Whoosh

Christmas Week.

Monday

Despite the heavy missle going on outside I was extremely motivated to get out for an overnighter. I ambitiously packed my bivi bag, plenty of dehydrated food and two coffees. I checked the weather. My phone was set to look at the weather in Dent as I had been cautiously pondering a YD 300 winter attempt. 

Despite me knowing I wasn't in Dent, I dressed for 3°C cycling and packed my new down klymit mattress.

After all the faffing loading my bike and making lunch it was 11:30 by the time I left the house and I was already a little hungry. At 11:45 I pulled up at my local duck pond, sat under the fir tree and ate all of the lunch that I'd just made, watching a female duck splodge about in the reeds.

Canopy

I spent a considerable time packing up to leave as the lovely mat of pine needles I'd sat on was held together by a glue-like mixture of duck and heron poo along with occasional chunks of (what looked like) small dog poo. Every leaf I picked up to wipe off the poo also had poo on it. I left my lunch spot still with poo on my gloves and rucsac, hoping the mizzle would wash it off.

At my regular faff spot I had to stop again to remove a wool layer. I cursed my weather check as my fleecy leggings started to get damper on the inside than the outside. My legs were getting tested. I've recently changed my bottom gear on my training wheel to make me try harder on the climbs and I forgot to switch it out before heading out on a loaded ride. I was pleasantly surprised that I still managed to ride most of the climb up to Bingley Lane. After a brief interlude with traffic I had the place to myself again. Sheep watched me pass their fields without lifting their heads from chomping the grass.

I cursed and slow-pedalled through the puddles as I realised I forgot the gaiters that stop the splash back heading down between my waterproof trousers and socks.

• • •

I pulled onto the Byway at Rod Side and a man walking a tiny terrier warned me about the "people in four-by-fours". Damn. Assuming he was the last person I'd see up here and I was going to stop for a wee.

Through the gate I could neither see lights nor hear engines. Warning: over-helpful men.

Previous 4x4s had, however, made a complete hash of the track. Not satisfied with the grooves in the landscape they've already crafted they have started to carve new lines, hit rocks, got stuck, made more mess and twated (and upended) my favourite gatepost. Poor farmer.

I considered continuing down the muddy descent beyond the farm as my primary goal of the day was fun and traffic avoidance. I didn't want to see what the idiot 4x4s had done to the descent though so followed my usual line past the lodge.

• • •

Given that both the farm and lodge were shrouded in mist I took the opportunity to dive in between two birch bushes for that wee and to put my wool layer back on for the descent. The over-gearing was already taking its toll and I struggled to stand up again.

At the road junction my big gloves went on for the descent. It was a day for changing layers: Conserving body heat and keeping things dry from sweat or rain.

My main aim was to get to Fairholmes asap but I didn't want to go straight there. In the end I decided to suck up the extra traffic and do Summer Pastures as I hadn't been in ages and it's always quiet. Today it would be especially quiet.

• • •

I had a record number of safe and respectful passes on my way there. The climb up was short-lived until all the excess layers had been removed again and the warm gloves packed away for later. 

These sheep were really used to having people around and sometimes I wondered if they were ever going to move as I slalomed my way slowly through the flock on the 1:6 climb.

The farm dogs did not notice me pass until I changed the gate in the murk... and don't 2 runners show up when you've gone to the effort of carefully closing the latch?

Up on the moors I was alone most of the time. I pondered going to check out the hills for lunch spots in future but the thought of navigating through the fog wasn't appealing and I might be up there for some time.  Reccying anything in fog didn't seem wise so I kept going.

Mentally I was congratulating myself on knowing this track by heart until I realised I was following former quad bike tracks and most of the mtb tracks had disappeared. A slight diversion got me the right side of the dry stone wall. I contemplated returning later for my sleeps as I'd often fancied staying up here and the cloud would be perfect cover.

There's a very attractive looking bomb hole-though it's right by the trail. This time it was occupied by a rotting sheep carcass - erm no thanks.

At the end of the crossing, audacity got the better of me. My body had clearly warmed up to the bike. My brain had come out of its shell and generally, wherever I pointed the bike and pedalled hard enough, I cleared stuff. I set about riding the descent with gusto - hoping for a PB with this new found form - but failed on the big slabs when my bottle went on a drop off and then I realised my downhill endurance is not there yet and I had to go slow so I could sit in the saddle and rest my calves from time to time. An excellent excuse for some more Northerly excursions before May.

• • •

At the bottom of the hill, back on the valley road, I was met by people, so many people. I threaded my way between walking poles, dogs and strollers and ended up taking to the muddy footpath and leaving the road to the people on feet. Finally the cloud turned into actual drops of water falling from the sky so I tucked into the shelter of the dam tower to cram myself into waterproof trousers before the cold, fast descent to the cafe. Still, I beat all the foot-people to the queue at fairholmes. Pie, peas, gravy and tea were demolished. Cake - both eaten and stashed. I was joined in the shelter by one too many people for covid comfort but managed it by shuffling around my rucsac for a little bit of social distance and stuck to watching the chaffinches and cheeky robbins stealing crumbs.

I had to pack up my bag extra slowly to avoid an interested hiker man loitering around my bike, brimming with questions: the answers to which he would inevitably not understand or, worse, would lead him to declare me "brave". Some people relish these conversations. I prefer to avoid them as I have become bored of other peoples opinions on the subject of "my idea of fun". 

As I delayed declaring possession of the object of his desires as long as possible, he could not bring himself to assume that the only cyclist and the only bicycle in the area were an item and once his companion had emerged from the toilets he had to leave but not before I had carefully walked to the bin with every morsel of litter from my lunch - instead of banging it in a pocket until later - like I'd normally do.

Soggy gloves back on, I set off to the other side of the valley. The dam was finally over-topping. At my last visit it had been kinda low. I felt the need to pop over and experience its enormity and of course test out the Panorama mode on the camera. 

The pause gave me time to realise I hadn't yet topped up my water. I had enough to brew up dinner and breakfast but only if I didn't drink anymore. I soft-pedalled back to the cafe's water tap.

One of the volunteers stuck his head out the door and said "looks like you'll be looking for a campsite".  

Good deal for a bath?

Knowing the company I was in and every chance there was a Park ranger in earshot, I stuck to the "just training" line and he seemed unimpressed yet sated that I was actually heading home for a hot bath and some BBC 1. 

I loaded 3 litres of water into my rucsac and wondered if he really believed me.

I rumbled off a second time but didn't get too far before bumping into John Brierley - a friend from triathlon days. Someone I don't mind talking to about bikes and I admitted my night out "under the stars" was looking less and less likely. 

I wasn't 100% sure what to do next. It was too early to camp. I decided to go as far as slippery stones and decide. 

There was Cut Gate or lapping back to Fairholmes and going on somewhere else from there.

Cut gate would, admittedly be in poor condition and I should not: but I'd like to see how last year work is holding up in the winter weather. Naturally my overnighter instincts, against all reasoning, dragged me further and further away from the people and up on onto the moors. The first hurdle being a stream crossing where my trace upstream to find a narrower spot brought me up on a very sweet, flat bivi spot I'd never previously noticed but it was only 5pm and I wasn't too sold on lying down for 12 hours.

The up-push was tough but not terrible. 

At the top I realised my problem: on the rough stuff I just couldn't see very far ahead to pick any kind of line so I pushed on until things improved under wheel.

Soon enough though, came the messy, boggy bit I'd forgotten about. Suddenly my distain for e-mountain bikes was refreshed as this stretch of moorland has been torn up by a hundred motor-propelled tyres that would not have otherwise been there. As I pushed my heavy loaded bike I recognised I was part of the problem - although a much lighter part.

I thought hard about retracing my steps. It was the environmentally conscious thing to do. Did I really want to battle through thickening cloud, side winds and night time temperatures? Was it safe to? I wasn't in a race, I didn't 'have' to do this. But still the "retreat is not an option" message spoke louder than the others. I trudged through the cross-winds on the lookout for a pee-spot where I had the nerve to actually undress. Just below the summit I decided I needed to take the opportunity and found the perfect sheep trod to get out of the wind and away from the main track. It was a pleasant spot but not quite flat enough and still not late enough. 

A few hundred grams lighter, I felt much happier although I still couldn't pick out a line longer than 5ft through the boulders so I carried on hiking for what seemed like an eternity. I imagined my husband looking at the tracker at home and trying to decipher what kind of madness and difficulties had me progressing at only 3 mph.

I contemplated backtracking but that would leave me on the wrong side of the hill I had already climbed 2/3 of the way over. I kept pushing.

At some point a decision was made to go home for the night. Only the apparition of a new and very attractive dry shelter could have swayed me to overnight and I knew there weren't any. I'd risked bringing the bivi without a tarp & it did not pay off. I'd have nowhere to leave my wet kit without it getting much wetter over night.

• • •

The decision gave me a new lease of life. Wet feet were no longer off the cards and I could take the most attractive route home and be back at a reasonable hour for dinner.

Gradually boulders turned into a fast running stream and I took occasional opportunities to ride a few metres at a time. The summit lumps and bumps alternated between firm-and-rideable, loose stones and bog but finally the rideable paving appeared. An occasional drain was overwhelmed by water volumes. I flitted between risking puddles and pushing from one dry tussock to the next to avoid the deepest flow. Where the trail was rideable I rode every available inch. 

As technical problems appeared from the mist faster than I could anticipate them, I committed to them with gusto and, as frequently happens with the Cotic, I came out the other side upright, incredulous and giggling.

Up turned to down. I rumbled past the resurfacing works and cleared more rock drop-off than I care to mention until I finally remembered the abyss that was no longer visible off the edge of the trail.

For a short while I mused over the bridleway to Midhope Stones and a road ride home but the hills were more terrifying than the easy but muddy TPT.

• • •

I dropped down to Langsett. The climb up to the woods was not clearable on these gears and I had a quick chat with a couple disappearing into the darkness with 2 spaniels as I pushed up the slope.

It was a soggy Trep who crossed the Woodhead Road and span quietly past the cottages. I pondered changing my gloves but the next section could be strenuous - even if it is a flat ride through a field. 

I was right not to bother. About half a mile of battling a squirrelling bike to keep the tyres on a 4inch narrow mud slip between the clumps of reeds. One false slide can deposit the rider sideways into a 2ft deep icy drainage ditch. It took me all my effort and concent­ration to stay upright.

I breathed a sigh of relief through the gate at the bottom, styled out the "slip road" on to the TPT and only then, under the cover of the railway bridge, did I dare dig my phone out from the depths of my rucsac to message home that I'd be back for dinner before putting my thick gloves back on to get nice and toasty. I do love having that one pair of gloves that makes your whole body feel like you've just stepped into a warm room.

I really appreciated it because the TPT is not a strenuous ride until the last bit through Wharncliffe. First I had a good 40 minutes of pedalling downhill at 3% gradient.. There was some uncharacteristically vigorous pedalling going on and finally I started to really appreciate the fleece leggings I had sweltered in this morning.  I felt the slightest wetting out on my coat sleeves and my goretex trousers started to fall down, meaning I had to stop a few times to hitch them up and prevent a little rain patch forming on my back.  I'm hoping this will ease off once I've lost weight again.

Just as I thought all the excitement was over, spinning through the junction outside Penistone I caught an edge to the tarmac submerged in mud and tatted my right calf muscle fully square on with my pedal whilst travelling sideways. Four letter words were said.

That left me soft pedalling for a bit until I decided it was safe to shift again.

I'd forgotten how long it takes to get home from the TPT. The Climb from the stables was dreaded but still, I managed to ride it tired and over-geared. I think my legs are actually stronger than I give them credit for.

I missed the junctions in Wharncliffe woods twice!! as I didn't see them coming in the glow of my light rebounding off the fog.

Finally after more than an hour I dropped into Oughtibridge, fought my rear light on (then wiped it so it was actually visible) then wriggled my way through the smudged Christmas lights of Hillsborough to the Rivelin Valley. After fighting my way up so many hills I resigned myself to pushing up the short, sharp slope to home.

I was so tired I wasn't even embarrassed to be caught pushing my bike by Rick who was just moderately impressed or horrified by the state of me - I'm not sure which. 

Given the time it took me to get home, the remainder of the evening was consumed by, bike washing, Kit and boot rinsing  pouring myself into the bath, consuming copious quantities of couscous and falling asleep in front of the TV. I've been somewhat berating myself for starting my training journey "behind" this year, on the wrong foot, late. Investigations show I am 1 month ahead on longest rides and this time last year the next Sunday session I posted was, "Gym before it shuts for lockdown" and a whole 3/4 of my training tools disappeared from my schedule.

I've spent this week watching Emily's return to progress on the festive 500 and yesterday enjoyed this comment,

" ... but in 6 months time it will be warm and dry and the sun will still be high in the sky. The roses will be blooming... and I will be riding uphill... watching the sweat beading on my forearms and feeling the strength blossoming in my legs. It sounds like another universe at the moment but it will be reality soon enough."

12 months ago on my similarly aborted 60km ride into the Peak fully loaded last year, I said

"I still look at the HT as a potentially impossible feat at this time of the year, when 65km knocks everything I have out of me. When the sun has been gone since 3:40pm it's really difficult to contemplate going out again after dinner - especially during these Covid times when that dinner has been carried on your back for 40km and eaten under a hedge in the darkness.

The extra knowledge I have though is that it will come... like, so long as I start now. 

Note to self: stop fucking slacking off!" 

I love that I'm culturing some of that mindset - even if Emily is substantially more positive in outlook.

I guess it's interesting how knowledge of what can happen changes from year to year. Now I know that the HT is possible, that legs will turn and everything will live happily ever after. I just need to foster the positivity for Scottish weather. 

Felicitations. A ride of Peaks and Troughs

Most years I try to take a break for my Birthday or at least a day off. When its just before Christmas its nice to mark the day for yourself and not spend it shopping for other peoples' Christmas presents. 

Usually I fail to have the day off either work or Christmas shopping. 

This year, with my birthday on a Friday, Landslide and R I P decided (inadvertently) to throw me a Christmas ride. We did lateral flow tests and planned to meet at Grindleford at 1:30.

I planned to ride out but mostly got distracted by birthday stuff and packing. Of course I rolled out the door with 2 hours to get me there and decided to mostly take the roads except for crossing the moor. It was my fastest riding of the weekend.

I know I was rushing but it was reasonably warm leaving the city. I was down to wearing 2 baselayers and thin gloves and carrying a bag full of coats.

In a fit of last-minute decision making I routed via Houndkirk then instead of descending to Grindleford direct, I headed towards Longshaw to blag some lunch on the way. The timing was so tight I got sick of fumbling the lock on their crap bike stand and raced off in a huff.

Reality sunk in. There was a wistful temperature inversion with the bottom of the valley filled with fog and our meeting place was in the cold, cold valley below.

I put on my coat and big gloves and took a deep breath and set off down the wrong descent.

• • •

I got half way down before realising my error leaving me to huff across the valley between Froggatt & back up the hill, through Grindleford village then up the other hill to the station.

I was 15 minutes early so locked up, ordered myself a burger and settled down to wait. 10 minutes into their ride I persuaded the boys to take a sit down and a hot drink with me. Reg had driven over & Landslide discovered his train didn't exist and had an equally harrowing sprint over the hill.

We followed various tracks, trails and lanes over to Eyam where Reg was ticking off historic water troughs and stopping intermittently at the tea rooms. He was disappointed to return at 3:45 to find them closed for his third visit that day.

Along the way we picked up misty scenes.

 I rode a combination of new and familiar trails, though honestly it was hard to tell as the fog got thicker and I was perfectly happy just following wheels.

At 4pm Landslide called pub and we locked up our bikes to the petunias at the Barrell inn for 3 well earned pints (well, one each).  We restricted ourselves to one because it was time for this:

Where Reg and I had a middle-aged moment with technology leaving Landslide to get to the end of the trail, get bored and come back looking for us.

We shunned another loop before dinner, riding up to the pub where we'd (other people, not me) booked ourselves a table to make sure we weren't disappointed.  TSK met us there on his road bike as he had stuff to attend to on Saturday and was heading home after dinner.

Two courses, more beer and banter ensued.  A chat with the landlady and more beer.  Yes, delaying tactics were at work.  TSK headed home and it was 10 when we left the pub for our designated sleep spot - brought on by the arrival of the brass band who elected to close the sliding door on the bar to keep the heat in (and out of the stinky bikepackers snug on the other side of the otherwise draughty corridor).  We considered closing our own curtain, dragging the bikes in and setting up camp under the tables.

Our actual camp site was cosy and convivial.  We found shelter from the thick fog that was condensing so heavily, all trees were raining.  The much joked-about full moon made an appearance in the middle of the night, brightening up the scene outside our shelter so going for a pee was easy with nature's sink providing a grassy handwashing facility.

For once I slept reasonably soundly except for about midnight when a gentle sneeze came from outside our camp as both my fellows slept soundly around me.  Deer or ghost? We will never know.

With a low chance of being disturbed, we had a luxury lie in till 7am, brewed up from our beds and sneaked away without detection.  

Time to connect with the Monsal trail which we did using something marked on my map as a "traffic free cycle route" but on the ground as a footpath.  Never mind, no-one was out - or out of bed, for that matter.

There was one squeaky moment crossing a narrow bridge over the flowing river and scrambling up the other side but thankfully we're all sufficiently hardy to make it and I'm now strong enough to actually pick this bike up loaded.

It was so pleasant for me to finally be on the Monsal trail in daylight after a short winter season of getting there after sunset.

More lanes took us down, eventually to Calver past a group of highland cows enjoying their breakfast sleepily.  I relate.

not actually eating, just resting her head.

Reg sneaked off through Calver past the cafe leaving me and Landslide wondering where the hell he was going.  I was overjoyed to find he wasn't taking us to the rubbish coffee shop but the much better one I didn't know existed because it's on a  main road.

Two course breakfast and a bottomless coffee WIN.

Around the corner we dropped Reg off at the road back to his car and Landslide and I set off up the bloodybighill to Calver Gap where we managed to avoid more coffee and ride back along the foggy crag which was all relatively quiet and serene and only gained in gravitas and solitude what it lost in scenery.

 

The walkers were jolly and appeared suddenly from the fog. In Longshaw we reverted for lunch but realised we'd already over-eaten and instead took the opportunity to wash hands, drink tea, warm toes and snooze on the table for a bit longer before braving the ride home.  We were tired out.

Landslide went the quick way home - as did I - but we live in different places so we went different ways.

Of course, as soon as I reached the top of Houndkirk my body announced it was hungry and couldn't go further without a snack but that was OK because I'd been carrying a bag of crisps and cake since Friday lunchtime so I ate my limited lunch and pointed my way home again through the crystals.

After Wyming Brook my interest was momentarily peaked by a bit more offroad riding but not enough to hike up Fox Hagg so I freewheeled down the A57 to Rails Road then rode up the nice easy Byway to drop into the allotments.

The pigs were up for some scritching so I shared my sharon fruit leftovers from last night's picnic and we were all happy.

At home I fell into the bath, made a large puddle on the bathroom floor which I mopped up with towels left heaped in the laundry basket on the toilet then fell into bed and went to sleep until TSK came home from town and I apologised like a snivelling drunk who'd been out all night on their birthday and made a mess. Oh.

Le Plan

Every year that I commit to racing I like to have a training plan. In my triathlon days I subscribed to Joe Friel's notion that there's only one thing worse than a bad plan and that's no plan at all.

With long distance racing its often been more of a flexible list of good intentions - I've treated it as an indicator of where I should be each week rather than a definitive set of must-do sessions. I still don't have a perfect plan but this year I seem to have improved my ability to make it into something relevant most days of the week.

I try not to get too worked up about missed sessions because the important part is being happy riding my bike - or whatever else I've chosen to do. This doesn't always work out. For instance, I've had a particularly productive turbo session today and it has been like a gateway into the future.

I improved my fitness. I got the fast twitch muscles moving. I spun my legs around in circles. I got the Waltbike app working on my phone. I got my music playing on a new phone. I got the measurements sorted on the Watt bike so next time I can just walk up to it and get going faster.

I learned I increased my mobility afterwards (which I wasn't expecting). 

I learned I need to remember a sweat towel and a dry bra for the walk home.

It was about a quarter of what I had planned for the day but nevertheless it felt great and I will still feel great tomorrow instead of feeling smashed.

• • •

Still my brain will punish me against the plan but without the plan I am nothing.

Then I remember next week is a rest week or as I call it - an opportunity to catch up on all the hours I've missed this week.

You see, I'm tricking myself because by planning nothing in my rest week I can have four more sessions just like todays, still be ready for next week and the mathematician in my brain can be silent and consider itself well and truly caught up.

• • •

I learned that at this point there everything to be gained from a quick spin at intensity or just turning the legs. No harm in getting out just for a couple of hours and I learned that there 25 weeks to go which means the next 4 weeks are baseload.  It feels less important.  Before this kind of racing my longest plans were 20 weeks long.  HT is 6 months away and I don't even know if I'm in yet but I start here, I try not to flogg myself too much and we start chipping away.

What's important is to ride and love riding, run and run freely. Breathe.

Adventures in Pemberley. Of sunsets, beasts and failed bonfires.

 “Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds 

 My adventures in bike packing for the 2021-2022 season were finally ready to begin.  On Saturday I set myself the task of sorting out all my electronics for the weekend and it took me all day to find elements of my set up that had long since fallen into disarray.  

On Sunday the struggle continued and I finally left the house at 1pm.  A bit earlier than last week... baby steps and all.  

By the time I realised I'd left my camp pillow at home I was at the woods already and didn't intend to retrace my steps.  I'd just have to hope it was going to be warm enough tonight to not need my insulated coat as well as my sleeping bag.

The weather gave me no excuses this week.  After messing about in my own valley on the rough-stuff (I was only imagining a short ride), I was pleasantly surprised to find myself at Redmires reservoir in time for the sun starting to dip and the water beautifully still.

People stagger towards the reservoir with cameras and binoculars. Even motorists are polite and calm.  I swing up to the Causeway. I haven't been here for so long.  The final approach to Stanage pole silhouettes a small family group enjoying the sunset but I think they're worth a snap.  I'm just disappointed I didn't catch the outline of his flat cap.  Too Yorkshire?

 Mist floated in the valley and a grouse croaked in the tussocks.  I looked on over my future home (which obviously I will turn into a massive refuge for everyone to use).

I whooshed down Stanage as the sky turned ochre and bounced off the crags and the bracken.  An army of photographers in camo gear were stalking something in the woods but it didn't sound like they'd had much success.  I was finding gold by the trailside.

My bladder was doing it's usual response to the coffee I'd drunk 3 hours ago so I decided to ride up the hill towards the public loo instead of carrying on down to my first stop at the reservoirs (completely forgetting about the toilets at Heatherdene).  Still, the mistake was disguised as achievement as I cycled past this gorgeous holly-bush flushing in the setting sun.

 

Since I was halfway to Burbage edge, I thought I'd give that a go in the sunset too.  Halfway along I pulled up a boulder and positioned myself to consume biscuits and chocolate with the last of the sun's effort whilst boulderers and runners headed back to their vehicles.  I felt smug knowing my day was not over.

Some boulderers stayed around for the moon-rise, hot on the heels of the receding sunshine.

I realised the need to get moving so continued to Longshaw past the closing cafe and onto the estate grounds where it would have be rude to neglect the final blush over Shatton moor with the reflection in the lake before tackling Frogatt and Curbar in the dark.

 I managed not to fall off in front of giggling teenagers on Curbar - which is an achievement only guaranteed by the lack of giggling teenagers on a chilly November evening.  I enjoyed the sparkling lights spattered below.  The luring sight of fairy lights in a gigantic world.

I marvelled what the hell the light pollution was coming out of Calver village then realised it was the beastly Chatsworth estate and was suitably incensed.  I'm sure Mr Darcy would have agreed.

There was nothing left to do but descend to Chatsworth to take a closer look.  I think the lazer light beam might have been turned off by the time I got there.  I certainly didn't notice it.  You can pay £14 to go and look at it if you like but I took it in from the other side of the hill, after slogging my way across the grounds on the sketchy bridlepath.  The fog on my light caused a light display similar to that of travelling at warp speed through the milky way in the Starship Enterprise.  Apologies for the blur - the erm... stone wall kept wobbling. Still, the pic is kind of worth it. No soft focus, that's the fog.

Through the wood then... what to do next?

I made a few navigational errors trying to recall the Peak 200 route - one of which ended in me fully going through a gate - bike and all - before realising there really was no path and re-tracing.  Still, now I found that bit of the route I had misplaced previously under a fug of fatigue.

I didn't want to end up in the Haddon estate at this time of night as I wasn't sure if I could get through and also was going to get me out of the way of where I wanted to be (which was able-to-get-home-in the-morning).  So I intruded upon Mr Darcy a little more and headed for the start of the Monsal trail.  That end of Chatsworth is very much about dodging the cow poo, then avoiding the "private" signs until finally there's a big push up a steep hill to the Monsal trail.  Just as I reached the top, a deep guttural growl emitted from the treeline next to me. 

It was the worst moment, topping out on the push, out of breath, not yet on my bike and ready to sprint.  I'm not nearly flexible enough yet to jump on over my saddle bag and survive without ending up a quivering wreck on the ground so I took to shouting "woah there", making my voice sound as big and scary (whilst quite terrified and incomprehensible) as possible.  I didn't hang around to find out if it was fox or dog but it did not pursue so things seemed safe.  I was also hungry so after finding a cutting which had trapped warm air and kept the fog out so I decided to stop and brew up and hope that the beast of Pemberley did not smell my dinner and come to investigate.

The fuel was to be another experiment.  I bought wood pellets like those which go in this little gadget and make stove along the lines of a nice safe camp fire.  I thought they'd be a cool toy for enjoying on one of my luxury bike rides.

Of course I didn't bother with the gadget and instead tried burning the fuel in my little Ti Stove - firestarter and all. Long story short, having burned 4 of my storm-proof matches and half my lighter fuel, I gave up, put the fuel back in its box and dug out the liquid stuff.  Of course at 8pm in the bottom of a railway cutting I didn't notice that everything was sooted up good and proper.

My other experiment was the 1000 calorie food sachets from Expedition foods.  After last week's lacking experiences of the 450 cal version. The water quantity stated seemed a little low so I used the last of the fuel burn to brew up a little more water to supplement the original dose - figuring there would be nothing bad about chicken rice stew. Unfortunately I also squished about 100ml of the extra water up inside my coat, fidgeting whilst waiting for it to brew.

The last bit of brewing was accompanied by me wiping the soggy mess out of my coat.  Fortunately the instructions were accurate and I'd brewed enough water and I wasn't disappointed with the quantity of food.  The quality of the food was that of a dessicated food sachet approximately as described on the contents.  It didn't taste of potatoes so it was an energy success that's useful to file for future reference.  I got another 3hours riding out of the night and didn't snack too much in bed.

Only when I came to packing up did I realise I'd not put the lid back on my camelbak and my remaining water stash had gradually been seeping out into the leaves.  I did the best thing I could come up with which was riding to Millers dale where the toilets are always open.  I drank the last of my water on the way which was essential having just downed 800g of almost re-hydrated food.  It's quite a long way to Millers dale when you realise your tyres have got a bit flat and your saddle keeps dropping down a bit.

Still, I made it, took a few minutes to enjoy the facilities and plan my route home.

I'll admit I was a bit spent and I couldn't afford to stop nearby because I had to be in work by 11am on Monday - preferably much earlier - so I had to get most of the way home before camping up.  I opted for the road interspersed with some good bridleways.  Then I made some foolish decisions to check out a route I'd done only once before, bailed and ended up in the bottom of Deep Dale.  An exercise not to be repeated... except for the horrible bridleway in and the equally horrible bridleway out through a hoof-trodden field filled with bombhole cow foot prints and a steep slope.  I have no idea how I didn't topple over the bars - even with the dropper down.  I had to hunt for the exit gate in the fog and turning my Exposure light on didn't help because that just illuminated the water particles in the air.  Once I found the 6 inch wide exit gate, I also found the tumbled down wall where other bikers (and presumably the majority of normal-to-only-slightly-obese people) had also entered the bridlepath.

Through a combo of lanes, the Pennine Bridleway and Limestone way and assorted other PROWs I arrived back at Peak forest then whooshed down to Bradfield and tanked back along the Hope valley bottom to a reliable spot I've used before.  A bit of a cheeky one by the trailside but it was 1am and no bugger was likely to discover me.

No photo this year and last time I used it I clearly took a last-minute shot before clearing up.  It is an emergency spot after all! Full disclaimer for my dysfunctional brain.

The bivi went up in record time and I set up everything for the night.  Then I got in and found the large tree branch I'd camped on top of.  I wrapped myself around it and moved my helmet to the other side so I could avoid the conflict.  

Despite my clothes and body being warm to the touch I shivered for (what felt like) about 2 hours, annoyed because I didn't want to wear my coat because my head was on it.  Eventually, whilst fidgeting about trying to spread out my spare fleece and windproof top over my legs, I found my spare wool top which I'd carefully tossed into my sleeping bag earlier.  I put that on then promptly passed out like a light.  The next thing I knew, it was 4:45am and someone was making their way through the gate next to my spot.  They said nor did anything and I fell asleep again.  I was tempted by a lie in but the second alarm at 6 had me awake and hungry for more food - it was 10 hours since my last meal after all.  

I packed up and rode over to the Ladybower Inn to push up the bridlepath that avoids the A57, all the while enjoying the scenery, the misted trees and trying to ignore the sound of rush hour traffic.  Eventually I stopped at the stream where the remoteness from the road and the noise of a small waterfall serve to drown out traffic noise and allow for a peaceful place to brew up.  

I prepared carefully and thankfully, what didn't seem to be enough fuel, was successfully eked out to produce enough boiling water first for porridge (that's serious dedication to prioritisation) and secondly coffee.   I was close to a breakfast of coffee and sweets but held out for the porridge.  I wonder if this is what Stu meant by growing up?

At the top of the trail there was another pleasant surprise.  A fellow overnight camper - on foot this guy - to pass the time of day with as he was heading out and I was reluctantly heading home.

On the final climb I nearly went out of my way to avoid those few extra cars but the drain on my time resource had me stick to the road as far as Moscar Lodge.  Close passes were few and far between for once and I even had a white range rover wait until it was safe to pass at a distance.  I must have been looking fat and wobbly.

The ride in across the moor tracks and Rodside politely delivered the final parting shot with a view through the unfolding fog bank over the shroud that covered the city in a blanket of grey.  Just a few peaks waved up around major heat sources in the city.  It was a freakish display which the camera only partially captured.

I dropped through the fairy glen, unable to commit myself to the road - or the steep road up to the house - I instead diverted through the woods on an easier climb - but reverted to walking anyway.  This was as much about being tired as it was dragging out the last of the weekend.

I got more out of myself by walking in on Monday morning, crusty, coated in soot and sweat and exhausted from 3hours 50minutes sleep than I would have had I spent Saturday night out.  I had my computer on and straight into work and meetings, paused at 11:30 for a shower and second lunch then departed for a micro-kip at 3:30 before working a bit late to catch up the day again for a Tuesday meeting task.  All in all it was one of the best cover-ups for an epic weekend I have ever masterminded.

Pleased with my comeback weekend at 70km in 12 hours with all the faffing that went on. Another 18 on Monday was icing on a very filthy cake.

Next time I'll not forget the pillow - probably just something else.

I rode out, poked about, ate dinner, ran away again

I've been training for 2 weeks now. The first 2 weeks I stuck to the plan until this weekend. On Friday my head fell apart at work and I did little work. The headspace fug continued into Saturday. I think it's alcohol induced having cooked with wine and drunk the rest between us. The weekend was spent planning motivations for adventures instead of having adventures; working on my bike, not sitting on it.

I took the important decision to ride the Cotic to race this year and spent Saturday transplanting parts so I could ride it and enjoy it and Sunday finding all my stuff and loading it up. The enthusiasm to go out camping outweighed the weather hesitancy and so I loaded up and rolled out at 4. I quickly realised I had neither the lights nor the plan to cope with a 4pm start. However the ride through the woods in the sunset was apleasure and I surprised myself by riding a short ramp I've not completed before. I've still not completed it but I got further up it than I ever have before.

With a bit of saddle position faffing I hit my road climb in time to put the lights on. I also took the opportunity to inadvertently figure out which of my Spot batteries were dead.

I hit the boulders descents cursed myself for tumbling down it Why? Why? Why? Then remembered it was dark and the bike was loaded.

I was tempted to just camp in the woods but instead headed towards Stanage then diverted to a disused building for a spot of dinner. I had new fuel to test so decided a concrete floor would be safest and most reliable. I didn't fancy getting buffeted about on Stanage or committing to the Derwent valley as I started to feel a bit rubbish and washed out.

Up on the open moor with the sun gone, the wind whipped through me so I stopped in the lee of a stone wall bridge to add layers. Huddled down there was the happiest I'd been in ages. Chilled out and a bit elemental and ferral but I wasn't going to camp right on the access track.  The wind also occasionally sneaked around the edge with a chill and threatened to blow everything away. I packed up and ventured back into the cold,  relieved by a sit in the grass and wriggling into new layers. Several hares watched me with hollow eyes as I approached and then disappeared into the darkness when I got just out of reach.

• • •

I made it up to the building and kept the lights on low so as not to bring attention to myself. There's only a couple of sight holes in the clouded-over glass that point towards the Stanedge Lodge but I was moderately nervous that the blazing roaring flame from my stove was genuinely too visible.

I burned a hole in my gloves and was genuinely relieved I wasn't under canvas or in a confined space. I'll give that fuel a miss in future! Despite the shelter from the wind the place was still cold and unnerving. Wind whipped through the eaves accompanied by eerie booms from fireworks in Sheffield. Critters from another world would not have been out of place scurrying through the long grass and tumbling down the chimney. I put on all my layers: waterproof trousers over my windproof shorts and thermal coat over my waterproof coat and tried not to set anything else on fire. I ate my dinner in the red glow of my head torch, concluded the meal was insufficient and resumed my plan of not bothering with a bivi this time around. I wasn't nearly knackered enough to sleep through the noises, graffiti and sense of confinement and not nearly driven enough to find somewhere suitable outdoors.

I loaded up all my cooking gear, risked removing my thermal layer and continued along the trail to its end. It was soggy in places requiring a push where I didn't have the grip on my tyres. The descent to the road was shortlived though. I tossed my bike over a fence without my lights on to avoid drawing attention to myself and cursed through impaling myself on barbed wire. It was a relief to be on friendlier territory & I was pleased to find one of my more regular farmers has finally given up on his nearly impossible gate latch and replaced it with a loop of twine. It was certainly enjoyable to be shoved all the way back to Sheffield by the howling wind while I relaxed and watched the last of the fireworks exploding green and gold above Stannington.

At least back on home turf I felt warmer again in the valley and had the energy left to tow my lungs and legs kicking and screaming up the offroad climb instead of subjecting my ego to the road pavement climb hike known as "my road direct".

I walked through the door at 9:30pm, chilled out and just a bit hungry but mainly content, that I made it out for my first (if what, somewhat abortive) loaded ride.

I AM NOW BETTER EQUIPPED FOR SHITTING

6th November. I'm just going to come out and say it. I'm entering the HT again. I hope lots of other women will enter but also, I don't because I want to get in. I know I'm not the fastest but I do keep going so I will try not to let imposter system creep in and be confident about my plans and, now I know that I can complete it I will work at getting faster at it with a little more confidence.

If you're reading this, sorry, it's not written for you, it's therapy for me.

I can't stop thinking on it so what I do at this point is write it down so my brain can move on, get on with my life & get on with training.  Yesterday I wrote a long list of reasons for spending money on my race and my bicycles, one of which came down to "I am now better equipped for shitting" as I replaced my unreliable and slightly weighty cat hole digger with a sturdier yet lighter version.

Anyway, as if I need a reason to do the HT again, I will give 4.

• • •

1. Because I want to. I want to experience the push of competition (even if it is just against the clock) and the draw of the mountains -at all times of day.
2. I want to race it with people - and different people because every year I've met someone new in those dark places at the bottom of Glens. Let's face it I've done enough solo riding to last a lifetime.
3. I want to meet my other selves again. Right now I'm getting on great with the person who actually springs out of bed at 6am every day to go training (no really, I am).
4. 4. I like riding my bike all day. To celebrate my decision and possibly remind my future self just what a good idea this is, I'm dedicating a Saturday morning to a short compilation of honest ways I will improve on last year (after the training is done). Yes it is a list of excuses... but excuses I have learned from.

General

1. My startling routine was nailed. Well done me. Same prep next year

Day 1 - Tyndrum to nearly Fort Augustus

2.    I didn't keep going long enough. I might have avoided the heavy frost but I was still very cold. In finer conditions dropping right down would also bring me further along on day 1 - easily. The weather predictions were accurate - those that were further North would have been better off.

Day2 - Fort Augustus to Contin 

The climb over from Invermorriston was much more fun in the daylight.  It was the first time my feet hurt like hell in the wrong shoe choice I need to learn to love that place just a little bit more to make any progress there. This time I said I'd never do it again (Ha!)

The new bit was really enjoyable. 

3. Bring better shoes

4. Less languishing

Languishing over coffee in Cannich was great but it would have been best to go straight to the stores & get resup done earlier/arrived in Contin earlier. In Covid times it would have made no difference because the shop shut at 2pm - long ago. I hope they'll be open next year but one thing is certain, I'll not overlook my "emergency rations" in future & will scoff them in place of stopping early. I had more than enough food to see me to the hotel.

5. Dont buy 20 minute pasta, stick to cold food /pot noodles. 

I carried that shitty pasta a long way with other food onboard! Getting resup in Contin seemed like such a milestone, I didn't know what to do with myself when it didn't happen so I just stopped. Stopping became the early decision, therefore my only plan. Another 4 hrs would have easily got me to a stop before loch Veitch or a dry crossing before the worst weather hit. Gain - 4 hours. 

Gosh a lot happened on day 2

Day 3 to Contin to OBH

6. Have some faith now in Inchbae
7. Carry the hotels phone numbers in your bag/phone. I can not love the ride over to Croic more. Some speed! The Glens! The rivers!
8. Not getting stuck at the hotel is a skill.
9. Use cat holes more - enough said

I stopped around 7:30 pm. Would have been 5:30pm had I not arsed about up & down the valley with stomach troubles. So only a 10-11 hr day with 8 hrs riding. 4 hrs gain to be made.

Day 4 - O B H to Drumbeg. 

This was a full day but there's a few things for me to remember.

10. Be brave on the N loop. It is an enigma but one that you love. Also it was nice to do it all in daylight

Hotel to resup was 16 hrs for me.

11. Having company is a great motivator even if you don't always believe it at the time. 

I liked my companion but for a while I found myself wondering if we were missing out by chattering noisily through this great wild space. I had been there on my own before though. This was something new and different and we whooped down the descents together, happy-excitable for dinner. For the first time in days I pushed on into the night, passing my companions and happy to not be last for once.  It was the first day I believed I'd have company for a while.

Day 5- Drumbeg To nearly Ullapool.

This is a weird one. All the hours are there in my day. I was up early, got brunch at Ullapool with Javi and then turned my back on the lunch crew who then cruised past me not much later as my wheels (or rather feet) fell off. It was another case of "the wrong shoes Grommit". So 1 applies:

1. Wear the right shoes. 

I recon I'd have saved 3 hours of the 8 it took me to move over Ledmore had I been comfortable on my feet and also riding the cotic. There was a lot of lying/sitting around and walking.  During my recce on the Cotic I rode a lot more along the side of the Loch.

In 2020 I'd have physically done much better at the HT but then I'd still have been on the wrong bike so lesson learned. Eventually I might perfect it. (I won't perfect it). With reference to not languishing, I don't for one minute regret the full meal eaten in the OBH On the Crossing to Ullapool I was driven by the promise of warmer weather and it did not fail to disappoint. I enjoyed my night ride and again, experienced satisfaction in leap­frogging someone else in the night

Day 6.-Ullapool To Fisher field.

I faffed in Ullapool, deliberated at the outdoor shop and ate Icecream & had to kill time before eateries opened. It will happen somewhere on every ride so I'll not claim that one. 

I left about 10am. If I write about the new route into Fisherfield it will be rude. I will claim 1-2 hrs of boggling my brain over the new route and sitting about because my feet hurt. Those hours will also include stomping about in the heather trying to decide whether to stop or carry on. Generally though, I was happy with my day. 

Day 7- Fisherfield to Kinlochleven (+ Torridon)

I left Fisherfield late. There was a lot of sitting around. I was slow getting out. Left at 10, got to Poolewe at 4pm. I was tired but also didn't want to leave. I'll take a 3hr bonus for an early morning & some more gusto on my feet.

The Tollie Path - I knew would not be easy (even if it is easier than Postie). With the fast roadie bits to Kinlochewe to keep my inner timekeeper motivated, I pushed on with only a minor stomach complaint and achieved Kinlochewe in the same timeframe as the Postie two years earlier when I was just a baby trail rider and had packed too much shit on a heavy bike.  

My brain thought I could poke on to do Torridon, and fly home in 2 days so I all-nighter-ed over Torridon. I can't necessarily say that gained me any time at this point. Losing a sleep here, slowed down the rest of the ride.  A bit of false economy although it did keep me in closer not-the-lantern-rouge contention.

Day 8- Torridon to Glen Afric 

I'm going to put my punctures here because they officially started on 29th at 1am. That's how I also spent far too much time in Dornie recovering from my all-nighter then proceeded to stop far too frequently in order to nurse my feet during the climbs... and the flats and it's about this point I noticed my BB was on its last legs. Eventually I lay down on the other side of GA and slept for 90' before stopping properly at 8pm. I am taking 4 hours for this day, though I probably squandered 5 hours. 

Day 9-Glen Affric to Devil's Staircase 

I left in good time and resisted cafes until FA. From 8am to 3pm, there was some resting but nothing extraordinary. It was 5pm when I switched Garmin at FW. I sat on a rock or chatted to a runner for a while + I brewed food (or coffee?) leaving KLL. The body was willing to carry on but the brain said no so I pitched in the darkness. However, I wish I'd descended Devils Staircase in the dark because I walked it in daylight anyway. Whether I claim the 7 hours rest here as a saving is debatable. I doubt I'd pull 2 all-nighters but I have now saved 23 hours so the question of an extra 5 hours sleep is moot. I'm having it.

Day 10-Devils staircase to Tyndrum

I can't claim I might've done this any faster short of avoiding standing around waiting for a bull to do it's thing, not bothering to change my damp bib shorts 4 hours from the finish line, not riding with a fucked up BB. Sod it, I'm having an hour.

Total savings - 24-29 hours.