Eureka! 200k

(c) all pics by Ella Wredenfors

It was two nights before the Eureka ride that I remembered I had a twitter friend in the event.  I was briefly excited and then forgot all about it in quick succession, in a mixture of work life and late night work life.

Still, I tried to look after myself the week leading up to the event, getting more and more early nights and working a little less and then going in late if I'd been up all the night thinking about work.

I finally called a stop to it, said something had to be done then gleefully set out for my parents house on Saturday afternoon, having done little prep my bike, for ride 12 of (more than) 12.

I had dinner with the parents - not the best pre-race prep of pizza and potato cakes but it seemed to do the job.  In the evening I sat in bed to try and keep warm in the draughty old farmhouse that is my family's ancestral home.  My dad stuck his head around the door to say good night and that mum would be up to let me out at 7am.  They were heading out to the pub, just as I was getting near the end of a rather depressing book that I'd been reading.  They were going out to the pub and there was me, exhausted, alone and reading a depressing book.  They left and I started to cry.  I went downstairs to be with the dog and lay on the dog-scented floor and cried and cried.  I bawled hard and the dog, despite being stroked, just stared at me like a tiny man faced with a crying woman.

Eventually I collected my thoughts, went back to bed and slept.

I was awake at 3am but went downstairs, got a glass for water and went back to bed with biscuits.  I'd put on several layers, added a blanket and turned on an electric radiator (my parents would have been horrified if they'd realised I was sleeping with the radiator on).  I'd got quite warm and sweaty and I'd actually gotten quite dehydrated, what with the crying and all.

6am came too soon of course but it was OK cos I was going out riding and I'd probably not got that far back into sleep anyway.  I realised I'd left my porridge in the car then had a momentary panic as I thought I was locked into the house.  As well as being as cold as a prison, the Farmhouse is locked up like one at night.  There was no mother to release me.  Thankfully, they had seen fit to leave the door accessible and I was able to get my porridge and nutella to see me through the morning.  Sadly I'd forgotten my coffee and had to cope with instant.

Just as I was finishing up, dad came to wish me a good ride in his PJs... awakened by the call.  It's rare I see him so early.

I was careful to make sure I had everything with me in case they weren't in when I returned home and so I didn't have to wake anyone to fetch any stuff from inside.  I tossed my keys in the back of the car and started to lift my bike up.  Toss, it was locked and my keys were in the house.  Panic set in as I realised I'd have to wake the parents up.  WHATEVER YOU DO DON'T WAKE THE PARENTS UP!!!

Memories of stealing home from night clubs at 3am came flooding back.

It didn't take me long to realise the keys were in the car but my heart was already racing.

I took my time over getting everything else ready to go, carefully removing tracky bottoms to put on cycling shoes, jersey on before helmet.  Finally I was ready to go.  Quick squirt of oil on the chain and away to ride through Whythenshawe and over to Cheadle.

I replaced my original plan to ride to the airport then follow the route backwards to the start in favour of the most direct line.  It did put me thorough Whythenshawe but there was little traffic at 7am on a Sunday morning.  Even the drunks were in bed by then.  Soon Whythenshawe morphed into Gatley then Cheadle village where cyclists started to converge on the village hall.

I immediately recognised Ella from her photos although her hair was less pink than I was expecting.  Instead of saying hi straight away, I went to get my brevet card to avoid the embarrassment of forgetting it then went to say hi with a hug and a chat.

We were interrupted by one of the Halifax riders from the Clwydian who wanted to congratulate me on finishing and give me kudos for getting over the moor.  By chance we were also standing next to the other rider (Brum) who empathised with the effort involved.  Again we were to see him on and off throughout the course of the day as well as one of the guys who  had been on Yorkshire via Essex.  It was a pack of familiar faces.

Ella and I set off together, chatting away, having already established that we both had a reasonable idea of what we were doing.  I hovered uncomfortably between the setting off too fast pace and sitting in behind slower riders.  They weren't actually slower, it's just I'm not used to milking the benefits of drafting so I suddenly got pulled back into the pack on the first short climb.

Us girls inevitably peeled off on our own and waved furiously at the photographer as we passed.  We talked about *everything*.  I don't usually do Audax talking but for once it was brilliant just to have a really good natter.  My initial pace boiled off but Ella pedalled light, waited on hills and occasionally rode on ahead, only to wait at the next junction.  We arrived at the Eureka cafe and both checked in then decided that, on account of her hacking cough and a tiny, sweaty space filled with other riders and a big queue, we'd take advantage of the buffer of time and push on for Bangor to get our lunch.  It was, after all, only 11am.

We did shifts at the shitter then set back out on our bikes, snacking our way over into Wales to cover the distance effectively.  I particularly enjoyed sharing the ginger flavoured oatcakes which Ella had brought.  I hmmm'd about the prospect of going all the way to Bangor, "it's probably about two hours" then we did some maths and concluded that it was a bit hit and miss but we went for it.

It was a little miserable climbing over the hills of Frodsham on account of it being quite main roadsy but once we were off and back onto lanes, turning into Welsh lanes, we rode side by side again on and off.

In Bangor, we tried the pub but they were quoting 45 hours wait for food (yes you heard), particularly it seems to anyone wearing a cycling helmet and offering to sit outside.  So we went back to the info control (the shop) to grab sandwiches, I bought fudge and a drink then sat on the doorstep of the neighbouring florist as a shower moved over us.  Somewhere there was a rainbow as the sun glinted off the opposite building.  Derby Mercury arrived and I was pretty chuffed to be going well, ahead of "The Mercury" as they referred to themselves.  Let's skim over the fact that they'd already had a cafe stop.

We continued on our way into the flood of rainbow, bright, vibrant and complete.  From there the weather only improved and I found myself removing hat and buff and changing into thinner gloves for the rest of the day.

Another two hours on from Bangor was the ice cream cafe.  I hadn't planned to stop there but then I had planned to stop near Eureka and not scoff a sandwich in a doorway.  Still, I was enjoying the avid conversation, even if I did need to up my pace a bit to always hear what Ella was saying.  Her hacking cough made her talk softly so I had to ride a close pace to hear.  Sometimes I just had to give up and drop back a bit.  I got my own back on a climb by saying I was having "a wee stop to fix something" and found her crashing through the undergrowth a few metres ahead, having stopped for a wee, thinking I was doing the same.

At the icecream cafe neither or us knew where we were going, locked our bikes to the first bit of railing opposite people sitting on sofas inside then headed into the building / compound.

Ella has never done an audax here.  I have just never been in because the place is a children's play park and too many little people make me nervous.

Small persons squealed and stumbled and crawled all over things and we rushed into the nearest building to warm our thighs and start the cafe hunt.  Just as I thought we'd made it back to our bikes (but on the other side of the glass this time), we were cordoned off with rope so I booked a table (with a helmet and sweaty coat) and Ella went to order soup and coffee / tea whilst I went outside to move the bikes into view at the *actual* bike racks next to the *actual* cyclists's entrance.

I happily wheeled one big and one not-so-big happy bikes around the corner and locked them back up.  By the time I was back at the table, coffee was placed and soup was arriving.  Abject bliss.

My thoughts of cake were diverted to the fact that I had a lot of junk food to get through on the bike on the way back.  I'd only consumed one piece of fudge and had Haribo and the leftover zombie chocolate left over from Halloween to get through yet.  Somewhere in my handlebar bag, a Frankenstein was having a fight with a gummy-bear and I might be called upon to invigilate.

"How are you doing?" my pal asked me.  "OK, bit tired", I confessed.  Off the lanes, she towed me along a straight carriageway.  I was grateful for the wheel to get me out of a headwind and away from traffic as soon as possible.  Wjilst she describes herself as "Manchester's premier fat female cyclist", on twitter, she really isn't and is fucking strong to drag me around like a rag doll like that.

Back on the lanes we rode side by side and continued our conversation.  Occasionally, when I had to let a car past, I had to sprint back on because I was enjoying the story of how she met Spandelles so much.  As night caught us up and the lights went on, the conversations calmed down and each of us did turns on the front, if only because we both like leading.  I probably got a bit annoying but it's only that I'm used to tri training so much, putting myself on the front when I'm out with TSK, getting used to being face to the wind.

Finally, as we entered back into Cheshire known-territory around Minshull Vernon, disaster struck and I experienced the familiar flaccid feeling of a snapped gear cable in a lever-housing.  Absolutely zero response from my derailleur whatsoever, I was stuck in a big gear.

We took to a driveway and I threaded the new cable through but couldn't find the end of the old cable somewhere inside the lever.  Looking under the lever, there was a hatch that I had never investigated before.  Although every single screw and adjuster nut on the dura-ace groupset has a hex-wrench head for Allen keys, this one that I needed had a cross screwdriver head.  I could've screamed!

Finally, after about 45 minutes of dicking-about, chatting, laughing, talking to the homeowner whose driveway we were using, I conceded to ride single speed to the next bit of civilisation.

At first it was a challenge, then a chore, then I started doing the maths on how long I had to keep going for and really concluded I couldn't keep it up for 3 more hours.  It was already dark and I was just sore.

A fellow audaxer passed and I managed to catch him up and ask if he had a screwdriver.  He didn't but he recommended I talk to his dad, a little further back who would definitely have one.  I realised I had seen his dad riding in the hills around Sheffield before..  What a pleasure.

We carried on, knowing the next info control was a garage.  Eventually I had the bright idea to adjust my temporary cable arrangement to a different gear since I wasn't using my big ring at all on the flat and I was getting sick of getting off to walk up any hill steeper than 7%.

I cranked the derailleur across and re-tightened the screw.  Much better.  I could definitely consider riding another 3 hours like *that*.  For some time I span out on the flats at 18-21 kph before dropping into the little ring and getting as far up all the hills as I could - actually I was making most of them but after my earlier exertions, the spinning out on the flat was really starting to grate and average speed was suffering as a result.  At the petrol station I resolved to try and fix the lever but failing that, to stick myself in a slightly higher gear.

The petrol station attendee was great.  She found me the only screwdriver they had and let me exchange cans of coke when I actually (horror of horrors) bought low sugar coke.  I don't drink the stuff often enough so had no idea what I was doing.  That Ella girl was a bad (great) influence.  It was exactly what I needed.  The crisps I bought were also exactly what we both needed so I repayed the ginger oatcake favour from the morning whilst working on my rear derailleur.

We hauled out of the petrol station and onto what felt like some of the biggest climbs in Cheshire.  Well, they were on single speed anyway.  On the third one I felt the cable slip in its housing and crunch crunch I jumped up two gears.  Time for another little walk.

Finally we spilled back into Alderley Edge and a team effort started to get us back to the finish in one piece.  Through Wilmslow we were passed unceremoniously by an Asda delivery vehicle who insisted on passing us then slowed down for every junction thereafter, including the one at the bottom of a big descent.  I swore at him, I swore at my legs, I let out a primal scream to get me up the hill then instantly felt guilty about waking up half of Wilmslow - before realising it was only 8pm... no, my point stands.  I woke up Wilmslow from its post-Sunday lunch snooze

As we neared Handforth, I desperately hoped they weren't going to make me ride Stanleylands but it wasn't in the right direction so I was relieved to just roll through Handforth at which point Ella, on sniffing Spandelles arrival in Cheadle after his long ride, left me as she said she would. I ode into Cheadle and the arrivee toute seule.  Quite frankly, I was astonished she hung around that long but I admit it was great to have a sista for company for the day.

Back at base they came out to welcome me in and I settled down to text everyone I was safe and share stories of the road, the organisers now having figured out who I was without my usual trusty sidekick in tow.  A steady stream of riders kept filtering through so there were about 12 still on the road behind me - a strong indicator of the fast pace I had gone around in, particularly having been forced to rock a big gear to the finish instead of breezing it in.

So that was it, 12 of 12.  I challenged Ella, of course, to keep going and deliver 11 more.  She sounded moderately tempted.

I can't decide if I'm excited to have December off or if I want to join in with another ride and keep my tally ticking.  I didn't think hard about work for a whole day - although I did my share of defending how exciting I find it.  What I did think about was how much I had missed riding my bike.  I made myself promises.  Ones I intend to keep on keeping.

I dwelled long enough to eat soup and some biscuits and drink a cup of hot squash.  Then packed up my stuff and headed back into the night to ride back to the Farmhouse.  Mum was back in bed and dad was mooching around in the garden when I got back.  I got changed and drank tea and told tales of a great day before hastily rushing back to Sheffield in the van.  It was all I could do to keep myself awake - though the snake pass helped my alertness.  I guess my reluctance to finish the tale is testament to my reluctance to stop riding these events.

I'll (not) end this here.

The Clwydian

I had no great record hopes for the Clwydian.  Finally after stretching the limits of my tolerance for distance, endurance and sleep deprivation and making it all work around an increasingly incredibly busy job, I finally felt the weight lifted this month.

All I had to do was get around.  It's just that "around" had 3000m of up and down in too.

I'd done no specific training for a while except the 3 Peaks cyclocross and some short 'cross races and one 100km day out to Curborough where a friend had commented on my flat shoes.  As I was explaining to her how much I liked them because they were comfy, I suddenly started to wonder if they had anything to do with my increasingly stiff calves and hamstrings so with only 2 weeks since the 3 Peaks I hoped I was adequately rested and I took a risk and bought some new shoes whilst working away in Scunthorpe.

In the run up to Saturday I did a few short evening rides to keep moving before the big little day.  Then disaster struck and my customer needed me to write them a document in 24 hours and so on Thursday night I worked until midnight and on Friday I left Scunthorpe at 6pm and drove to North Wales.  One Travelodge was unrecognisable from the other and when they put me in the same room it started to feel like a home from home.  After dinner in a Chinese restaurant I bedded down to listen to the torrential rain, howling winds and lashing branches and wondered what on earth I was doing there.  The short answer: By the time I thought about cancelling, it was too late at the hotel.

There were only 3 riders in the carpark in the morning.  They directed me to another building which was the control and as I realised I had parked in the pay and display carpark, I hopped back in the van and drove around to the free one off the main road.  They were so close they could have been the same space but this carpark was almost full - on account of being totally free.  I mean if I was going to be unsure about finishing, I sure as hell wasn't spending £3.50 on the parking space.

I bought a flapjack and then got ready as slowly as possible.  With a promise of the rain clearing late morning, I decided the longer I put it off the better.  Despite prevarication, I led out the final group of 6 riders, a few choosing to do the shorter route instead.  Within a few miles, another Lauf forked rider passed as well as the lead pair.  That left me, "Brum" from the midlands and a couple of guys from Halifax.

After about 10 minutes we started to climb.  Brum came past me and then we all rolled downhill towards Bala.  I had a momentary feeling that my rear tyre was running a little low and a minor coronary when I realised I didn't know if I had my pump or not.  I resolved to stop near Bala to check.  We were to ride around the whole lake but if I didn't have a pump, I'd probably pop into Bala to get one first before continuing my day - just in case.

As I descended the hill climb we'd just come over, spray from my tyres soaked my overshoes.  I was pretty pleased though that the water didn't seem to penetrate and chuffed with my new waterproof trousers which were getting a testing and seemed to be doing a remarkable job of keeping the water out.

As soon as I stopped I realised it was all an illusion as my feet squelched around in my wet shoes.  I should have known better.  I plunged my soaking hands into the bottom of my saddlebag and after some rooting around, finally laid my hands on my pump.  The contents of my bag were now damp but at least I knew I had security.

On the minor road side of Bala lake the rain streamed down, the stream ran across the road in rivers where it should have gone underneath it and eventually the inevitable flood happened.  I was into it before I realised and the water sprayed off my wheel and hit me square in the knees as my feet pedalled on regardless under the water.    Freakish gusts of warm breeze dropped down from the hills though and kept me relatively warm - in fact too warm at times.

Climbing out the other side I felt grotesquely sick as the water cascaded past me at the same speed as I was moving, giving the optical illusion that - despite my effort - I was stationary on the bike.  I had to stare at a gate post to make sure I was making progress and stop my stomach turning.

Once settled, I ate a banana, pocketed the skin and Halifax passed me a few moments later and we chatted until we reached the first control at 30km.  I took a quick snapshot of the answer to the info control whilst they had a faff.  Now on a nice straight road, I started raiding the bar bags for food and demolished an apple.  I had a chat with Halifax about the lack of food on this ride with the conclusion that you "gotta get it while you can" which nearly had me stopped in Bala.  Many of the rides I'd done this year seemed a little sparse on food - or the feeds didn't come when I wanted them.  Perhaps it was my weird metabolism.

Still, I pushed on - like everyone else - in Bala as I had plenty of food on board.  Then I peeled off back into the lovely valleys.  I'd ridden my 'cross bike here in glorious sunshine a few years ago but now it was just wet and wild.  By the time I reached the Crafty Cook Cafe I melted at the invitation to get the pancakes on and demolished two with bacon and maple syrup at 11:30.  The pancakes were bubbly and light but I'm not sure how ride-enhancing that sugar rush was but it made me feel better in between stripping off sodden waterproofs and wringing out my socks and gloves into the toilet bowl in the washrooms.

Americano polished off, I set away towards Ruthin in anticipation of lunch.  Halifax were faffing when I turned the wrong way then retraced my steps to find everyone back together for a brief moment before the weather started again.  Halifax went ahead and Brum and I started swapping places with him passing me on long hills and me getting my own back on steeper ones and not using my brakes on descents.  He had a faff whilst I rolled past in Ruthin.  The wind had been behind us and now I was battling harder into it to dispense of it sooner and I cruised past the control as I knew the answer.

Loggerheads was the next eat control but at 88km it was well after "lunchtime" when we arrived.  Halifax was eating apple pie and Brum joined them.  I went for a more filling-looking vegan shepherd's pie and started to wonder if I'd be able to leave my waterproof trousers off finally.

A lanky boy took my order, managed to concentrate just long enough to take my money then promptly forgot all about me.

After a lot of chatting Brum left me to waiting for my pie - or chasing up my pie.

Lanky boy's chubby mate told me, "it was just coming" then ran into the kitchen obviously to put the pie in the microwave.  I carved pieces off mash that tasted like smash without butter that had been microwaved.  At least the quorn mince and red wine sauce tasted nice with the beetroot but the delay left a bitter taste  in my mouth.

I wanted to set off at a sprint to get my time back but it was still raining so I had layers to put on, wrung my socks out again and chased down Brum who had said he hoped he'd see me again.

There were 3 info controls ahead and I was heading into familiar territory from some time working in North Wales.

In spite of trying to make back some time with spirited effort, I still found myself climbing over fences into a field to rescue a toppled sheep.  I tried to ride past without paying attention but couldn't leave a stupid animal to its fate of getting eaten alive because the stupid bastard couldn't right itself.  Thankfully, the sight of a lumbering woman in orange approaching across the field helped the sheep find the incentive to right itself and I only had three fences to climb back over to get away.

I was a bit frustrated and a bit peckish so I raided the bags for something to eat.  A packet of haribo sours presented themselves and I can't tell you how much my taste buds appreciated that.

I got a move on finally, collecting the name of a pub in Rosemor and a random street name in the middle of nowhere.

Next was 146km and a phone number to collect from a box.  Although I had been watching out for it for some time, the phone box was at the bottom of a descent and on the exit of a bend so I didn't notice it as I passed and crossed the narrow hump-back bridge (are you getting how difficult it was to spot?)

A lovely old couple on the hill climb cheered me up the other side and I basked in the glory until I realised what I'd done.

Thoughts crossed my mind of just continuing and getting the answer off the others but then I might not see them again - so behind was I.  That would leave me bargaining with the organisers to validate my 11th ride of 12 or worse still, waving goodbye to the month of rest I had planned before number 12, trying to get another boring, flat ride done.

My diligence got the better of me and I retraced my route to the phone box, spent a moment explaining to the old couple why I'd walked into a phone box with a smartphone then walked straight back out again.  Photo record of the info control, the lady understood immediately, "Oh, you're recording the number to prove you've been here".

At Tremeirchen it had finally stopped raining.  At 4pm (so much for clearing from 10am).  I lent my bike against a wall and took my waterproof legs off.  Within seconds a small car full to the brim of bearded farmers pulled alongside slowly giving me the smiling thumbs-up to make sure I was OK.  I smiled and waved back, despite the sit down on the wall being uncomfortably welcome.

30 minutes later I was at the seafront in Abergele, tired and had been dreaming of a slice of lemon drizzle cake for about 45 minutes.  As I went over the cobbled bridge that crosses the railway, my back tyre snicked in between cobblestones and felt uncomfortably deflated.  I locked up my bike, dropped my brevet card in the hurricane winds, swore a lot, realised the door was locked then swore some more until a sweet girl approached asking me if I needed my brevet card signed.  After nearly begging to be let in the cafe then realising she was not the owner but the organiser's daughter, I took myself down the road to another seafront greasy spoon / chip shop for the cup of tea and invested in a bag of skittles.  If Haribo could make me ride fast, I hoped Skittles would get me back over the hill.

I sat and drank my tea whilst the arcade clinked and whirred and chattered behind me. Whispy old men with flat caps drank instant coffee with ladies who washed their drinks down with fag smoke, blue rinse catching the breeze.  I enjoyed 20 minutes out of the rain before hauling myself back into it.

I retraced my route to a turnoff in town, my tyre feeling even worse bumping over those cobbles again.  It was a big road with a fair amount of traffic on it and I wasn't enjoying myself at all.  I decided to get the pump out and try inflating the tyre a bit more.  One squeeze of it left me feeling a little ill again, it was really low.  I had flash-backs to the 600 and battling with constant punctures to get back.  The tyre was old-ish.  Worn a bit but not worn through although it did have some serious holes in it.  It was suffering the same symptoms as during the 600.  Slow deflation such that any sudden trauma caused a puncture.

I connected the pump but every time I put something in, the needle dropped back down to practically nothing.  I had only had 20 psi in.  As I was inflating it, Halifax rode past and stopped to check I was OK.  I was a bit frazzled and asked if they had a decent pump though (understandably) they were worried about getting back in time and obviously eager to continue on.  We all concluded that it would probably be fine and sure enough the pressure was starting to build.  They had had a puncture themselves but more substantially, had spent an hour in the MacDonalds in town enjoying hot food and decent coffee.  I had just ridden up the hill on a packet of mini Cheddars.  I was a bit jealous but not too worried as I knew I still had plenty of food on board.

On the way back I got to watch the sun set from underneath the cloud over the Mersey Estuary, the Liver Building prominent on the skyline of the 'Pool.  Both rear lights went on to make me noticeable to sun-blinded drivers and not much later the front light joined it as I sketched my way across the moor in the very blustery wind.  Despite all the healthy choices I had on board, either partially eaten or unopened, the arrival of 8pm saw me reaching for the Skittles.  Pangs of delight coursed through my mouth.  So tasty!  It didn't help that I'd run out of water but my mouth watered and it seemed as good as a drink of water.  I gobbled them down.

When I reached the tops, great gusts of wind blew me and the bike sideways and I had to time glances at the Garmin to make sure I didn't get hit with a gust that would take me into the ditch.  I got one wrong and had to slam my brakes on as the front wheel careered towards a drop off next to a tussock of grass.

The rain started again but I couldn't feel any cold.  In fact, my legs felt exactly the same as they had when I was wearing my waterproofs.  It was still warm but bloody hell, it was hard.  Steep climbs had me stomping on the pedals, out of the saddle yet down the drops to minimise the effect of the wind on my body.  Growling helped blast through the stalemate between a stalled rider and the wind, wrenching myself over the top of the 30% grade.

Allegedly it was 20km downhill to the finish.  I mean, I knew that was probably a fib but still, I'd been thinking about it since 30km to go - 10k up, 20k down.  The 5k up, 20k down.

All the down hill did not come at once.  I was still disappointed, even though I knew it wouldn't all come at once.  Some false flats got in the way, a few rises and then I was down in the valley, looking at the light glow of Corwen and I hauled myself over the bridge, the river now twice as wide as it was when I left and I felt glad I had left my van in the top car park.

After a quick stop to figure out which of the pubs in the tiny Welsh town was the control, I rolled up, locked my bike to the elegant two-seater Iron smoking shelter complete with Cleamtis.  Brum was walking out as I was arriving and called back into the pub, "She's here, she's made it!"  Much commotion ensued as Halifax had reported they didn't think I would make it so the organiser was rushing out in his van to see if I wanted a lift to the finish.

I ignored the slightly cheeky under-estimation of my ability, giving the benefit of doubt.  The last time they saw me I was swearing at my pump, hearing jealously of their feed, knowing nothing of the feast I had on board.

Inside the pub, ale and crisps were on offer.  I passed on the ale, stuck with the crisps and a box of pineapple juice that had been there since the 80's plus a pint of water.  I'd not drunk anything since 8:30pm and now it was 9:38.  30 minutes to spare.

Still warm but noticeably damp and smelly, I left the bartender to his banter and walked my bike over to the Mercu.  The easy bit was over.  Getting changed out of wet kit in a van before driving home was going to be a challenge.  I pretty much left everything I had on the tops of the Welsh hills.  I stopped at 11pm at Chester services and slept for 2 hours before rejoining the motorway and listening to the Asian Network very loud for the next 2 hours back to Sheffield.  It was 3:30 am when I got to bed.

Still, October, done.  11/12.

SO many Audaxes I need to squeeze them all into one post.

My last two rides before 'cross really takes over have been like chalk and cheese and have lifted me up and then broken me down.

After my DNF in Scotland on the 600 I entered a 200 DIY the week after to get my August ride in and then entered another 600 one month later.

In the meantime I decided I didn't trust myself to finish the 600 so I bunged another 200 in the week before in North Wales - a notoriously hilly one - to offset the flat 600 and the flat 200 I did on bank holiday weekend.  Both passed too close to Scunthorpe - a place where I am actively spending my working week too.  So the Welsh 200 went ahead. 

The forecast was unbelievable for 1st September..  Around 50 of us set off from Old Ma's tea room at 0800 for Pistyll Rhayader, stopping at Chirk on the way.  Whilst guys rushed for the shop, I sat and drank coffee and ate cake.  Chirk is too nice to rush.  My ride plan was to cruise the time limits and enjoy myself, saving my legs for next weekend.

The first hills started and I really enjoyed them.  Sure they were taxing but not stupidly steep and gloriously gloriously remote.  I chatted to Steve Ogden who was out to try and improve his hill climbing and Shaun Hargreaves, nursing a calf injury but sporting his fixie regardless because "a 200 on gears aggravated it last weekend so it clearly doesn't matter".  Both regulars on the Audax scene, it was a pleasure to spend time with them and it did my ego good to keep dropping Shaun on the descents.

I stopped in a shop before lake Vyrnwy which was a relief as the tourist facing service was shockingly slow.

I got my coffee and ate my pre-bought sausage roll in full view as the staff were too busy to care. 

Some sportive riders on our ride chided me for my saddlebag but then I caught them at the top of the hill suffering Di2 issues.  They soon passed me back. 

In Bala I headed straight to the Eco cafe for more coffee and cake and received a hand written receipt so I had her sign the time on my brevet card.  Around the corner I met Steve looking for the speed of a convenience store as I was trying to get my Garmin to load / start.  He suggested my battery had died and was right.  He saved my bacon from a Trep meltdown.

I stuck the Garmin on charge on my spare battery and headed off back into the hills.  As I descended  a steep slope musing about how you never really get the hill climb time back on the descents, I met a slow-moving tractor - just to prove my point.  It took him a while to find space to pull over but he did it just ahead of a large 4 inch deep patch of gravel across the road.  I suspect that also saved my bacon.

By 6pm I was really rather hungry.  I knew the pub at the last check point was closed and we were instead relying on an info control so when I happened across another pub 2 miles before the control, a quick (badly informed) maths reckoning concluded I could be pushing the time limits but I knew I needed real food.

I ordered a burger and pint of lemonade and just as I was finishing the last of my chips I was excited to see Steve go by.  I caught him on a hill climb and we had a little chat before I surged ahead, knowing I'd see him soon.  I actually felt a little guilty about leaving him to the darkening potholed descents but he caught me up soon enough waiting for some never-changing roadworks traffic lights.  We rode into the darkness together. 

He was out of water.  After my lemonade, I was down to a couple of mouthfulls of drink left in my bottle.  My bat-sonar detected a Spar behind us at a junction so we doubled-back and I repayed the bacon-saving by sitting with the bikes whilst Steve got water and juice which we split between us.  Pace picked up again on the flat as we gossiped away the evening with our life-tales.  We arrived at the finish just after Shaun and sat about talking crap with the organisers until gone 10:30 pm.  It was a brilliant ride that left me relaxed, yet brimming with pride.

In similarity my 600 start was quite relaxed, with a 200 in the bag for September the 600 was only really worthy of having a go.  What a lot of commitment for just "having a go".

My hotel was booked last minute but ended up conveniently close to the start - all looking good so far.  I went to register but no-one was there so I kicked-off my Garmin only to find that none of my routes were on it.  I rushed back to the car and spent the next 15 minutes uploading routes from my work laptop email onto Garmin Connect then transferring from my phone to the Garmin device.  I slithered in to the organiser with 5 minutes to go, caught the end of the briefing then set off with the peloton to ride into the wind.

Boy did we need it!  We had a man-down within 30 minutes.  I dropped off the back just long enough to make sure he'd got up again then battled hard to get back on the group into the headwind. 

They were knocking out 26kph on the fens.  I am usually chuffed with 24 kph for the first 80k so was worried about burning out but the truth is, I'd have been trying even harder to make 21kph on my own so sticking with the group was my top priority and I tied my urethra in a knot whilst others dropped off the back for a pee. 

I held on as long as I could and then drifted along on my own for a bit until a railway crossing got me a few more companions but I couldn't keep up with them either so I let it all go.

I walked into Chatteris Green Welly Cafe alone, only to meet the impressive and lovely Judith Swallow in the undesirable location of the loo queue.  She was on the other 600k ride, travelling in the opposite direction.  I took a moment to chat and embrace as she was on her way out.  I timed in then, heeding warnings not to spend too much time, opted for a flapjack in a packet and a milky instant coffee.

I also bumped into Steve in the queue for food which was nice to catch up.  With riding most of the morning with Shaun, it was like 5 days of working week had never happened.

It also felt like the beginning of the end already - only 12:00 and I was knackered.  I got outside and it was raining so more time was spent coating-up.  I was on for a late lunch

Back on the road, the next stop was at Great Dunmow and the end of the first chunk of 173 kms.  The route passed through Cambridge which I confirm I still have little time for with its tiny streets of meandering gormless tourists.  I had a sandwich in a petrol station for lunch and paused to remove coat and rain legs.

A young couple caught me up and towed me out of town.

I really liked Dunmow although I almost missed the control as I didn't fancy a pub but control was at the pub.  Near miss!  They had ran out of baked potato so I settled for a Sandwich which brought me to the uncomfortable position of having eaten two lumps of white bread and very little hot, real food.  I left a little depressed with only a civilian couple out for a bimble on their bikes before dinner to draft for a while... and in the end I was towing them along.  Only 3 people were on the road behind me.

I enjoyed the last few Essex hills before the long slog to Boston started.

The intermediary control was at Whittlesey which we passed in the morning.  A promising-looking place with a marked square and toll bar building.  No toilets though and the suggested petrol station control was closed leaving me to retrace my steps several times to a little corner shop to furnish me with cold coffee, a sausage roll and the most delicious, hot home made samosa.  The 3 guys behind me were joined by 2 more but people split with some going home to a DNF and the rest continuing on.  I was joined by an older chap who was pretty quiet.  We rode together for a while but then I started with the dozies so started looking out for a convenient stopping place.

A bench presented itself with a nice comfy-looking water pumping station behind.  Never mind that the constant buzz of the A15 was not far away - I would sleep anywhere.  I'd calculated I was 3 hours up on time and I would sleep right back up to the time limit, give or take an hour to get myself sorted then get myself moving again.  I unfurled my bivi on a fine mat of ivy, put on my oh-shit coat and lay down. Shoes off, I was happy as anything with a quick look-up at the starts and the canopy of trees above.  I farted into my bivi for extra warmth and pulled the hood over my head.  Nothing, nothing would keep me awake.

My watch sounded 2 hours later and I could hear the spatter of rain and resolved to wait for my 2:15 alarm but the onset of shivers fixed that decision and gave my body different ideas.  The effort of rolling up a 6ft tall bivi was enough to warm me up then I ate the last of the sausage roll for breakfast and headed towards Boston for coffee.  Then I discovered that my rear tyre was flat.  I walked back to my bench, pumped it up again to see how it went and started dealing with the concerned enquiries from the fast lads, starting to head back the other way in the Fenland Flier ride.

10 minutes down the road I decided to just fix the puncture at a nice walled bridge giving me excellent cover from the wind and somewhere to lean the bike. 

It was around 5am when I arrived at Boston and I'd been dreaming of a cheese burger for about 12 hours but unfortunately you can't get that at McDonalds at 5am so I did with a bagel instead.  I felt neither full, nor appetised when a Romanian guy with a BMW and a swagger like a drug dealer started buying everyone espressos. 

Steve and I had another chat and he very kindly gave me a confidence-boosting speach about me being a stronger rider than him and he thought he would finish.  Sadly I think I left all of my strength and courage in the Welsh hills.

I left him (wisely) to his porridge and pancakes and rejoined the road, riders now consistently streaming past in the opposite direction but Judith Swallow now long gone.

I decided that Romanian guy had definitely put cocaine in the espressos as a steady string of riders who I had previously been riding with came flying past me at a frightening speed. 

I plodded on to Lincoln alone, eventually spilling onto the canal towpath where I was finally joined by the couple on the tandem.  We exchanged some stories of our days before they drew ahead as soon as we hit the road.

When I arrived at Lincoln I made a beeline for the first cafe I saw but it was closed so I rode on looking for a cash machine.  I was 2 minutes ahead of time.  I asked a Deliveroo rider where I could find a decent cafe.  He regretted there were plenty of decent ones but they were all closed so I would have to make do with an indecent one.  Crap, it was 9am Sunday morning wasn't it?  I had a steak sandwich in Subway, struggling to understand the server's northern accent and friendliness.

"Sorry, I was in Essex this morning".

I looked at my watch, Shit it was still this morning.  She laughed suspiciously at the deluded lady.

I sat in the square, leaning against a wall watching my bike.  We'd come a long way together.  I hardly dared look how far it was.  A homeless man shuffled by in wool trousers and coat, sandals and a silk nightdress.  He was better dressed than me.  We smelt about the same.

I got back on the bike and set off for Goole.  First there were Wolds to climb up out of Lincoln - some respite for my legs which quite enjoy hills and my bum which really needed a saddle break.  Beautiful sunshine, some roadies whooshing past and stragglers on the Fenland route in as much trouble as me and then I bounced over a crack in the tarmac and whoomph, my rear tyre went flat again.  I crossed the road to a driveway which got me out of the wind and off the road and sat down on the concrete to set about the repair getting nervous that my tyres were getting old or my bag was too heavy.  At least I found the glass which had been gradually whittling away at the new inner-tube and could rest assured that the problem was fixed but my only spare tube had a wonky valve which, after all the effort of pumping it up, unscrewed with the pump head.  I stood up and cleanly kicked the wheel right across the concrete driveway.  This at least kick-started my brain into action and then I calmly unscrewed the valve head of one of my punctured inner tubes, fitted it to the new tube and started again. 

I toyed with the idea of riding back into Lincoln to get a train to Sheffield and going out to get the van on Monday but riding my bike for another day didn't appeal so I decided to carry on, heading North West now towards the Trent. 

I was on familiar territory from my Bank Holiday weekend ride and stopped in Kirton Lindsey for some respite and food.  I remember this as being around dinner time but the lady in the shop wished me "good mid-day" and went on to have a monologue with herself about how she should greet me at "1200hrs".  I say monologue because I stared at her blankly, not knowing how to reply.  "There were a lot of you here yesterday, is there some kind of event on?" 

I glibly told her I was the end of it and, thankful for clear weather, went and sat on the kerbside with my bike to avoid further questioning.  At least the village toilets were free, open and clean.

The fens to Goole were going to be a nightmare - turning 270 degrees of wrong direction - South, West, North, East a bit, then North then West.  Not long with a tail wind before you're unceremoniously forced to ride into a head wind for a bit.  And then the rear tyre went flat again.  All out of inner tubes.  I pumped the tyre up to see how long it lasted and the answer was, about 4 miles into the next village and with blackening skies, I walked a way to find a bus stop to set up my repair service.

Trust me, in the meantime I considered calling for a taxi to Sleaford but that seemed like it might be expensive. 

I considered riding back to Sleaford but that would involve retracing my path into the headwind - also not popular. 

This time a blown patch was to blame.  I replaced the patch, pumped up the tyre and it held.  No excuses for not finishing and plenty for not being finished in time.  To add to the embarrassment I had 100 Sportive riders to deal with coming in the opposite direction.  100 awake, jolly, exiteable sportive riders - everyone offering a cheery hello for my pissed off and exhausted brain. 

I had a little tail wind up the Trent where I expertly avoided riding into Scunthorpe to go and sleep on the Alsatian dog belonging to the security guard in my site office.  The only thing stopping me: that I didn't have my work pass in my cycling wallet.  I rolled dubiously into Goole at 6pm, starving hungry.  Whilst I should have been chasing down the time limits, I was instead, ordering tasty Mac meals, hot apple pies and coffee, more glorious coffee.  I wasted further time changing into fresh shorts for the night time riding and was 2 hrs behind schedule when I left and headed back into the headwind and setting sun.  It felt like abject torture to be passing the exact spot where I sat and decided to push on to the finish in favour of riding back the way I came into the headwind back to Sleaford only to find that I was heading out to ride back the way I came into the headwind to ride back to Sleaford.  All sense of achievement had diminished.

Not much makes sense after that except for the village of Haxey where, looking for a place to sit down and eat my stash of crisps from Kirton Linsey, I decided to throw the time limits to the wind and sit on the swings to eat my food.  It was the happiest I would be for a while.

Gainsborough was next up.  I thought I was going to die from a steady stream of boy racers close-passing along the A631.  If ever there was a reason to stick to a time schedule, Gainsborough at pub-closing time on a school night was it.  Yes, I was now riding at 15kph.  My wheels had fallen off and it was late!  Then the footpath was a tree-rooted pavement which would have been a) illegal and b) would have snapped off my feet and arse - also leading to certain death.  Pulling into town I found a petrol station to control and witnessed my first ever drive-away at a fuel station as a young voice shouted "fuck you" at the CCTV then roared off in his plate-less hot hatch.  I spent the next two hours dodging a red Vauxhall Corsa which continuously close passed me until I dived into the bushes behind the scary phone-box, extinguishing all lights and watching him prowl up and down the street a couple of times whilst I put my leggings and extra layers on.  Who knows?  Perhaps he was just delivering pizza and I was paranoid.  Perhaps he wanted to scare a girl on a bike. After a while he gave up looking, or whatever it was he was doing. 

In Lincoln it was now 11pm.  Retracing then not getting lost on the Canal.  Constant back-tracking.  Some, "Oh, I'm here - always wondered where that came out".  I started up a hill again, not sure why I was going up a hill but happy to be standing up for a short time then I seemed to go back down before urgently needing to go back up again.  Damn this was cruel.  I decided to take a walk.

I cycled as far as the end of the streetlights then found myself a tree for a pee and a bench to sit on.  I faffed for a while eating an apple then pushed my bike so far up before re-mounting.  At least I was to quickly turn out of Lincoln onto more minor roads, just in time for SLEEPYTIMES!

According to my Garmin, from Lincoln, the route trended gradually downwards.  It's obvious from my trendline that I gradually fell deeper and deeper into lala land, my average speed hitting 15kph then 14 then 12 then 11.

Everywhere I looked the view was the same.  A grey bowl of concrete where my light shone and nothing else but lines of plastic carrier bags along the side of the road filled with sticks and lined up one after the other.  Occasionally a gateway broke the monotony of the plastic carrier-bag-weeds, a black and inhosptable gateway to darkness.  There was no moon or stars just darkness and then I was talking to Brian from work and asking his guys to wear their PPE and planning our test programme but then I would wake up still talking but Brian wasn't there and still the world was grey and the carrier bags rolled by so I closed my eyes to think about something more interesting.

This time I talked to Matt until something rustled inside a carrier bag and so I sprinted in case a deer was about to knock me off.  The rustling continued and I thought it might be a dog so I sprinted and sprinted until I had no more and then realised that the noise was coming from my coat and I went back to sleep.  Who knows how much time this went on for?  I did have enough mental capacity to watch the distance to my next turning come down each time I woke up but then I reached Digby and it was a village with stuff and things - like bus stops and I found the perfect shelter to keep the wind off.

Sadly the bench was made of iron slats but I could sleep on anything.  I put on all my layers but couldn't be bothered to get my bivi out.  I spent 10 minutes checking my phone to text TSK I was OK but sleeping and trying to persuade my body that it didn't really need a poo so I could sleep soundly for 40 minutes before waking up shivering uncontrollably.  I added my final layer - waterproof trousers - and set off into the dark still wearing my Oh-Shit coat over my waterproof with my hood snugly crammed under my helmet.

I was, of course, off-course, having missed the turning I had been so carefully looking out for but took an alternative route which didn't add too much distance.  Of all the wrong turnings in all the ride, I picked the wrong turn that did least damage.

At 3:15 I arrived at Sleaford McDonalds but couldn't face human interactions to I overshot to an ATM and got a statement from there.

I had done it.  I had actually ridden 600km in one effort, between two showers, with one change of clothes.  I didn't really care that I was out of time but then I wasn't really glowing with pride.  It was embarrassingly hard and depressingly difficult.  It helps only slightly that others suffered with the wind and punctures and also thought it was hard.  I was not sure, not convinced, if it was something I would ever be motivated to do again, the point is, it was over.  In my preparedness, this time I had proved that I was still too stubborn to quit.

None of that needed thinking of then though.  I took the wheels off the bike, put it in the front of the car, blew up my mattress, unfurled my sleeping bag and with a streetlight shining straight in my face and an air conditioning rumbling and gassing outside the van window, I slept for 7 hours straight, waking only to email the organiser to let him know I was OK and stop my Garmin. 

That was Audax for another month.

The Tiny Flat One

After my DNF in Scotland but then not really feeling all that bad about it at all (I did "only" do 3530km) I decided it might be feasible to do a 200km ride this weekend to make sure I got my August RRtY in.  No point in dropping all the balls right?

I had a Perm ride in my in-tray.  An organiser-published routesheet and card which can be completed at a rider's liesure - once they have paid their entry fee.

I could have done it on Monday to get better weather but by Saturday afternoon I was already itching to get out on my bike so I decided to ride the wave of enthusiasm and head out to Thorne early Sunday morning to get a run on the traffic.

The ride from Thorne, through Bawtry to Gainsborough of 40km wasn't so bad.  A bit main roady but dry and pleasant enough riding past the fields.  I started with a bit of a head wind, then cross winds.  I stuck to my plan not to race too hard this time and pottered around 21-22kmph.  Occasionally I strayed up to 24 - 26 but this was mostly when I experienced brief bouts of tail wind.

I had toast and tea at Rosies at 10:30 but that was too early for lunch so carried on out into the fens and flatlands at 11.  The weather gifted rain as I left the cafe and I quickly walked back under the smoking shelter to put on my waterproof coat, shoe covers and rain legs.

As I left I realised I'd forgotten to fill my water bottle but still had about half a bottle left so decided it would be OK until lunch. 

As 11:45 rocked by I started to feel a bit concerned.  There were few places on the radar until Caistor which would have involved a detour.  Thankfully at 11:50 I started to see signs for "Uncle Henry's" and sure enough, a farm shop materialised on the horizon.  I didn't really fancy the half-mile long lane to reach it but decided not to look the gift-horse in the mouth and continued in.

The bike parking was some horrible self-made wooden frame which was hungry to eat rear derailleurs and spit the bike back out without any gears so I walked around the back and locked it to some scaffolding tubes cemented into breeze blocks.  Great until I realised the one I had locked to was completely free-moving.  5 more minutes down the toilet.  I promised myself I wasn't going to stress about time today.  I nearly upped and left - but a quick Garmin reccee confirmed there was nothing for miles so thankfully I persevered.

The cafe operated an Ikea-style one-way system to make sure you saw ALL of the products on offer.  Having located the cafe and secured a table, I had to do two laps of the one way system to get my bottle off my bike and then find the toilets.  By the time my food came I was nearly livid! but then relaxed and felt lucky as a steady stream of people with reservations and people without reservations quickly filled the remaining tables.  Just in time doesn't do it justice.

My sandwich was not a terrible rip off but also insufficient to get me to Cleethorpes so I had to do the decent thing and have cake too.

I was right to stop, I covered quite a few miles before I hit civilisation again.  There was nothing on the route out and then I passed the point of my turn-back.  With still 40km of out-and-back to do, there was nothing really until I got to Waltham.  There were a few more turn notifications to give me something to do except for look at fields but little else along the way to Cleethorpes.

It was still raining outside but now I at least had a hill to look forwards to. 

Given the name of this ride, the routesheet contains the disclaimer, "This ride is not completely flat it includes one section over the Yorkshire Wolds..."

The route finally took me away from main and B-roads and on to some lovely lanes through quaint Lincolnshire villages (or was it Yorkshire? I lost count).  The hill was a little taxing.,I certainly hit my lowest gear, but it was not too long and I was soon correcting the dent in my average speed for that 25 mile section.  The descents on the other side were fast and empty of cars with only one section of bad road surface.

Cleethorpes had a little bit of life to it.  We are, after all, still in season.  The cafe I stopped at had a few seats remaining but most others were taken up with soggy holiday makers and soggy, bored kids.  Hot chocolate and an Eccles cake were all I could muster.  Nothing too sweet and sticky. 

I didn't dawdle, although I did stand under the hand-driers for a while and ring my gloves out into a napkin or two.  I'm gutted I forgot to ring-out my socks. 

So, the ride back.  Well, it rained a little less hard but there must have been the dry front coming as the wind suddenly got very blustery.  I nearly lost my grip on the bars a few times.  The h
ill was a little more sapping in the opposite direction.  The downhill was more thrilling and I got to see the view along the Wold instead of climbing up it. 

It felt good to make the turn towards home and realise I had only 15k to go to my next stop and then a 40k ride to the finish.

Just as I thought it was safe to stop and take my waterproofs off in favour of dry clothes, the heavens opened again and put me in my place.

Although I knew I was out of time for the windmill cafe, I went to see it anyway then headed into Kirton Lindsey for a receipt.  At 6pm, I simulated dinner with a packet of Doritos, a chocolate croissant and a cold laté.  I stood in the doorway by the heaters for a while then, to get a sit down on the only bit of dry wall in the place, I sat right next to the bin to finish my Doritos.  At least it was a clean bin, or the cool temperatures were keeping any odours at bay.

I joined the north-bound road alongside the river trent.  Checking the Garmin, I had around 5km of riding straight North before turning around and riding back down the South side.  I'd not normally describe the M180 motorway to Scunthorpe and Doncaster as majestic but when you look at it from Fen level, sweeping over the flood planes it looks like something from Northern France or Holland and I have to admit to being impressed.  That was nothing compared to the Keadby King George V bridge that I crossed.

Better photo here

Onto the South-bound ride, to my relief the wind had dropped and I was putting out enough energy to warm up for the first time since climbing over the wold.  The rain legs came on, the lights went on and I set about the last 30 kms.

I counted them down most expectantly but the route did deliver comfortable lanes riding with brief stints on airport service roads, fenland lanes wide enough for only one vehicle, tiny humpback bridges over streams and a sudden arrival at my destination - so sudden I skidded as I turned into the Co-op at full-speed when I nearly missed it.

Chocolate milk was the finishing order and perfectly price reduced water melon for easy-consumption on the way home.  My van provided the perfect cover from drunk people walking home from the pub for taking off wet gear and putting on civilian clothes.

The North West Passage

I was still anxious about the North West Passage when I left Rochdale at 8am.  We missed the group start because I was hunting for my extra-warm gloves. I wasn't going to make the same mistakes I did last weekend.

Still, we left Mog, the new Mercu in the carpark and headed up the streets of Rochdale.  Bad start, I set us on the wrong course and began following the route in the opposite direction.  Fortunately, TSK noticed my mistake and we swung a U-turn and headed back the way after just 100m. 

I realised I'd blocked most of this ride out of my memory from the last time.  The roads through Rochdale seemed to go on and on. Miles of rows of shops, traffic lights.  Boring, no scenery except looking forward to the hills on the edge of town.  

And then eventually the hills came.  Joyous long, lingering even kiltered climbs past tiny rows of houses, old mills, river valleys.  A peloton of riders passed us, we caught up and were caught back by a couple of older chaps and the occasional hipster.  Todmorden came and went, images of the Calder valley.

My bike had developed an uncomfortable clunk.  Every 4 -5 pedal strokes, like clockwork.  Probably a chain link working loose, I'd examine it at the first control or cope with the consequences when it failed.

TSK got a puncture and I was too busy helping him to bother to look at my own bike until I had remembered and it was too late and we were standing on the side of a pass, a big wind and rain going on.  Down the other side and into Burnley.

As we descended into town, an Audi pulled out in front of us then proceeded to move slowwwwly down the road as I approached the rear bumper in the wet and I shouted, "Mooooove" to avoid running into the back of it.  As we drew side by side to go straight across at the roundabout the driver simultaneously stuck on an indicator and started to turn straight into me.  I braked, screamed and slid sideways all at once, fortunately managing to stay upright and scrub off enough speed to let them manoevre out of the way so I could straighten up and continue on my path.  As I stood on the pedals to get off the roundabout my chain snapped and I limped to the side of the road.  

My first instinct was to go and punch the living shit out of an audi driver or strangle them with the chain but fortunately it was too much effort to go into Morrison's car park so I set about calmly fixing the chain, except now my front light was inexplicably on and refusing to turn off too.  I say inexplicably, I changed the battery on it recently and, recognising that I'd never get the seal to go in place unbroken, have resigned myself to the fact that eventually this light will short-circuit itself one day - and this seemed to be the day.

I did the only thing possible, had a very short-lived break down then fixed the chain.

By the time I'd done (took a little longer as I wasn't taking my glove off for anyone), my light had turned itself back off.  I had a headtorch with me so not totally concerned if it wouldn't turn back on again but it was going to be uncomfortable and inconvenient later if it didn't.  

Riding out of Burnley, a woman in a black Skoda drove straight at me (in the bike lane) whilst staring straight at me - well on her way to using the bike lane edge as the give way line.  I looked her in the eyes and screamed, "What the fuck???" and she gave me the thumbs up and mouthed "sorry"... 

Funnily enough, it took her a long time to make her turn and have the guts to pass us.  In fact, I'm not even sure she did.

I was glad to leave Burnley and head for more hills.  Out through Nelson, where the peloton were pulling into a cafe, probably now half way through their speed-charged ride, ready to dry out a bit before heading home.  I on the other hand was still toasty warm and dry in my coat and settled into a 12 mph pace for the next 10 hours.

It's hard to imagine Nelson being so close to Burnley because Nelson is a precursor to Settle and we enjoyed the road between the two immensely although a number of drivers were taking more than a little liberty with space.  I complained that I didn't remember it being so busy last time and we recalled that it is half-term week and vowed not to do this ride on half-term week again.  On the plus side, a ray of sunshine, seen across the flat land valleys creeping across the rising hillside was starting to take hold and grow into some more meaningful relief from the persistent rain that had dogged us all morning.

Skip to the next paragraph if you're at all squeamish:  A steady stream of snot and sweat had been cursing down my top lip all morning.  Mostly, this infiltrated the edges of my mouth and drizzled over my lip and I licked it away and gulped it down.  If I was going to sweat and snot this hard, I was going to take up all the salt I could get.  So as we rode into Settle, yes my body was craving something other than the taste of my own body salts.  

Settle brought immense relief.  We'd both been getting hungry.  I'd been eating snacks - an entire energy bar and nuts too.  We locked up, stripped off the wet coats and settled in to cheese and chutney toasties, chips and coffee.

Who would have thought, coming out that we'd bump into a family friend?  

Po is quite small.  Yes, TSK is on his knees.

We frantically unlocked bikes to get going and tried to catch up with Po - very briefly - and take some selfies.  

TSK - who seemed to have come out with an empty Carradice - took my headtorch which I'd now put on battery charge to replace my light if necessary.

On up through the Limestone Steps of Clapham, Ingleton, past 3 Peaks landmarks and into Kirkby Lonsdale.  Not far to control 2 but on the A65, we were desperate to get away from the traffic.  A couple of short steep climbs told me that my legs were less than perfect now.  The week's strength session left them feeling somewhat lactic-ey.  But then all I needed to do was keep going.

To try to mitigate things, I made up the spare bottle I carry on my bike with energy drink powder and guzzled the lot down in one sitting.  That was needed then.  

We turned into the second control as part of a motorbike cavalcade and stopped to get our brevet cards stamped by willing volunteers.  As one of the few bits of the last ride I remember, it was nice to be here and not be on my knees, sending TSK off to get my card stamped by a reluctant burger-van owner.  I suspect by the time we arrived in 2012, we were either late or the organisers had given up on us.  This year the burger van was buzzing with activity, bikers queueing, kids damp from playing near the river were waiting for their burgers, drivers parked in the extended carpark were waiting for tea.  Four employees were working in the tiny caravan.  We had a brew, shared a cake and stocked up on a packet of crisps and a chocolate bar for later.

We retraced our steps by riding through the carpark, taking us as far as possible away from the main road before joining it and then turning off onto the more minor A 683 towards Hornby and Caton.  Finally, pleasurable relief from the traffic and no more mad over-taking manoevres. 

The sunshine had now well and truly taken hold and we enjoyed some wonderful shadows and silhouettes. 

At Caton we deviated from the published route to go onto even more minor roads, taking to the hills around Quernmore and the Trough of Bowland.  While the main road route is probably advisable on an icy February ride, we needed to stick away from Lancaster traffic and were happy to take on the extra elevation.  

Choices / choices

We finally crossed under the M6 at Forton Services and joined the A6 briefly before taking another cut off to Dolphinton to avoid the A6 horror, exiting onto the route further along.  Another turn-off which I nearly missed.  

Finally we were at Scorton for our afternoon tea (shall we call it that) which last year was a desperate affair again - in the setting sun, contemplating our demise out of time and worrying about a big finish.  This time, with the sun still high in the sky, I knew I had mostly saved my legs for the final climbs and, aware of what was to come, only had minor reservations that we were going to make it on time.  An 11 mph average would see us back in time so only mechanicals were going to interfere... and we had a tail wind.  I was hoping we had had our fair share of mechanicals and the tail wind was just a bonus.

Tea cake AND lemon meringue pie please.  And lovely lovely coffee.  The older guys trundled in behind us and one of the younger hipsters.

We set off in earnest, TSK giving me my charged headtorch back in case I needed it and I took back off him my pack of crisps and chocolate bar for when I needed those.  The next few miles were the best of the day, watching the sky turn golden then pink then rusty red as the city lights ahead, gleaming off the clouded sky took over from the sunset and a sliver of moon peeked out from underneath.

From Garstang it was over Longridge to Ribchester.  The first of the climbs.  On my mission to get us back in time, I purposefully let the legs go.  The tailwind kicked in and all the "saving myself" was over.  Time to let the legs do their thing.  I rode the hills with purpose and now TSK was staying behind me (as I had the nav), not darting past me and therefore over-cooking whilst I was being a bit slow and crap only to have to slow down whilst he waited for me and get cold.  I realised that if I am to get faster at doing this long-distance lark, I really need to keep developing these muscles I have discovered so that I can keep doing the big effort climbs for longer and keep the pressure on for longer instead of just letting the miles bob along uncheked.

Into Blackburn where we had very little trouble and next over to Rawtenstall and Haslingden moor where I'd previously had a melt-down in a driveway and only dried cranberries could help me.  This year it was TSK who needed to stop which I initially found a little draining after all my efforts but, realising I'd do better to meet my timescales if I wasn't dragging a tired TSK around, I actually quite enjoyed as we sat on a kerb watching the stars and eating our crisps as a random family of 6 plus a dog walked past drunk from the pub making comment on our flashing lights.

My vigour was renewed and I set about towing us over the next climb and letting TSK do the town navigational checks as my brain, not my body, started to let us down.  We were finally in Rochdale and not joining the M65 is a key skill we failed at last time and I almost failed on this time too.  

As we sped down a dual carriageway, being told by tits to "Gerrof the fucking road", we later passed another tit sitting in his motor on the grass verge, strips of chromed plastic littering the scene around the deep tyre ruts sunken into the turf as he sat, abandoned, like an antelope up to its belly in mud, just waiting for the crocodiles to come.  A passer-by was on his mobile, I assume helping out - if not, ringing his mates to laugh at the fella - so we assumed the situation was under control and kept riding.

I thanked TSK for stopping for crisps in case we had, otherwise, been at the scene of his whatever(drugs / drink / mobilephone)-fuelled excursion off the carriageway and onto the grass-verge.

It didn't make me feel anything though, but riding downhill at the end of the road, recognising the petrol station where we'd done our U-turn in the morning and taking the turn into the estate, carrying the name of the pub where we finished the ride, that made me feel good.  As did the free pie and peas laid on for all finishers and the quarter (half shared) pint of beer, that made me feel really good.

It was a ride of mixed emotions.  It had its truly uplifting moments - the sunset over Lancaster watching the sea and the distant view of Heysham Power station where I'll be working on Monday, the stars over Haslingden Moor.  I even enjoyed the rainy hill climbs through Todmorden and the sunny ones through North Yorkshire.  It was let down by the traffic, the shitbags and the prevalence for main roads - which I'd forgotten about from last time.  

If I were to choose a route to do on an icy day in February, this'd be it.  For it is sure to have been cleared and gritted.  However, I enjoyed the Poor Student more, for its complete and utter lostness in the countryside of the mid to South West.  There are plenty of lanes around the area where we were riding today which I would have enjoyed more - even if they are a bit steep for an early season ride.  

SO, despite the invitation from the organisers to see us back next year, I suspect I will only do so if it's not half term week and only if there's no other events on in February and it's nice to leave an event knowing that it will probably always be there if you need it but you're looking forwards to trying something else next time.  For as a dear friend once said, "If you don't like something the first time, try it again just to make sure".

Distance: 130miles

Time: 12hrs 41 mins (11 hrs riding) 

El: 1044m

Splits:

1. 44.3 mile 12.7 mph HR 138
2. 52 minute cafe break!
3. 16.4 mile 12 mph HR 133
4. 16 mins tea break
5. 24.2 mile 11.6 mph HR 129
6. 22 mins tea stop
7. 43 miles 11.73 mph last big hill HR 137

Total time: 12:36.  Riding time: 10:46 ish

The Poor Student

The weekend of the Poor Student started with a night in the Travelodge at Pear Tree services.  Whilst I'd been expecting to stay with Silver Linings, they had been poorly with the 24 hour vomiting bug so I checked into a hotel which was not an inconvenience as it was right at the start of the Audax and my car park ticket cost me £4 for the 24 hours I was going to be parked in Oxford, giving me ample time to sleep, finish the ride and even have a drink with my fellow riders before heading over to see Sil the next day.

The duvet was warm in the Travelodge - even when I tried to sleep with the window open and it took me a while to figure out that sleeping was only going to happen with the dry electric heater on and with me inside the cotton duvet cover wearing a bath towel for insulation and lying on top of the excessively warm duvet.  Not the best night's sleep, though I did wake early enough to be in plenty of time for registration.

On the day, I went off kind of quick with the early wave, held wheels, had a chat and eventually dropped back a little until I dropped my chain and got passed by - what seemed like - everyone.  I rode hard for a little bit and gradually picked off a few on the climbs.

I met Alan, who introduced us to the HT550 in 2014 whilst I was training for Celtman and we regaled each other with stories from then and other long distance races we've done.  Only 3 years ago and yet seems like 10.

At Malmesbury I watched some of the other riders coming straight back out, having turned around their control already at the CO-op in town.  I just wasn't feeling sociable and didn't know whether I needed to eat or not.  

A very hoggy pub.

A coffee seemed more important so I got my receipt from the pub, the barman now getting a bit bored of serving coffee and paper receipts and then I popped into a sewing shop to see if they had a zip I have been looking for (no).  

Outside Malmesbury I snacked on an apple and goji berries that were in my bag.  Some were still arriving as I departed.  I caught up a recumbent for a while and we chatted on the lanes until things started getting hilly and I pulled ahead.  

The lanes were mucky and the climbs, long, slow and relentless into a headwind.  Still, I was managing to clock 10 or 11 miles per hour which was an improvement on the festive 500s 5 or 6mph.

Top!

There was a trig at the top of the route which cued off a hankering for a long descent into the finish but it never seemed to come.  There were a few diversions for food appearing but I remained stoic and stuck to the route and my snacks, though ignoring Claire Hall's favourite haunt of Cheddy cake shop was becoming pretty tiring.  I wasn't going to starve but I was getting a hankering for something more lunch-like than berries, cashews and apples.

Through Draycott Manor, groups I'd left behind in Malmesbury passed me again, having a chat on the way.  Alan chatted for a while and introduced me to Mike who had sat on my wheel through Cirencester, taking advantage of my GPS to navigate his turns.  He introduced Mike by saying, "we failed together in Italy".  Huragh - an experience shared I guess.

I let them go as I counted down the miles to Chipping Campden.  Finally there, I stocked up on cash and found the coffee shop but was disappointed to find that they weren't doing lunch at 2:45 pm.  Having locked up my bike, I ate as much as was possible from the bread / cake products - tea cake and scone - and drank tea.  By the time I was leaving at 3:30, the twenteens had stopped serving all together because the server was leaving and the other girl was washing up ahead of the 4 pm closing time.  I sent the arriving hungry riders around the corner to the tea shop which still seemed to be doing a roaring trade.

I reminded myself of my own rule to only eat in cafes employing adult staff, though not necessarily possible at a cafe buried within a complex of bijoux workshops churning out candles, art, jewellery and gift boxes.

I suffered onwards, drifting in and out of company until I finally rolled into Moreton le Marsh.  At first I recognised the one-way system from my rides with Bex, then I recognised the Budgens!  Saviour!

I locked my bike up, raided the take-out food shelves and sat on the bench in the warm shop, one eye on my bike whilst I demolished a salmon sandwich and zipped a mars bar into my very handy sleeve pocket for later.

Back out on the road I cycled alone for quite some time.  Always with the reassuring glow of someone else's light 400m ahead of me.  

At one point I caught up Mike for a while.  He briefly sat on my wheel then came back around me and rode off into the distance.  Clearly not one to be beaten back by a woman.  

I caught up a small man in a red coat and said, "Is it just me or are we finally going downhill?"  

"I can't hear you, got my MP3 player on", he said.  Clearly he didn't want to chat as he didn't take his ear buds out but happily sat on my wheel for the next 10 miles.  He was joined by another more talkative chap who also wheel-hogged but at least occasionally teased into empathetic conversation when we got passed by a couple of Rapha riders belting out a fine pace so late in the day.

It does a lot for a girl's ego to tow two men to the finish.

Only with 4 miles to go did we see a sign for Oxford and counted down the distance to Pear-tree park n ride.

To emphasise doing this ride without TSK, I muttered, "We made it".  

A voice next to me said, "Yeah, but I think I left my feet out on the course somewhere".  

"I think you'll probably find that you left them in the car this morning".  It was nice to end a ride on a laugh.

Instead of going straight to the services with the others, I turned into the Travelodge, threw my bike in the car, changed into trainers and dry hat, gloves and socks.  Then I walked over to the petrol station and grabbed a revolting-sounding toffee caramel flavoured milkshake (all the chocolate ones had already gone).

Although I was going to grab and go, suddenly the chairs in the petrol station looked much more comfortable than my saddle.  I sat down to drink my milkshake, joined by another rider.  He was about my age, taller, bigger in stature and quite out of breath.  

"Did you sprint in?" I asked.  "No... just... such a hard day... how do you look so composed?!"

I think I have made "it".  "Just a ride", I thought.  "Pacing" I said.

He was new to it.  He admitted he had been foolish enough to arrange to go out to the cinema later.  I doubted he would see the film and he worried about seizing up in the car and getting cramp in the cinema.  I recommended the toffee milkshake which he consumed with gusto and set off for his appointment with sleeping to the accompaniment of bright lights and loud Dolby surround-sound in a room filled with strangers.

I threw on my dry robe and drove over to Sil's house, having to stop on the way to re-programme the satnav as I had used the beginning of her post code combined with the end of the Audax start post code.  Luckily I was only out by 2 miles and I arrived, dishevelled and smelly to a massive hug, a pile of chilli and rice and a wonderful hot shower.  Dogs sat on me and I slithered into sleep in Freya's day bed.  

Nothing, absolutely nothing woke me.

Splits

1. 48.11 mile 15.2 mph HR 151 to chipping campden
2. 31mins cafe break!
3. 41 mile 10.9 mph HR 133 Lots of smaller hills to be blown up
4. 24 mins tea break
5. 7 mile 16.25 mph downhill HR 125 to Moreton
6. 20 mins shop stop impromptu
7. 28.7 miles 12.1 mph HR 129

Total time: 11:39.  Riding time: 10:20