The last 6 weeks have been a bit of a write off for my long riding exploits. I have focussed on improving my strength and speed as part of a larger plan and also have been both busy and focussed on a short, difficult training course. The exam was on Monday this week. After one week of targeted sanity training as a break from studying and revising, I came out of the exam to 4 days of frantically catching up with the day job. I promised myself my November bivi this weekend as a reward for finishing the course.
I've been reading "Under the stars" by Matt Gaw, my anticipation for a release from the four brick walls of my house, growing with every page turn.
A father of two, Gaw's book describes his observations of UK dark skies areas in stark contrast to the light polluted conurbations of UK cities - Bury St Edmunds where he lives and London. He travels to Galloway and to the Isle of Coll, bivis with the stars, walks in the woods without lights, cries, laughs (mostly at himself) and finally manages to persuade his kids and wife out for a night but falls at the final hurdle when the children refuse to lie down in the goose poo at the RNIB reserve.
His descriptions of constellations and the smear of the milky way across a blackened sky bring inspiration but with Lockdown, my chances are limited to a limp into the Peak to be sandwiched between the orange glows of Manchester, Sheffield and Barnsley. It is also due to be a 98% moon.
I still hadn't seen my lockdown bike buddy Landslide since our mad rush over to Wales for the BB200 so our plans hatched to get November done together. Without any real weather incentive last weekend, he seemed happy to wait for me to surface from my training course. My only demand was that we go out Friday night.
I knew I didn't have the patience to wait out Saturday morning to get out for a Saturday night bivi. Chances wavered between me doing a long ride and failing to make it to night or going out for a day ride and getting too tired and not going out again. It would be slim based on some reduced leg muscle right now. I thought it more likely I'd slink home and put off bivying all together. So I insisted on a late departure after dinner on Friday with a decent ride to finish off on Saturday.
For the first time in weeks I cut work short, loaded the bike and perfectly timed myself to get out the door (except for some mad hunting for my spot tracker). I wanted the Spot in case I had some riding to do on my own on Saturday and once I'd realised it was 'lost' I wanted to find it again but eventually I left without it. Although I'd remembered all my gear, I realised that aside from my breakfast porridge I was relying on a selection of accumulated snacks from previous rides to sustain me through Saturday.
My earlier intentions to go to the shops had been quashed by management tasks and Microsoft outlook and by the time I did make it to Asda with Landslide in tow to mind the bikes, my focus was on the beer I'd been promising myself all week.
Chores completed we rattled along the allotments trail, lights blazing, then hiked our bikes up the rock garden.
I'd finally warmed up and had to stop to lose my gloves and layers, finally realising my Spot Tracker was still dangling from my handlebars from its last outing though it was now invisible amongst all the bags. I noticed the leaves glistening like jewels in my lights and realised it was going to be an interesting night.
We hiked bikes up through the quarry to cross the A57 then descend its byway to the base of the Rivelin valley. We climbed back up, finding a small white bhudda meditating in the stream below the golf course. While Landslide snapped his pic, I stretched out my hamstrings now tight and complaining about 2 rides in one day interspersed with a lot of sitting down.
The descent from the Buddha is rocky and exciting and I meant to take it carefully given the glass beer bottle that was now sharing my rucsac with my dry fleece top, hat, spare gloves and electronics. However, Landslide took a different line to me and we found ourselves rolling down it side by side, almost in sync and running a dual slalom all the way to the bottom where I got so excited I nearly stacked several times trying to get my weighted dropper post to spring back up again.
We cruised along Wyming Brook, puffing up the climbs now. I criticised myself for hitting the bottom gear before remembering I'm on my heavy bike with older (higher)gear ratios packing a LOT of stuff for a November bivi.
At the A57 Landslide suggested that as it was 9:30 we should hotfoot it down the road to our destination, the Ladybower. I was having none of it and sternly turned us towards Sheffield then straight up Onkersley Lane, past the Good Dog (Lockdown or no Lockdown he was in bed) and up to Rod side.
• • •
I'd refused the A57 option because it's always longer than I think to cross the moor at Hollow Meadows but Rod Side is also long. Quiet though. Not a single car passed and then we were onto the Byway, passing cows lowing noisily in the farm shed when we went through the gates. Who needs Security alarms when you have nervous cattle?
Finally I allowed us both a break and through the cold air we cut down to the reservoirs on the A57. I battened down all the hatches - hood up, zips all fastened - but still spun my legs furiously to keep warm. A couple of cars passed. They were loud but muted by the hood over my ears. Each time I thought it was Landslide passing, "wow! He's tanking it" turned to alarm and caution as I realised it was a tonne of metal instead.
The first gravel climbs alongside the Ladybower reservoir were bittersweet. Our legs and brains were crying out for bed but our hands were freezing. Every little rise brought us new levels of warmth and comfort and our brains were engaged by chatter as we were finally able to ride side by side, reminiscing about the bizarre abundances of wildlife that gathered here during the" Summer" Lockdown when nature took over from humans.
Eventually - thankfully in time - I realised I needed to look out for our spot. When I found it, it was not great so we continued on up. I was nervous about climbing higher as I knew it was going to be colder at elevation and more exposed on the moors.
Still, Landslide seemed to be on for an outdoor bivi and, well, I couldn't be arsed to think of anything better. I read the landscape ahead - clearly visible as shapes in the moonlight - against the OS maps - and concluded there was a probable flat spot ahead.
Sure enough, as we reached the shoulder of the climb, the hillside opened out. I was coveting a sheep dugout for shelter but better than that, amongst the tussocks, a sphagnum moss bed emerged, glistening in the moon.
There was just enough space for two pitches in between the grassy tussocks The surface moisture was frozen into crunchy broccoli florets and the ground beneath seemed sufficiently drained and/or frozen to remain dry for the night ahead. We both pitched just right. Our spaces forming a tiny human head to toe chain up the very gentle upward slope that was only perceptible lying down. I proudly unearthed the little pouch of goodies I keep for my pitch - a freebie plastic "waterproof" bag with a zip lok closure. In the freezing temperatures its elastic properties were overcome and as I opened it, it split into small fragments of plastic paper. My pegs, toothbrush and paste, handed warmers, zip ties, antihistamines, lip balm and earplugs were held together by broken folio-remnants of "what was".
• • •
Landslide got a hot feed off some packaged concoction while I dined out on faffing with my flat tarp then drinking the beer I had so lovingly transported. It had cooled to the right drinking temperature after 3 hours on my back.. It took a fair effort to get into though. Once I found my penknife, getting the bottle opener unleashed was a task at a higher level which Landslide managed for me as I sat by, ready to tackle it with my house keys.
Once "settled" the head torches went off and we admired the moonscape. Light colours were discernable, the yellow grass for the most part. The dark greens of pine and holly and ocre of bracken melded into dark grey. The reservoir was only visible as blackness, occasionally highlighted by a brief passage of a motor vehicle far below.
• • •
The silence was incredible. The cars were inaudible, engine noise filtered out by the narrow valley walls. From time to time an aeroplane passed overhead but there were no other sounds. We picked out the Plough, Orion and Cassiopeia, Landslide's wife's constellation.
I released myself from the entrapment of bibs to go for a wee and in doing so exposed all but a sleeveless vested body to the raw elements of minus 2°C. Re-dressing into my wool top then my synthetic down then my Paramor jacket, the layers piled back on, each one blissfully warmer than the one before.
That and 1 litre less of water to keep heated left me feeling super toasty. White landslide danced in the moonlight to stay warm, I felt quietly confident about the night ahead, though I was still a little dubious about my bag's -7C rating, I'd survived-5 in it last year.
He disappeared into his lovely new hexamid shaped tarp thingy whilst I faffed a bit more - to no real result. I still don't like the big Tarp. It is both too big (to support well) and too small to form a decent tunnel that I can sit in.
Eventually I got into my bivi bag.The initial warming coming from the sheer level of effort it took me to wriggle into the thing
I was a bit hyper. I'd been looking forwards to this for weeks and now I was here the brain didn't want to sleep and the moon wasn't helping matters. I didn't really mind. I was happy to lie still and appreciate the scenery and the few stars that were visible in the moonlight.
The wakefulness became an issue when the shivers started again. I recognised them as another call for a loo break so staggered back out across the tussocks to my dedicated reed bed. More star gazing.
I came back to my bivi disappointed to see it looking quite saggy and crestfallen. In my attempt to get the best views, there wasn't much central support and the whole thing looked like a saggy blanket.
It was beautifully encrusted with fallen mist, iced into crystalline patterns with a central welt of melted moisture where it hung down and touched my nice warm body. The worst thing is, I couldn't be arsed to do anything about it. I was like that neighbour in the street whose lack of loft insulation is blindingly obvious between November and March.
• • •
Back in my bag, all was well again except for one of my good gloves had strayed out of the bag with me. I dragged it back in. That would have been an unpleasant start to the day.
The shaking started again a little later but this time I realised I really did just need more layers for my legs. My fleece leggings weren't enough. I emptied my rucsac looking for my buff or waterproof trousers but only found my fleece Jersey and some soggy biscuits. I tried laying the fleece over me for a while and eating the biscuits but it didn't work for long. Finally I remembered my saddlebag and pulled the last few items of clothing out of there. The trousers went on over my down booties and my buff added a much-needed barrier between the cold air on my face where I needed to breathe and the warmth inside my sleeping bag. Also, one last glance over to Manchester left me convinced the cloud bank that had been loitering there all evening had finally acquired the momentum to start making progress in our direction.
In a final slap in the face I wondered if I could hear a pack of dogs barking and the brain momentarily worried we'd be mauled by an errant group of hounds that mistook us for Badgers.
It wasn't enough though and at 3am I finally fell asleep.
• • •
Once I was gone, I was out. The next thing to wake me up was a flapping noise. I was mortified. This would be me again! I looked at the watch. 7. 50 am. The sun was rising somewhere but our view was just soggy tussocks and a dirty grey duvet snuggling the higher slopes across the valley. I'll give it credit, it was swathing us in relative warmth. I had been sleeping face forward on my front with one arm out of the bag and was perfectly toasty, bordering on too hot. I was relieved to find it wasn't my tarp that was flapping but Landslide's. Completely accidentally, I had pitched mine perfectly. Low end into the breeze. It was so low, the wind flattened everything to the ground. It was perfectly tensioned, and flap-free but it acted like a pathetic wet plastic blanket. Landslide congratulated me on my no-holds-barred romanticism of wild bivi camping.
We lay in bed to make our plans as our tarps flapped (his) and pressed me into the ground. There was no chance I could brew up here from my bed. Our plans to continue up onto the moor would lead us to remaining at elevation for quite some time a potentially we would disappear like Gorillas in the mist. Any sheltered spots would still be bloody cold. The plan developed into a descent back to the valley floor and a ride home "on the other side" with breakfast en route.
We packed up swiftly once the decision was made. My wool gloves had sprung a leak in one digit, my finger tip poking out the end and meaning I had to double it up with a random pair of smelly gloves from another ride. The exposed fingertip still lost all feeling until it was safely ensconced in the big crab claw gloves along with its mate.
I looked forlornly at my bivi bag - Stu's old one. I both love it and hate it. I'd been cold in it and felt like I had no room to move. I'd breathed into it to get warm and it had laid limp and damp against my face, dripping breath moisture on to me, sometimes ice crystals and yet I had slept. Though the surface that had been on the damp ground (no longer frozen) was wet, my sleeping bag and mattress were both, dry as a bone inside the bivi. This is reliably predictable now, yet always surprises me. It's light, it's stealthy it's incredibly waterproof and breathable. If only it had a little more space for my feet.
• • •
We didn't need to ride far to drop down below the windshield of the hillside and find ourselves nestled by a stream with plenty of big flat rocks to sit on and perch stoves on. A small bird flitted past bursting song into the air and we gleefully brewed porridge and coffee. The last of the Glen Nevis honey being shared out. As we collected our water it started to patter with rain but it didn't really matter, we were both already dressed for it. I just needed to add my gaiters to stop it running down into my boots from my trousers.
Landslide beamed with happiness.
On our way back to civilisation we planned our response to the inevitable question, "did you cramp out"?
"Nope just practising."
Practising is a superior response to "training"
"Training" opens up further lines of enquiry. The nicest people want to be in awe of what you are training for. There are other people who want to know what you're training for so they can do it to or so they can be sure that they have done something similar or better or harder.
Practising implies a more generic repetition, relative new-ness and a non-specific skill rather than an event. Practice is difficult to question.
It's also far more legal than the actual process of camping out.
We agreed that if a man in a green (ranger's) jacket asked if we'd been camping out, the default answer was "Nope, we're just practising".
• • •
Back down at the reservoir, the public appeared. Lots of runners, serious walkers, families with kids in wellies, proper mountain bikers on full sussers, the kind who know bikepacking exist but whose friendly banter dries up at "By eck tha's carryin' a-lot-of-shit (one word) on that" if they acknowledge you at all.
We pulled into the carpark and mingled with runners in between toilet trips and disposing of our beery spoils from the night before. There was no way I was walking up the hill with a bottle in my backpack, never mind riding the downhill on the other side. Yes I made Landslide walk up the downhill though in retrospect, letting him guide me up the fire road would have both been easier and opened my eyes to a track I've not used in 20 years and I really can't remember why I don't like it.
As we approached the sleep hill I realised I was already warm and should have adjusted my layers when I'd stopped at the toilets.
I decided to be brave and try out my new water "proof" leggings in this rain to see how good they are. If you can't test your kit less than 20 miles from home, where can you test it? Besides, I didn't fancy sweating up the slog in Goretex trousers, getting just as sweaty on the inside as wet on the outside.
• • •
Up at the "Climb up the downhill", landslide ploughed on ahead while I faffed with layers and gloves and smiled for downhillers ripping by on over-expensive full sussers, with all the skill of dancing monkeys.
L waited for me by a new bivi spot and we carried on together as the trail became more rideable.
Faced with the choice of summer meadows without the sunshine or descending the burms to Hagg Farm, L opted for burns and I let him go first with no intention of catching him, then he held the gate for me so I put a rush on and kept going to get to the next gate to return the favour, L chomping at my wheel all the way down.
Eventually the rush got the better of me and I went sideways on loose stones, dropping myself and the bike into the bank in a slo-mo flop. My buddy checked I was Ok then streamed post to get the bottom gate. Despite crashing it was a PB.
We paused at the bottom to admire the wet then in a fit of enthusiasm I powered up the other side on a hill called "try not to walk this bit". I didn't walk it but the consequent loss of oxygen to the brain meant I struggled to get through the gate at the top.
It was back into the public domain for the flatter ride around the reservoir. Back to looking forward to short climbs that gradually forced the blood back into my fingers where the thin gloves I'd worn for the climb were challenged to keep anything warm on descents and the flat roll along the Lake shore.
Finally at the last bend two mountain bikers called out, "have you camped out?" As I climbed up the other side of the stream bed I heard Landslide call out, "Nope, just practicing!".
• • •
I was targeting the next bus stop for a refuelling break to shelter from the rain and change into dry, thick gloves. It didn't disappoint, although the Yorkshire Bridge Inn would have been preferable outside of Lockdown.
The climb up New Road had felt like an insurmountable slog before but with full bellies and warmer gloves I got into a rhythm and enjoyed it. I rode on through places where, in previous years, I have needed to stop and" admire the view" whilst travelling fully loaded. The road climb was survived, the Causeway was enjoyed. It wasn't too busy but those that were out were jolly and friendly.
As the rain became ever heavier my new leggings wetted out although I noticed that, despite the tonnes of water rolling off my coat into my lap, the pad under my bum was still bone dry - something practically unheard of underneath waterproof shorts where the sweat coming down from the body inevitably collides with the water being blown in from the knees to mash into one wholly chafing wet mess.
• • •
After the friendly walkers, Stanage Pole looked friendly too. Shrouded in mist, rain and swirling clouds it was familiar, a million moons away from the summer Lockdown rides that had it glistening with the setting or rising sun.
My new "waterproof" leggings were definitely being challenged now. My knees were soaked as the first point of contact with the rain. My shins were so wet, the water was penetrating the overlap with my gaiters and leaking into my boots and socks. I guess we found their limit but I wasn't ready to stop and put on my waterproof trousers. I was nearly home and it wasn't really worth the faff. As we dropped down the hill from the last reservoirs though, I turned soft on myself. I was done playing in the mud and the trees and it was time for lunch.
L and I pulled along side by side on a perilous descent towards a white BMW that saw fit to overtake us before pulling up indicating to turn right. We fist bumped (ish) our goodbyes whilst L joined the BMW queue and I hightailed my way through the chaotic junction towards my home. My final blood- pumping climb of the day was insufficient to cover the long breezy descent to the house. As much as I wanted to go straight inside I had a good coating of wet mud to wash off the bike. My ex army neighbour was smoking outside his house. He Loves my adventure stories of star-filled nights so was captivated by our transition from "absolutely fabulous" on Friday night to the drowned rat he saw before him.
My leggings came off inside the back door, the heating went on and I went straight to the bathroom to get in the shower, pausing only to laugh at my mud spattered face in the mirror. My legs turned into itchy, pink lobsters under the hot water.
The vegetarian Lentil stew that was in the fridge was far too healthy to eat as-is so I added large chunks of saucisson to the mix to add protein bulk before heading back to bed for my other 3 hours sleep. My brain really needs to be beautiful again for Monday morning.
In retrospect this really has been my wildest camp yet. I've had more desperate ones, nestled on the edge of feasibility on the edge of a mountain trail in the Alps or falling, exhausted into a bus stop at 3am. I've had colder bivis - on the BB Winter ride when we failed to make the bothy and instead headed for a cowshed that was ankle deep in shit so we pitched the 2-man tent under a nearby Oak instead. That was in the days when I used to carry a 5- season bag (trust me, I thought about it). There was last January in -5 degrees when I carried the tent and sought out the cosseting comfort of Paddy Gorge, still slept badly and later, simply rolled out my sleeping bag and mat on a wall next to the A57 and had another 30 minutes kip to get me home.
This time I survived -3 degrees and did so at 350m elevation in a sphagnum bog. Given the freedom we felt, I 100% would do it again. Grassy moorland, it seems, is my spiritual happy-place.
