we were well after the cut off time when we left.  We were onto familiar territory now and as we passed through the back of Wootton Bassett I was drawn top stop by the old house, take a look at the place but we had no time.  Instead, we had those climbs.  The approach to Broad Town hill went remarkably well. Even the climb went well.  The drop off the back was fine.

TSK gave me options - do we really want to do Hackpen hill?  As the snow came down around us, I resolutely dismissed the option of riding into Swindon to get on a train to Oxford.  I'd battled hard to get this far and wasn't prepared to throw in the towel yet - time cut offs or not.  At least the experience from this 300 would inform the next.

Even Hackpen hill was fine but as the tyres started to slide out from underneath us in the snow which was now settling on the road, we both got off and walked to the top.

The ride into Marlborough was familiar.  Flashbacks to 10 years ago, watching santa arrive at the golf club in his helicopter to bring all the rich kids their Christmas presents.  We dug out some food to eat - TSK initiated it and I ate crisps wearing gloves which largely amounted to me stuffing my face into the open mouth of the packet and forcing as many broken crisps into my gob as possible without dropping them on the floor.  A passing pissed woman exclaimed, "OH MY GOD BIKES!" in the darkness whiwch I took as an expression of awe.

One climb back over the ridgeway into Sparsholt led us to the descent off the back into the Lambourne downs which was slow and un-enjoyable.  In days gone by I loved these roads for the plentiful cornflowers, lavender and lush green fields of the horse race tracks, offset by bright white fences and dirt tracks across the side of the ridgeway.  All I could see was darkness and flecks of white - mesmerising, sparkling but - essentially dull, repetitive and cold.

As I shimmied down the hill a little behind for some reason, I saw a bike on its side in the road.  There were clearly two people and hoped that no-one was hurt.  Thankfully, the downed bike was in a layby, the rider having just repaired a puncture and being ready to set off on his way.  Knowing he was OK and unable to stop because of the cold, I continued - suddenly aware of how vulnerable we were.  If I had a puncture in those conditions, I would not have been able to get going again.  Even if I had managed to successfully change a tube without puncturing (my record for new tyres, even indoors, is not a strong one), I doubt my hands would have been good for much for a long time after and, given the shivering I had experienced at each of the last 2 controls, I was starting to have serious concerns for the rest of my body.

 I pushed hard to reach Membury.  I couldn't remember the cut-off time here but thought it was around 11pm.  We rolled through the gate at 10:54 and crossed the grass directly to the petrol station.  I hardly picked up my electronics off the bike - instead whipping up to the counter with my wallet and procuring a fruit juice and a receipt.

I then followed this up with an order for tea.

I couldn't actually eat anything and started to shiver again.

The tea went some way to warming me up but was too hot to drink and offset by the fruit juice out of the fridge.  Now I started to feel sick too - properly sick.  TSK ate a sandwich.  I thought that was a great idea but just couldn't face it.  Instead I went to the toilets and stood under the hand drier for an inordinate length of time.  It felt good and genuinely went a long way to remove moisture from my leggings and around my midriff and lower back.  I then had a pee, washed my hands and dried them some more for a long time before returning to finish my tea.

Before leaving, I shook out four heat pads - one for each glove and one for each shoe.  I changed into dry socks and changed my wool jersey for a dry one.

As we were preparing to leave, the other rider with the puncture rolled by and into the main services.

We didn't see him again and assume he booked into the Travel Lodge there for the night.  It'a good job I didn't realise this as I might have been tempted to do the same.  Still, despite my temptation to call for a taxi, I did not.  We dressed for success and I even changed out of my rain legs and into my long waterproof trousers to at least keep the wind off my whole legs now.

It worked.  I rolled out of Membury feeling toasty warm.  I downed an excessively sugary drink I'd made up and proceeded then into Stanford in the Vale where we had to collect the colour of a bench in the village as proof of passage before rolling out across the flatlands and back into Oxfordshire.  It was an absolute pleasure to know we had no more major climbs to face.  This walking through the snow was starting to get tedious.

 Normally we'd avoid A-roads like the plague but at 2am the A 420 was practically dead.  The traffic that was passing was not at all threatening, despite being confined to a single clear lane by the snow.  Everyone gave us loads of room and riding here was much safer than risking a slide and a crash on deserted B-roads.  Normally there's nothing quite like seeing your first road sign indicating the distance to your final destination.  Sadly, when you're on the A-420, the first sign for Oxford that we saw still had 9 miles to go.  9 very long miles.  Even then, when we reached the pubs and clubs of Oxford, the burger vans, the late night taxis, the Travel Lodge was still around 4 miles down a long and boring town road, now riddled with potholes and seams and slippery white lines hidden underneath the snow.

Our completion time limit came and went.  Our guestimated 20 minutes late time came and went.  TSK wanted to stop and get his proof of passage receipt earlier than the finish point - legitimate for this ride, but I could not stop.  The prospect of spending two minutes in the cold with my body temperature continuously dropping was horrific and I continued to ride all the way to the hotel, pausing only to get a cash machine statement before crossing the road with the intention of falling into bed.

Of course this was when the real challenge began - out waiting the employee on the desk who was - possibly just intrigued - by what we were going to do with the bikes we wheeled onto the mat to drip and drop snow just like your average workman's boot.  We semi undressed in the public foyer, took a stash of free newspapers into our room and then waited with another cup of hot tea for the boy to stop doing whatever he was going and at least go to the toilet / go to bed.

As soon as his back was turned we had bikes inside in a shot and safely stowed on opened-out newspapers to drip the night away.  Although there was a slightly damp carpet, we didn't make a mark and left the place clean and tidy the next day.

We took it in turns to shower / stand by the heater then fell into bed at 3am.  Propped up by life and the wonderful travel lodge policy which meant we didn't have to check out until 12, we slept until 9am then got up, loaded the van and drove home as soon as we could. Mainly to mitigate the time it would take our fatigued minds to drive through windy conditions and partly to out-run the potential mass exodus of business workers who are contractually obliged to travel on a Friday and a Sunday every week.

With only one driver change-over we surprised ourselves with our expedient arrival at home.

Have I spent the last two days recovering from an Audax-induced hangover?  Hell yes.

Did I want to do another?  A snowy one - no.  Not doing that again in a month of snowy Sundays.  It hurt.  TSK agreed that I'd done 400km effort.  Too big a step, too much risk if anything went wrong. Next time I'd just cancel.

A 300km - yes.  I'm glad I've popped the 300k cherry.  Keen to do another one because I know I can get inside the time limit given normal conditions, no minus -9 degrees wind chill next time.

I've learned lessons about what I can carry on this distance ride and still hope to make any time limits imposed.  My big lock is not one of those things - though plenty of other stuff will still come with me for comfort levels.  If we're going to call Audax speed training for long distance then let's do that.  I can work on my load carrying capacity elsewhere.  SO here's to Skeggy - hoping - for my next 300km event.

I'm looking forward to it.

Split analysis:

1. 18.18 mile to the level crossing 11.3 mph HR 141!
2. 6 minutes stuck at the bloody crossing and messing with brakes
3. 26 mile 10.6 mph HR 139
4. 26 mins going through Stow
5. 35 mile 12.6 mph HR 141
6. 52 mins cafe lunch stop
7. 35.3 miles 11.1mph climbey bit to Chepstow HR 120
8. 40 mins tea stop
9. 27 miles 10.4 mph HR 131
10. 32 minute Waitrose stop
11. 22 miles 10.2 mph HR 132
12. 7 minutes crisp stop in Malbrorough
13. 11 mile to services 8.8 sorry mphs HR 120
14. 39 minutes rewarming stop - shouldn't have! 
15. 12.72 miles 8.6mph to last info control
16. Finally, a 1 minute stop
17. 17 miles to finish. 8.8mph in the snow. HR 113. Just about given up.

Total time: 21:20.  Riding time: 18:17 ish

Snow

It's been a wonderful snowy week of battling my way to work through the fluffy stuff - with a little battling my way home through the ice on Friday.

It's left me exhausted but has been an excellent exercise in just gettin up and doing it all again.

On Wednesday I accidentally overshot and kept riding.  On Thursday I extended again but rode home the quick way and on Friday I stuck to the edge of the ice alongside the shelter of buildings to find all the available concrete and then rode home down the roads to get in quick in time for tea - but then it was 10 pm.

It has been an insane week.

I have rested this weekend.  I haven't touched a bike except to maintain them and I went outside only to walk to the pub and drink too many beers - 2 is too many nowadays.

TSK and I talked about our plans for the Dean in 2 weeks time and we decided to ride it separately so that he can enjoy it without waiting for me and I can get much out of it as a solo ride without coat-tailing and I can pace myself how I want.

It's nice that we're both excited about something that we can share.

I have tried not to feel guilty this weekend and have succeeded.  It was a planned rest week and I am ignoring the fact that I only achieved 30% of my target last week and calling this an actual rest week.  Besides all those snowy miles are worth double.  I hope it will encourage some strength to come through since I stupidly entered the Mag 7 which is next weekend.  No time to train or plan for it.  I just have to go out and ride and it's in Bradfield so I am dreading it but my FOMO means I have entered and I hope I will enjoy it as much as I did last year. 

A "fun" warm up for the 300.