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.
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| 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".
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| 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.
