HT7 - Not the Festive 500 and carrying a mountain bike

Boundaries of the old ways

On 1st March I pushed my reasonably underused, yet moderately aged mountain bike into the snow to commute to work.  What miles we have done together have been hard - 1200kms and 42,000m of climbing in the Alps and 1500km of riding and racing off road duathlons - a run-exhausted athlete at the bars. 

As I made my way home from work that day, I decided to see if I can carry my bike the way the people in the picutres do.

I'm an expert at bike-carrying - 30 years of cyclo-cross will testify but Mountain bikes are different - the frame is too small for it to be comfortably "worn" over a shoulder so nowadays, bike hikers have taken to carrying their steeds across their backs, one hand holding the front forks, the other the frame, like a modern day milkmaid returning from the fields.

I had taken a "shortcut" through the park with the intention of doing a few slalom turns in the deep snow.  Once bored of this, I set off straight up the hill to attain the road ride home but first I had to hike out of there.  Somehow I hoofed my semi-loaded, snow-logged bike onto my shoulders and wham! The heavy Jones Bars swiveled around and smacked me squarely in the helmet.  Thanks to the thick polystyrene shell I was uninjured but it hurt like hell.  I dropped the bike then and there and pushed it to the top then rode it home the steep way (like a boss by the way).

I promptly parked the poor thing in front of the radiator for 9 months to rot.

The state that bike was in when I took it to the shop for repair was embarrassing but when all is said and done, I'm OK at off-roading.  Or shall we say, I enjoy it a lot - even more than roading.  So this year, I have decided to dip more than a toe (thank you Braunton) into the off-road pond and signed up for a race which has had me captivated and tempted with gradual tidbits for a number of years - since I first heard about it in 2014.

This Christmas period has all been about training for that.

I had a notion that I would attempt to ride the Festive 500 off-road but it was only a notion.  In this "new" world of mountain biking, EmVee and I are rediscovering eachother and our limits together and pushing them further.  Much to her dismay, I am hitting obstacles full on, relearning what will go and what will not and trying anyway to bring both me and the bike up to some sort of speed and fitness and to improve our skills.  Whilst this holiday period has been about distance and long days in the saddle, it has mainly been about Highland Trail training and so its lines have taken few prisoners.  It has been uppy and I have pushed my bike more than I would have like and won a QoM (Queen of the Mountains) for passing 300m in 10 minutes, simply because no other woman has been daft enough to take a bike up a hill that steep so no, my festive 500 (to ride 500km between Christmas Eve and New Years Eve) will not be completed (it hasn't even been registered).

The last long ride which might have set me back on a track to complete (leaving me 71km to do per day up to new years eve) was cut short due to lack of electronic devices.  I did get home, didn't die but did fall asleep on the sofa straight after dinner so it's probably a good thing that I didn't try and push through the last 30km.

The HT7 long ride was also cut a little short by my own parents making last minute plans to drop by, ergo placing a deadline on my time out.  I tried not to be grumpy about this and instead set off to have a hard but shorter ride and to get out early.  So unusually I was out of the house by 9:20 am and as the ride progressed well against my deadline I started to adjust its route into the unknown.  I mean I had a map and I knew where stuff came out but I did not know the terrain or the condition of the surface in between although these were paths I had chosen to ease some of the worst climbs - like the one up to Hagg Farm on the A57.  I made a decision to follow that route, held the gate for some approaching riders and as they dropped down to the Hagg Farm road, I ploughed on up the hill, eventually pushing EmVee over the rocks and thinking, "This will end soon".

Actually, I stopped first to contemplate life over a cereal bar, staring into the forest and ignoring some other bikers as they pushed on past me, chatting.  At least I wasn't the only one.  It might have been worth me trying to carry my bike again here but I didn't, instead, strengthening my legs and upper body by pushing (god I feel woefully weak right now).

The elevation gained was much higher than my alternative route and the surface just as bad and it did not ease off enough to make it worth while, still, as I have been saying all week, "Good training for Scotland".

Finally onto the descent to Rowlee Farm.  I struggled to ride down it but damn I did my best.  I didn't have much choice.  A group of 4x4 drivers at the top were ignorant of me as I passed so damn I rode it as far as was safe to and more.  I felt their eyes burning into the back of my head, willing me to fall off - or maybe that was my ego talking.  Eventually when the boulders became so loose that both me and the bike bounced and skidded 90 degrees to the direction we were supposed to be travelling, I had a little walk, eventually setting off rolling again once a side-path emerged to avoid the 45 degree slopes of sodden gritstone. 

That one, up there on the right.

The side path was cruisable and deposited us at the bottom in one piece and so began the alternate climb up to and from the A57 - solidly cat AAA climbing up at 60% (yes you heard) at the A57 briefly before steadying out to 30% on each of the switchbacks higher up.  It is at least tarmac but I yearned for the short sharp hike a bike and interaction of the climb to Hagg Farm.  I say interaction because in the opposite direction it is a sweet and renowned Downhill Route for those of a bouncy persuasion.

After my long hill climb I was finally rewarded with a summit ridge ride I have never done before until arriving at the Hagg Farm junction.  For the third time I almost fell as I attempted to ride over one rock step too many, ran out of momentum and instead, executing a quick dismount.  It was only ever my feet sliding away in the mud that brought me down, my boots designed a little more for North American tundra than Yorkshire Gritstone but still... I was getting a bit fed up of courtseying in front of hikers.

I decided I'd struggled enough and deserved an easy descent so I waved good bye to Hagg Farm and continued along the ridge of Hagg side and Bridge End Pasture  to drop down to the reservoir via Crookhill Farm track.  It was 3pm and yet, I held open the gate for an approaching rider, thankful to see me as a guide past the farm.  I hoped he'd have a nice ride and not get lost and thundered down to the A57 again.

My planned valiant attempt to ride up the bridleway next to the Ladybower Inn was ruined by the food delivery vehicle parked across the entry to the path leaving me blind to any lines - there aren't many to choose from and they change every day as more riders move or dislodge rocks.  There's bits of this track that are rideable, once the steep bit is over and it has been finely reworked by trail builders to make it wonderfully useable.  The end however, is only rideable by the Steve Peats and Danny Macaskills of the world but clearly I had forgotten how bad it was, for it was now that the thought dawned on me that I could have another go at carrying my bike like the people in the pictures do.

My bike was in the perfect position for picking up - around 2 ft above my feet at this stage, as I had already begun my heady descent off the rocks.

I grabbed my forks, grabbed a handfull of frame and lifted with all my strength.  The bike pivotted around my lower back in my grip, peeled backward, eventually bent me over so far backward I had no choice but to go with it and just for good measure, it stabbed me in the back with my chin ring.  At least now that I'm on a single ring, the damage was minimal as we both lay in the heather - me like a beetle on its back until I remembered to let go of the bike and sit up on my own.

Not to be deterred - it was going OK until the toppling part - I had another go.  I mean, I didn't learn to pick my 'cross bike up all those years ago in one race did I?

This time the top tube sat snugly across the top of my shoulders, the whole thing padded by my Camelbak (separate story / question) and I felt really comfy, "I could spend time like this!" (there's a fair bit of hike-a-bike in Scotland and some that requires carrying so it will do me the world of good to nail comfort in this position).

Once I'd got there, I moved towards the edge of the boulder I had been standing on, ready to start my descent.  Chuff me! That's a big jump.  There are literally no steps.  There's no way I am jumping down there with this on my back.

Unceremoniously (yet without toppling), I lowered the bike back down to the ground, onto the path below, its saddle sitting well below my feet.  Putting all thoughts of American cowboy movies or Indiana Jones out of my head, I jumped off the boulder NEXT To my bike and led my beast down the path to hike it back out onto the A57.  There had been enough strain for one day.

Back at home after a shower, a cup of tea and exchanging gifts with the old people, I climbed into bed with a distinct twinge in my back.  Rolling around in the heather with a spiky lump of metal was possibly the most exciting thing I've done this holiday and it left its mark on my physique.

So there will be no Festive 500 in this house for once you've started it offroad, you can't really then go out and do 300kms on a road bike and call yourself happy with it.  If I'm going to spend 20 hours on a bike I'd rather do it on the mountain bike and get 200k done.  But I can't, cos I'm going out and besides which, by the end of today, it's definitely time for a rest day.