I left for BB weekend determined to make a good attack on the route I had planned. When I ride with others I inevitably tend to bail earlier than I would have otherwise. My reaction to this is either calm indifference / patience or a frustration that I have cut my plans short. I am no saint but my saving grace is I am (eventually sympathetic to others having a great time over the opposite).
So in riding alone, I relished the idea of being able to plough on to my own near destruction, if necessary, just to get whatever ride I had planned finished.
The problem was that as soon as TSK said he wasn't coming, I gave up on the great idea of checking the route for someone else and subliminally filed it in the 'done' tray and got on wih 2019.
At 10.30pm in Oswesrty travelodge I reached into my frame bag to get my toothbrush and the second I laid eyes on my fuel bottle my stomach sank, remembering that moment when I put a small quantity of fuel in the bottom of a 15 year old Sigg bottle to check whether the seal was still good (it was). I never topped it up. A further 30 minutes were spent making a plan for where to get fuel as early as possible the next day.
So I got to bed late and in the morning, after breakfast I drove to Shrewsbury Go Outdoors, preceded by a trip into Oswestry in search of an early morning pharmacy in case they stocked ethanol. On the way to Go Outdoors I stumbled by a B&Q, already open at 8.15 and I was on my way but as a consequence I started my ride 1hour later than I meant to. Its not a race so it didn't matter but that said, I wanted to get my route in.
Rather than rushing off though, I took the time to get properly organised and left relaxed. My route started down the road I had arrived on and then turned off onto my first forestry trail marked with a sign welcoming me to walk in these woods.
It was (once) a bridleway so I rode on regardless. At the edge of the forest cutting there was an old mouldy waymarker with a horseshoe imprinted on it. The path was indistinguishable from the jagged and jaunty edges of tree stumps cut down over 20 years ago and left toppled and rotting. Tussocky humps protruded from in between, bogs hidden beneath. The path seemed to veer away from the non-forest eventually so I decided it would be good carry-training.
The extension of the path was into new growth trees where I would, presumably, rejoin the bridlepath. The crossing of the wasteland was horrible but short yet registered in my mind as something I do not want to repeat. EVER. At this point I have to say the only reason I didnt turn back is I have done several BB starts in this area and each time that road has featured. Doing that piece of road again was also not an option.
My desire for adventure was outsmarting my ability. On the other side of the energy sapping tree-rooted forest was a gate to a sheep field where a group of cotton-balls with black faces followed me patiently in circles in expectance of food. It was like being in the middle of inverse "One Man and His Dog", with a bike in place of a collie, the sheep rounding me in whichever direction I chose to go.
At the other edge of the field where the true forest restarted there was NO sign of the bridleway. NOTHING. No gate, locked or otherwise, no stile, just fence and thick, thick trees, branches and needles. No end of hunting up and down the fence-line gave any alternatives and no way was I going back the way I had come.
I got out my spare Garmin, the one with the OS Maps on. A footpath across the fields and along a stream led me back onto the bridlepath at the other side of the forest. I hiked over to a shack, the only building in the entire valley so, no one to shout at me for having a bike on the footpath yet still, I pushed.
I pushed my bike next to the stream because it was too tussocky to ride. I found the place where the path should be and peered beyond the stream, through the wire fence, into the branches. It was unmarked, almost unfeasibly inaccessible and fenced off but it was passable.
A beautiful, green, glowing shangri la of open forest. With light and the end of the branch-lined tunnel, an ancient and long unused footpath. I coaxed my 25kg bike across the stream, the gorge through which it now ran, 12ftdeep with steep sides. I power-lifted my overladen bike over the rickety fence taking the absence of barbed wire as permission. After one look back to ensure no one was watching (purely be habit as this fairytale had no other endings) I pushed my bike across the green fluffy pillows of moss that lined the forest floor. It was tellytubby land in miniature. Possibly the most satisfying part of the day because I was truly alone. Little chance of meeting anyone else, I was fresh, the light was perfect. It was too early to bivi right? I could have stayed there all day.
A descent to a farmhouse saw me hiking up a 40 degree slope to some footpath-type switchbacks which really were a bridleway eventually despite the begrudging signs and un-openable gates - several of which came with instructions to riders to climb over the stile carefully - not sure what the horsey people do.
Finally, after a lot of effort, I rounded the corner to the kind of peaceful view that, in retrospect, was one of the high points of my weekend weatherwise. A nearly-black buzzard picked at the remnants of a sheep carcass, it's hollow body a frame to support the flimsy woolened leather that had once bound it together. It was over-inflated and deflated at once. The bird hopped away and circled the sky once as I rode past before re-settling to continue its work.
I enjoyed another gate and sweeping single-track through a woodland before stopping for my lunch at the end of the forest, cosseted on the furrow of a row of trees and completely dry.
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| Checkpoint 13 Tumulus complete with gorey sheep carcas and buzzard. |
The checkpoint I'd referenced on my map as, "Marsh Cairn" turned out to be marshy. I could not see the cairn though assumed that, as a spot point on the map it was the sticky out thing on top of the hill.
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| Checkpoint 12, Marshcairn |
In the fading light, it was a pleasant crossing towards checkpoint 11. I watched the light gradually disappear from my day and cycled as much as I could in the fading light before a join with the road forced me to put both lights on by which to see and be seen. Lights of a stretch of civilisation brought some context to the landscape but then I was reminded of their inconvenience as my way was barred by a posh house that had closed off all its accesses to the bridleway on my route. I retraced to the next path which turned out to be a footpath running straight through someone's front garden so I traced up to the next road which turned into a bridlepath that hadn't been used in quite some time.
I swore my way under and over fallen trees and full on slid onto my arse into a stream dropping my bike on the way down. I added 7km to my route. Still, I was in good spirits as I passed through Cefn Coch and saw two other BearBones going the other way off the bridleway as I joined it to cross to my Checkpoint 11 at Cerrigwdyllan, where the cairns had gone to bed.
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| Checkpoint11 Cairns at Cerrigwdyllan |
Finally I descended to Caersws, meeting the lights that had been twinkling at me for the last hour. There was a pub, though I also noticed a perfect brew-stop across the road - a larger than life bus stop with a dark corner for a bench but enough street lighting with which to work. Following rule 3: Never look a gift-horse in the mouth, I set about locking up the bike, dressed up in my dry clean waterproof trousers and clean coat, wiped my face and headed inside to beg for a table for dinner. Unfortunately in the nicest way, they weren't serving food that night. A big party, the chef had done a finger buffet then gone home for the night. She made me a coffee and I sat by the fire and decided what to do next. I looked at the map then decided that I'd eat in the bus shelter before continuing on.
A series of people entered and left the pub and I caught up on all the local gossip as smokers came and went from outside the pub, not realising I was curled up in the corner of the bus stop, meths stove humming happily away brewing my dinner in a tin mug. With meths left to burn, I boiled a tin of water for a rehydration brew, re-packed the bag and headed out into the great pink line on the Garmin screen.
You know you've had a good ride when you feel relieved to be riding on a road.
My route took me onto the local cycle-network route. Out onto a wide open valley floor where the wind whistled into my face. I considered stopping to put my coat back on but instead just shivered for a while, suspecting the climb was coming next. I wasn't wrong. My legs were knackered. By this time it was getting on for 10pm. My plan was to ride up and over the big climb to the Giant's Grave checkpoint. A few gentle climbs became steeper and steeper. I decided I'd better take off my waterproof leggings and whilst I was at it I'd have a wee so I started looking for a break in the trees.
As I wheeled the bike into the woods, the ground levelled off and I found a mostly flat* bit of woodland with not a breath of breeze. With no cars on the road taking this tiny route, I decided to bivi for the night. I locked the bike up and went for my wee, hoping I'd remember my way back to my bike once I turned the torch back on. Within an hour I'd rigged my kit and sat in my tent in shorts and tee feeling not at all bad. Dry clothes are always good though and once I'd got my stuffed-bag-of-laundry pillow comfortable to sleep on, I was dead to the world until 4:30am when I woke, hungry.
*Not completely flat and actually, I awoke a little stiff from trying to hold myself from falling down the slight slope.
I demolished a pack of crisps and cereal bar and went back to sleep till 5:30 when hunger woke me up again. Not feeling like brewing up in the woods, I carried on up the hill, walking at first just to warm up. I got as high as a gate, offering me minimal shelter and scoffed a pack of rasins and nuts covered in random chocolate and yoghurt whilst watching the colour flood gradually and murkily into the landscape.
Higher up the hillside the road turned to track and sooner or later I was walking again. More respite from the wind presented by a quarry with flat rocks. The brain considered losing warm layers and brewing up but the body just had a rest, considered life, took a pic and set off again.
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| Looking back to checkpoint 9 below |
The murk loomed large and I couldn't make the turn to checkpoint 9 for a sheet of corrugated steel backed up by two bulky motorcycle chain locks made it pretty clear that someone didn't want mountain bikers using that section of public bridleway. I made do with looking down on the Giant's Grave from above. Satisfied that I still haven't spent a bivi in a graveyard.
Gradually, wind turbines started to appear. Ancient 90's efforts at wind power with creaking bearings and swooshing blades. Hundreds of them. I threaded through on the trail then started to descend. Glad I'd not removed the leggings.
I pulled out of the grey and white of the sky and the turbines, past the flock of transformers that dotted the hillside like oversize sheep and onto the valley trails which threaded through mountains of woodland forested slopes interleaved like the interlocking treads on my tyres.
I descended a long long way. I had to stop part way down, remembering I still hadn't put on my waterproof shorts over fleecy leggings. I figured I'd spend one more day riding without nappy rash.
My plan now was to head for my checkpoint 8 then cut across to 6, grab 5 if I felt like it, then probably bail out..
After the stunning descent through the forest, I was on to the road again. I was happy to have some easy riding but it was also a bit of a chore. There was nothing exciting about the road and if it did climb up, it was getting slower and slower, the rasp of my tyres getting less and less frequent. I could stop and brew up porridge and coffee - it was all I had left to eat - but I really couldn't be arsed and I needed proper food.
Finally, thankfully, the Dolwen Garage cafe appeared. The first sign said, "Open 6 days a week" and my heart sank a little until I saw the lights on and another sign that read, "Open 7 days". I nearly cried. I wasn't off-put by the lack of menu but excited by the offer of a full english and glorious pudding and tea (twice to follow). The nicest serving staff and a perfect view of my bike and the mountains beyond.
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| It was 2pm by the time I left. |
It wasn't cold outside but the effort required to ride into the wind got more and more with every pedal stroke. The steepness of the roads was overwhelming. For a while I toyed with the idea of going back straight on the road but then realised the road climbs were as (if not more) ludicrous compared to the off-road. So I turned off, joined the lakeside road and got away from the traffic for my ridiculous uphill weavings.
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| Checkpoint 6 - Carreg Wen at Llyn Clywedog |
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| Looks wetter than it was??? That road in the distance descended then climbed back up the hillside. |
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| Geometric steeps |
From now on the terrain played games with my body and mind. At most points I wanted to get off the road and go enjoy myself in the Hafren Forest. The rest of the time I wanted to head straight back to base on the road. I wavered between the two.
To go back early was to admit defeat?
What if I committed myself to stupid and failed to get back on time, worrying and inconveniencing my hosts?
If I quit here, what for the rest of my year?
What if I had a mechanical or an injury far away from the finish?
I was having fun!
I was not having fun!
The terrain was hard.
The road was steep.
As I reached the top of the road climb past the reservoir, I watched a fell runner descend from the ridge line. I got off and pushed my bike. I could cope with the steeps but I didn't have the strength to push through the wind speed. When I caught the fell runner up (we'd both been travelling down hill after that), he was already half undressed back at his car.
A few minutes later he had to wait patiently for me to get out of the middle of the road where I was protecting my safety from the sideways wind gusts. I stopped so he could pass safely. Thankfully only two cars came by. My descent to the valley was a relief.
Just before I hit the lake road one last time, I decided to make an attempt on crossing to the Hafren forest and Checkpoint 6 to sate my adventurous streak. The bridlepath I attempted was pleasant enough but ended at another toppled tree which barred the way completely. My camel's back was broken by the straw and instead of lifting my bike over the fence one more time I stepped through a gate and rode diagonally down the hill back to the lake shore.
I'd considered the lake as a bivi spot before, having visited the shelter there last year. I stopped in again. It's a disused building as far as I can tell. There was no trace of campers from last night and the stonework was slippery from lichen buildup. I sat out of the wind. I should have enjoyed a brew really but by now I just wanted to get back I resigned myself to a ride to the finish, reassuring myself that at 1300h I had already been cycling for 6 hours.
I did not collect checkpoint 5, I did not pass go, I went straight to tea. I was back at base for 2pm.
I was disappointed not to have been able to push through and finish the rest of my ambitious route but swallow the bitter pill thus:
Racing day after day against nothing but yourself and others is very different to riding to timeline to suit the organiser's completion time so he can get home with his wife after two days baby sitting bikers.
Racing day in day out is very different to riding before going to work the next day in a fit state and
Bear Bones is all about maximising funsies.
So some great lessons for the next 4 months:
- Although the route is published by someone else for a race, I need to sort my shit out, spend some time on the internet and mark up my mapping to the highest level. I may not be fast but I can at least be organised.
- *Flat means flat.
