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:
- 18.18 mile to the level crossing 11.3 mph HR 141!
- 6 minutes stuck at the bloody crossing and messing with brakes
- 26 mile 10.6 mph HR 139
- 26 mins going through Stow
- 35 mile 12.6 mph HR 141
- 52 mins cafe lunch stop
- 35.3 miles 11.1mph climbey bit to Chepstow HR 120
- 40 mins tea stop
- 27 miles 10.4 mph HR 131
- 32 minute Waitrose stop
- 22 miles 10.2 mph HR 132
- 7 minutes crisp stop in Malbrorough
- 11 mile to services 8.8 sorry mphs HR 120
- 39 minutes rewarming stop - shouldn't have!
- 12.72 miles 8.6mph to last info control
- Finally, a 1 minute stop
- 17 miles to finish. 8.8mph in the snow. HR 113. Just about given up.
Total time: 21:20. Riding time: 18:17 ish
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