I've been for a long walk and a swim today. In the river in our valley.
Decisions have been made and now I feel great.
This is less of a blog and more of a tweet length.
Potentially the decisions will change but for now they feel right.
Showing posts with label Chasing dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chasing dreams. Show all posts
Saturday, May 20, 2023
Friday, April 13, 2018
Garminge
I got a new Garmin last week and took it out for a ride on Saturday. A little ride as I was still recovering from Newport 200k but a hilly ride nevertheless and I threw some speed at it to make it count... and because I had a massage appointment to make in the afternoon and didn't want to turn up all sweaty.
I watched my heart rate, mostly because I am interested in increasing the length of time I can ride over zone 3 in any particular day.
On this particular day though, I sat royally above zone 3 most of the ride. Which was odd. Even on a 23 hour ride, I only managed 90 minutes above zone 3 and though my wrist monitor was not picking up most of the peaks, I didn't expect them to have been that numerous or long in duration to make much of a difference... and they'd still be caught by the zone 3 radar.
Back home I've checked the new zone settings onthe new Garmin - in theory they should be those of an average 45 year old hag.
And my own person settings on my Sports Track Ap...
Of course, now that I have properly syncd the computer, it's not quite right, they match. Cue one average hack.
Which led me to check what they should be:
On simple percentage theory.
So at the low end I'm giving myself more HRs to play with but when I hit the zones I've been trying to improve, I'm setting my limits a little too low.
I've gone back to basics and using last weekend's ride to calc LTH (It wasn't really a hard enough ride but hey ho, at least it has reliable recent data) we get LTH = 175.6. At least, that's what I was blowing going up the steepest section of Mam Nick, in control and sustained for 5:41 with a bloke dangling off my back wheel who eventually couldn't hang on. So I'm average. Which is actually slightly fitter than my settings on my ST software.
I studiously recorded the date that I set these - 16th March 2016 - when I was taking qualifying rather seriously, overcookked myself and left little motivation available for racing with, if I'm honest. I used to set these based on Cyclo-cross performance when I'm doing all my racing but actually, I'm probably not as fit as I am when I'm in the middle of a triathlon season or late summer mountain biking - and those heart rates were set before I discovered Alps and bike packing and rediscovered long distance riding and Oh so much water has gone under the bridge!
Before that, my heart rate settings were also depressingly low... those of a 49 year old, though in the year I was recovering from a PE, not surprising.
So there you go. For some reason I down graded my max HR to 169 and gave myself a HR age of 51. Not that there's anything wrong with 51 year olds but I'm not one. So today I'll change the clock again. Recalibrate myself... and find out just how much time I can spend in a new zone.
The thing is, now my head is spinning. Am I fitter than I thought I was, or not? I'm fitter than I'd claimed but just average but I'm happy with average, if average is fit... I mean most average people don't give a shit what their heart rate zones are right? Which means I'm average for a fit person and as someone who's generally presumed myself to be below average, that's in improvement. My endurance at higher zones is less than I thought it was... but all that time I was in a higher zone on the flat, I wasn't really.
Changing numbers doesn't make me fitter. In fact, it proves I've been training less hard! I'm not going to recover any quicker, even though my predicted recovery times will probably now be lower.
When I do set out train hard though, it will at least mean something - not nothing.
I watched my heart rate, mostly because I am interested in increasing the length of time I can ride over zone 3 in any particular day.
On this particular day though, I sat royally above zone 3 most of the ride. Which was odd. Even on a 23 hour ride, I only managed 90 minutes above zone 3 and though my wrist monitor was not picking up most of the peaks, I didn't expect them to have been that numerous or long in duration to make much of a difference... and they'd still be caught by the zone 3 radar.
Back home I've checked the new zone settings onthe new Garmin - in theory they should be those of an average 45 year old hag.
Of course, now that I have properly syncd the computer, it's not quite right, they match. Cue one average hack.
Which led me to check what they should be:
On simple percentage theory.
So at the low end I'm giving myself more HRs to play with but when I hit the zones I've been trying to improve, I'm setting my limits a little too low.
I've gone back to basics and using last weekend's ride to calc LTH (It wasn't really a hard enough ride but hey ho, at least it has reliable recent data) we get LTH = 175.6. At least, that's what I was blowing going up the steepest section of Mam Nick, in control and sustained for 5:41 with a bloke dangling off my back wheel who eventually couldn't hang on. So I'm average. Which is actually slightly fitter than my settings on my ST software.
I studiously recorded the date that I set these - 16th March 2016 - when I was taking qualifying rather seriously, overcookked myself and left little motivation available for racing with, if I'm honest. I used to set these based on Cyclo-cross performance when I'm doing all my racing but actually, I'm probably not as fit as I am when I'm in the middle of a triathlon season or late summer mountain biking - and those heart rates were set before I discovered Alps and bike packing and rediscovered long distance riding and Oh so much water has gone under the bridge!
Before that, my heart rate settings were also depressingly low... those of a 49 year old, though in the year I was recovering from a PE, not surprising.
So there you go. For some reason I down graded my max HR to 169 and gave myself a HR age of 51. Not that there's anything wrong with 51 year olds but I'm not one. So today I'll change the clock again. Recalibrate myself... and find out just how much time I can spend in a new zone.
The thing is, now my head is spinning. Am I fitter than I thought I was, or not? I'm fitter than I'd claimed but just average but I'm happy with average, if average is fit... I mean most average people don't give a shit what their heart rate zones are right? Which means I'm average for a fit person and as someone who's generally presumed myself to be below average, that's in improvement. My endurance at higher zones is less than I thought it was... but all that time I was in a higher zone on the flat, I wasn't really.
Changing numbers doesn't make me fitter. In fact, it proves I've been training less hard! I'm not going to recover any quicker, even though my predicted recovery times will probably now be lower.
When I do set out train hard though, it will at least mean something - not nothing.
Sunday, March 18, 2018
The Dean 300km Audax: The First Attempt
10 days before The Dean ride, pleasant 12 degrees C temperatures were forecast. As the week passed, the weather warnings started rolling in for snow and high winds but my determination was set. I duly blinkered myself to the forecast, hoping it would be over-stated dramatism on behalf of the Met. Marcus Scotney tried to dampen my spirits by sharing the, "windchill to minus 5" domesday scenario but I just packed more clothes.
We checked into the travel lodge on Friday afternoon at about 3pm. Plenty of time for faffing and it was rife. I hadn't had too much time to sort my bike out and a few changes that I had made in the week had not been ridden on yet. There was that annoying low squeaking sound that came from the front brakes from time to time but not often enough to remind me about. There were batteries to protect Garmins against the cold and food to pack and locks to sort and a saddle position that I hadn't really tested in anger.
The Travel Lodge was a steamy nightmare and not in a good couples relationship way. I gave up on TSK as a bed partner at 2am and crawled under the desk onto my roll mat and sleeping bag (prepared for such a scenario) to get myself a solid 3 hours sleep before the alarm went off at 5am. I was solidly grumpy when it did.
We hardly spoke two words to each other as we breakfasted dressed and headed to the start but it was only through lack of enthusiasm and no disrespect was intended. He asked, as we departed with the group, if I'd locked the car and I said I hadn't. He gracefully set off back to the car park to lock the new car as I rode along with the group. We were split at a merge off the roundabout and, getting dropped further back, I put in an effort to get around the only other lady rider and two men, onto the back of 6 or so other riders at "the front". After a few short minutes I concluded that the pace was too fast and dropped off. Maintained a pace for a while as the other lady caught me but she was of a mind to sit on my wheel rather than chat so I decided to stop, sort out my saddle position which was feeling a little crooked and wait for TSK.
He arrived, asking if I was alright as I tooled around with my saddle and we plodded along together for a while until he announced that he was diverting later in to Tewkesbury to buy some new cycling shorts since he'd neglected to pack any and was presently riding in boxers... and big fleecy leggings. I sent him on his merry way and proceeded to be left further and further behind.
As it started to snow I was met by two American accented riders asking, "Are you doing this crazy snowy bike ride then?" One was fully bagged up and looked like he'd been out overnight but no, they were riding my event and he'd just ridden up from Cambridge the previous day for kicks. They were late to the start. They also left me for dust.
Eventually I reached a rail crossing.
It was closed.
I looked.
No trains left, no trains right.
I checked the route.
And waited.
And waited.
I decided I had time to check out those brakes. To my frustration I realised that one of the front brake pads was sitting solidly against the brake disc. Not enough to make a substantial noise (except very occasionally with just the right pressure) but enough to have imposed a substantial resistance against the front wheel for the past 20 miles. I pressed the lap button to depress myself into finding out approximately just how much difference. Actually, 1.4 miles per hour of difference.
I'd averaged 10.7 mph (level crossings counted) and was presently running a risk of missing the time check for the first checkpoint. I got a wiggle on and then the snow got more serious. I resentfully relented to change my coat and put on my rain legs to protect my quads from the cold and wet. If I was going to be out all day, I was damn well going to be comfortable.
It was snowing so hard I resorted to putting my hood under my helmet - partly to keep my hair dry but also to add the peak to my helmet to stop the snow getting in my eyes as it blizzarded down. This was not light snow.
When it finally relented and I changed back into a lighter coat (but left the rain legs on to last the day) it was pleasing to see a gentle coating of snow all around making the landscape a whiter shade of pale and defining the Malverns in the distance which suddenly looked like proper mountains.
I almost rolled out the other side of Stow-on-the-Wold, swearing as I detoured via the Tesco for the guarantee of a quick Mars Bar and a receipt from the Kiosk and customer toilets. I was within 30 minutes of the time limit and a bit on the edge. Andrew had texted me to say he would be in the cafe in Newent as I was arriving and I should look for him there.
Onwards then to a new country and Newent, over the Welsh Border.
I crossed the river Leadon on my way to Newent... or rather the river nearly crossed me. Sandstone red water lapped at the road's edge and flood warnings hinted of what was soon to come. The water swelled under the limited bridge space, boiling from the other side like stale blood. As I thanked my way across the concourse which felt more like the Mont Saint Michelle sliproad than a B-road in rural Gloucestershire, a full-on fire engine roared the other way past me and I hankered down, shoulders braced to the rush of wind following it across the "bridge". Was there any more insane traffic this ride could throw at me?
I missed the "Welcome to Wales" sign - or there isn't one. In my rush to get away from Stow, I reasoned with myself I would need 3 hours to do the 38 miles. I then forgot all this and decided that the cut off time was at 11:30, not my intended arrival time. I spent the last 30 minutes absolutely burying myself trying to make up the time and avoid being late. I couldn't even get bottom gear and I powered up all the hills. There was no time for stopping now! I rolled into Newent at 11:28 and as soon as I arrived realised what I had done. I had made up 1 hour slack in the time periods but in doing so I had nearly destroyed my legs. TSK was impressed by my time. Me less so. He left, I sat down to my early lunch to ponder my life choices over cake and lasagne.
This time I got my papers out and had a proper look and a proper plan. My next stop was Chepstow - where one can chose between the town and the services 10km away on the other side of the Severn Bridge. TSK and I agreed that the services would be best as the bridge would be cold and windy and therefore we would not want to do it when cold, having just stepped out of a nice warm Chepstow cafe. It seemed like a good plan.
The ride into Chepstow was enchanting. Distant views of the Malverns, Highland Cow standing face into the wind on the hillsides above the Severn estuary, some icicle bushes - where passing motorists had splashed water into the bushes which had frozen into a labyrinth of inch long tentacles dangling precariously from the evergreen leaves. I continued to mash my way up hills in too-big a gear until eventually I decided I needed to stop and fix it.
As I huddled over my bike, a whippet came past and asked if I was OK. "Fine thanks" I said, "just messing with my gears". As I looked up I realised he was wearing shorts. I sent him on his way. Jesus, don't get cold, but thanks for asking, like!
The descent to Chepstow was close on Epic for the conditions and my hands turned to solid ice so I could hardly brake.
Then Chepstow hit. It was familiar from times I have dropped off TSK for the 600km Brian Chapman Memorial ride and brought back bad memories of another sleepless night in a hotel room that was too hot. I circulated the one-way system with a BMW that I was to see three more times in town as I bypassed the bypass clearly and he got stuck at light after light, frustrated by this blue cyclist that kept crossing his path.
Finally I climbed up the wall out of Chepstow. Still, there was warmth in my hands - finally - and then I dropped down to a dual carriage way again, saw the BMW one more time as I joined the bike path to the Severn Bridge and then the biggest challenge of the day.
The 40 mph North Westerly winds had struck and there was me, riding West / East across a fucking motorway suspension bridge. As I angled 35 degrees into the wind, riding exactly 1m from the edge of the bike lane to avoid colliding with the 2 inch twists of steel separating me from the rest of the motorway, the breeze blew a b-flat note through the eyelets of the holding bolts. No other cyclists were to be seen, just two stoic motorcyclists passed the other way, cautiously doing 10 mph past me. I held my breath, squealed just a little bit every time the wind tugged my front wheel taking me two feet closer to those steel ropes and each time I wobbled back violently towards the edge. The steel pillars and maintenance gurneys offering me occasional let up - but not much. It felt like I didn't breathe again until I got to the other side. No, I didn't breathe again. I laughed. I had survived it.
99 miles done, and I wasn't even suffering 100 mile bottom.
I couldn't quite believe it was 99 miles. It felt like lunchtime. Possibly because lunchtime is when I'm normally half way through a ride. Possibly because I ate a toastie and a large hot chocolate. The waitress asked if I wanted large, I said, "I'd say yes to anything you offer me right now."
Some riders were lurking in the corner, "I'll try anything once", I said, "but that is something I don't want to repeat in a hurry". They laughed. They knew exactly what I meant. When I sat down to eat I was shivering. I hadn't been cold outside but stopping indoors was doing nothing to warm me up sufficiently. Only the consumption of hot items was working. My rest stops were clearly necessary now.
I textd TSK. He said I wasn't far behind him and he'd probably wait for me at Waitrose at Malmesbury. I thought that'd be nice, as I ate my food but then I didn't want him to wait and miss the cut off and I didn't want him to think I didn't want him to wait so I didn't send a reply. I didn't want to miss out on my stop at Chepstow - I couldn't. I was really starting to need my break by then. The climb into Chepstow had been hard and the bridge harder.
I'd lost time on my way to Chepstow too. I was back to being 30 minutes ahead of time - although I'd ridden an extra 10km since the control to get to the services, I still counted myself as a little late when I left the services at bang-on the cut-off time. If I were to lose any more time to - for example - a mechanical or a longer stop, then that would be it for my day.
As I rode out of Chepstow services, the wind started to pull at the electrical pylons and cables, making whistling and whining noises. I plunged into the beautiful Forest of Dean, thankful of its shelter from the 40 mph gusts as the wind rustled the trees but not me. I shared a moment with a roe deer as we made eye contact across a clearing. Her eyeing me with intrigue and calm - ready to bound away if necessary but sure of her ability to outrun me and my mechanical device. She was absolutely right to be sure of herself as I hauled myself and my load up the hill.
Note to self - secure locks on audaxes may make me more relaxed but only serve to extend, not shorten, the time I spend in cafe's.
There were few vehicles in the forest which made it a very special place to be. In fact I wondered why there weren't more people around. Farmers don't stop for the weather though and after exiting the forest I had my third scary traffic encounter for the day as I squeezed into a high-sided verge to allow a tractor carrying two hay bails on spikes to pass precariously close, shedding the loose straw from his load out of the trees and onto my head. That's it, I was done with traffic.
Soon I was fighting my way up to the Somerset monument, staring at my Garmin OS Map as the reality of a chevronned climb (that's >14% or 1 in 7). I made a deal with myself that if I rode this I could walk up Hackpen Hill later when it got dark and was snowing. It seemed like a good deal and just as I was about to slalom it to take the steepness out, a motorist obliged and kept me on the straight and narrow.
I had reached the top of the world for a while. I swore at the monument before commencing my down hill to Malmesbury and hoping the rain would hold off. It didn't and by the time I was joining a folorn looking TSK, it had started to snow again. I inadvertently left my glove outside and joined TSK in the cafe for dinner - which turned out to be quick but insignificant (cheese and bacon pannini) and a desperately needed fresh fruit salad. It's amazing how a day subsiding on scooby snacks suddenly encourages a healthy desire for vitamins.
We left Malmesbury control dead on time again. I was happy I now had a navigator to follow - I'd already made a few minor navigational errors on my own. Whilst I had quickly spotted them, retracing my pedal strokes, even a few tens of metres was time-consuming.
I also let myself go in terms of planning and effort though - not knowing when we had to be at the next control or how far away it was, I stopped pushing myself nearly as hard. That said, with it snowing and the effort I'd already put in to not much gain, I don't think I could have gotten more out of myself. I always had it in the back of my head that Hackpen Hill was to come and for that I would need all of my energy.
We left Malmesbury in the dark and snow, now eating into our time to do the next stage as we were well after the cut off time when we left. We were onto familiar territory now and as we passed through the back of Wootton Bassett I was drawn top stop by the old house, take a look at the place but we had no time. Instead, we had those climbs. The approach to Broad Town hill went remarkably well. Even the climb went well. The drop off the back was fine.
TSK gave me options - do we really want to do Hackpen hill? As the snow came down around us, I resolutely dismissed the option of riding into Swindon to get on a train to Oxford. I'd battled hard to get this far and wasn't prepared to throw in the towel yet - time cut offs or not. At least the experience from this 300 would inform the next.
Even Hackpen hill was fine but as the tyres started to slide out from underneath us in the snow which was now settling on the road, we both got off and walked to the top.
The ride into Marlborough was familiar. Flashbacks to 10 years ago, watching santa arrive at the golf club in his helicopter to bring all the rich kids their Christmas presents. We dug out some food to eat - TSK initiated it and I ate crisps wearing gloves which largely amounted to me stuffing my face into the open mouth of the packet and forcing as many broken crisps into my gob as possible without dropping them on the floor. A passing pissed woman exclaimed, "OH MY GOD BIKES!" in the darkness whiwch I took as an expression of awe.
One climb back over the ridgeway into Sparsholt led us to the descent off the back into the Lambourne downs which was slow and un-enjoyable. In days gone by I loved these roads for the plentiful cornflowers, lavender and lush green fields of the horse race tracks, offset by bright white fences and dirt tracks across the side of the ridgeway. All I could see was darkness and flecks of white - mesmerising, sparkling but - essentially dull, repetitive and cold.
As I shimmied down the hill a little behind for some reason, I saw a bike on its side in the road. There were clearly two people and hoped that no-one was hurt. Thankfully, the downed bike was in a layby, the rider having just repaired a puncture and being ready to set off on his way. Knowing he was OK and unable to stop because of the cold, I continued - suddenly aware of how vulnerable we were. If I had a puncture in those conditions, I would not have been able to get going again. Even if I had managed to successfully change a tube without puncturing (my record for new tyres, even indoors, is not a strong one), I doubt my hands would have been good for much for a long time after and, given the shivering I had experienced at each of the last 2 controls, I was starting to have serious concerns for the rest of my body.
I pushed hard to reach Membury. I couldn't remember the cut-off time here but thought it was around 11pm. We rolled through the gate at 10:54 and crossed the grass directly to the petrol station. I hardly picked up my electronics off the bike - instead whipping up to the counter with my wallet and procuring a fruit juice and a receipt.
I then followed this up with an order for tea.
I couldn't actually eat anything and started to shiver again.
The tea went some way to warming me up but was too hot to drink and offset by the fruit juice out of the fridge. Now I started to feel sick too - properly sick. TSK ate a sandwich. I thought that was a great idea but just couldn't face it. Instead I went to the toilets and stood under the hand drier for an inordinate length of time. It felt good and genuinely went a long way to remove moisture from my leggings and around my midriff and lower back. I then had a pee, washed my hands and dried them some more for a long time before returning to finish my tea.
Before leaving, I shook out four heat pads - one for each glove and one for each shoe. I changed into dry socks and changed my wool jersey for a dry one.
As we were preparing to leave, the other rider with the puncture rolled by and into the main services.
We didn't see him again and assume he booked into the Travel Lodge there for the night. It'a good job I didn't realise this as I might have been tempted to do the same. Still, despite my temptation to call for a taxi, I did not. We dressed for success and I even changed out of my rain legs and into my long waterproof trousers to at least keep the wind off my whole legs now.
It worked. I rolled out of Membury feeling toasty warm. I downed an excessively sugary drink I'd made up and proceeded then into Stanford in the Vale where we had to collect the colour of a bench in the village as proof of passage before rolling out across the flatlands and back into Oxfordshire. It was an absolute pleasure to know we had no more major climbs to face. This walking through the snow was starting to get tedious.
Normally we'd avoid A-roads like the plague but at 2am the A 420 was practically dead. The traffic that was passing was not at all threatening, despite being confined to a single clear lane by the snow. Everyone gave us loads of room and riding here was much safer than risking a slide and a crash on deserted B-roads. Normally there's nothing quite like seeing your first road sign indicating the distance to your final destination. Sadly, when you're on the A-420, the first sign for Oxford that we saw still had 9 miles to go. 9 very long miles. Even then, when we reached the pubs and clubs of Oxford, the burger vans, the late night taxis, the Travel Lodge was still around 4 miles down a long and boring town road, now riddled with potholes and seams and slippery white lines hidden underneath the snow.
Our completion time limit came and went. Our guestimated 20 minutes late time came and went. TSK wanted to stop and get his proof of passage receipt earlier than the finish point - legitimate for this ride, but I could not stop. The prospect of spending two minutes in the cold with my body temperature continuously dropping was horrific and I continued to ride all the way to the hotel, pausing only to get a cash machine statement before crossing the road with the intention of falling into bed.
Of course this was when the real challenge began - out waiting the employee on the desk who was - possibly just intrigued - by what we were going to do with the bikes we wheeled onto the mat to drip and drop snow just like your average workman's boot. We semi undressed in the public foyer, took a stash of free newspapers into our room and then waited with another cup of hot tea for the boy to stop doing whatever he was going and at least go to the toilet / go to bed.
As soon as his back was turned we had bikes inside in a shot and safely stowed on opened-out newspapers to drip the night away. Although there was a slightly damp carpet, we didn't make a mark and left the place clean and tidy the next day.
We took it in turns to shower / stand by the heater then fell into bed at 3am. Propped up by life and the wonderful travel lodge policy which meant we didn't have to check out until 12, we slept until 9am then got up, loaded the van and drove home as soon as we could. Mainly to mitigate the time it would take our fatigued minds to drive through windy conditions and partly to out-run the potential mass exodus of business workers who are contractually obliged to travel on a Friday and a Sunday every week.
With only one driver change-over we surprised ourselves with our expedient arrival at home.
Have I spent the last two days recovering from an Audax-induced hangover? Hell yes.
Did I want to do another? A snowy one - no. Not doing that again in a month of snowy Sundays. It hurt. TSK agreed that I'd done 400km effort. Too big a step, too much risk if anything went wrong. Next time I'd just cancel.
A 300km - yes. I'm glad I've popped the 300k cherry. Keen to do another one because I know I can get inside the time limit given normal conditions, no minus -9 degrees wind chill next time.
I've learned lessons about what I can carry on this distance ride and still hope to make any time limits imposed. My big lock is not one of those things - though plenty of other stuff will still come with me for comfort levels. If we're going to call Audax speed training for long distance then let's do that. I can work on my load carrying capacity elsewhere. SO here's to Skeggy - hoping - for my next 300km event.
I'm looking forward to it.
Split analysis:
We checked into the travel lodge on Friday afternoon at about 3pm. Plenty of time for faffing and it was rife. I hadn't had too much time to sort my bike out and a few changes that I had made in the week had not been ridden on yet. There was that annoying low squeaking sound that came from the front brakes from time to time but not often enough to remind me about. There were batteries to protect Garmins against the cold and food to pack and locks to sort and a saddle position that I hadn't really tested in anger.
The Travel Lodge was a steamy nightmare and not in a good couples relationship way. I gave up on TSK as a bed partner at 2am and crawled under the desk onto my roll mat and sleeping bag (prepared for such a scenario) to get myself a solid 3 hours sleep before the alarm went off at 5am. I was solidly grumpy when it did.
We hardly spoke two words to each other as we breakfasted dressed and headed to the start but it was only through lack of enthusiasm and no disrespect was intended. He asked, as we departed with the group, if I'd locked the car and I said I hadn't. He gracefully set off back to the car park to lock the new car as I rode along with the group. We were split at a merge off the roundabout and, getting dropped further back, I put in an effort to get around the only other lady rider and two men, onto the back of 6 or so other riders at "the front". After a few short minutes I concluded that the pace was too fast and dropped off. Maintained a pace for a while as the other lady caught me but she was of a mind to sit on my wheel rather than chat so I decided to stop, sort out my saddle position which was feeling a little crooked and wait for TSK.
He arrived, asking if I was alright as I tooled around with my saddle and we plodded along together for a while until he announced that he was diverting later in to Tewkesbury to buy some new cycling shorts since he'd neglected to pack any and was presently riding in boxers... and big fleecy leggings. I sent him on his merry way and proceeded to be left further and further behind.
As it started to snow I was met by two American accented riders asking, "Are you doing this crazy snowy bike ride then?" One was fully bagged up and looked like he'd been out overnight but no, they were riding my event and he'd just ridden up from Cambridge the previous day for kicks. They were late to the start. They also left me for dust.
Eventually I reached a rail crossing.
It was closed.
I looked.
No trains left, no trains right.
I checked the route.
And waited.
And waited.
I decided I had time to check out those brakes. To my frustration I realised that one of the front brake pads was sitting solidly against the brake disc. Not enough to make a substantial noise (except very occasionally with just the right pressure) but enough to have imposed a substantial resistance against the front wheel for the past 20 miles. I pressed the lap button to depress myself into finding out approximately just how much difference. Actually, 1.4 miles per hour of difference.
I'd averaged 10.7 mph (level crossings counted) and was presently running a risk of missing the time check for the first checkpoint. I got a wiggle on and then the snow got more serious. I resentfully relented to change my coat and put on my rain legs to protect my quads from the cold and wet. If I was going to be out all day, I was damn well going to be comfortable.
It was snowing so hard I resorted to putting my hood under my helmet - partly to keep my hair dry but also to add the peak to my helmet to stop the snow getting in my eyes as it blizzarded down. This was not light snow.
When it finally relented and I changed back into a lighter coat (but left the rain legs on to last the day) it was pleasing to see a gentle coating of snow all around making the landscape a whiter shade of pale and defining the Malverns in the distance which suddenly looked like proper mountains.
I almost rolled out the other side of Stow-on-the-Wold, swearing as I detoured via the Tesco for the guarantee of a quick Mars Bar and a receipt from the Kiosk and customer toilets. I was within 30 minutes of the time limit and a bit on the edge. Andrew had texted me to say he would be in the cafe in Newent as I was arriving and I should look for him there.
Onwards then to a new country and Newent, over the Welsh Border.
I crossed the river Leadon on my way to Newent... or rather the river nearly crossed me. Sandstone red water lapped at the road's edge and flood warnings hinted of what was soon to come. The water swelled under the limited bridge space, boiling from the other side like stale blood. As I thanked my way across the concourse which felt more like the Mont Saint Michelle sliproad than a B-road in rural Gloucestershire, a full-on fire engine roared the other way past me and I hankered down, shoulders braced to the rush of wind following it across the "bridge". Was there any more insane traffic this ride could throw at me?
I missed the "Welcome to Wales" sign - or there isn't one. In my rush to get away from Stow, I reasoned with myself I would need 3 hours to do the 38 miles. I then forgot all this and decided that the cut off time was at 11:30, not my intended arrival time. I spent the last 30 minutes absolutely burying myself trying to make up the time and avoid being late. I couldn't even get bottom gear and I powered up all the hills. There was no time for stopping now! I rolled into Newent at 11:28 and as soon as I arrived realised what I had done. I had made up 1 hour slack in the time periods but in doing so I had nearly destroyed my legs. TSK was impressed by my time. Me less so. He left, I sat down to my early lunch to ponder my life choices over cake and lasagne.
This time I got my papers out and had a proper look and a proper plan. My next stop was Chepstow - where one can chose between the town and the services 10km away on the other side of the Severn Bridge. TSK and I agreed that the services would be best as the bridge would be cold and windy and therefore we would not want to do it when cold, having just stepped out of a nice warm Chepstow cafe. It seemed like a good plan.
The ride into Chepstow was enchanting. Distant views of the Malverns, Highland Cow standing face into the wind on the hillsides above the Severn estuary, some icicle bushes - where passing motorists had splashed water into the bushes which had frozen into a labyrinth of inch long tentacles dangling precariously from the evergreen leaves. I continued to mash my way up hills in too-big a gear until eventually I decided I needed to stop and fix it.
As I huddled over my bike, a whippet came past and asked if I was OK. "Fine thanks" I said, "just messing with my gears". As I looked up I realised he was wearing shorts. I sent him on his way. Jesus, don't get cold, but thanks for asking, like!
The descent to Chepstow was close on Epic for the conditions and my hands turned to solid ice so I could hardly brake.
Then Chepstow hit. It was familiar from times I have dropped off TSK for the 600km Brian Chapman Memorial ride and brought back bad memories of another sleepless night in a hotel room that was too hot. I circulated the one-way system with a BMW that I was to see three more times in town as I bypassed the bypass clearly and he got stuck at light after light, frustrated by this blue cyclist that kept crossing his path.
Finally I climbed up the wall out of Chepstow. Still, there was warmth in my hands - finally - and then I dropped down to a dual carriage way again, saw the BMW one more time as I joined the bike path to the Severn Bridge and then the biggest challenge of the day.
The 40 mph North Westerly winds had struck and there was me, riding West / East across a fucking motorway suspension bridge. As I angled 35 degrees into the wind, riding exactly 1m from the edge of the bike lane to avoid colliding with the 2 inch twists of steel separating me from the rest of the motorway, the breeze blew a b-flat note through the eyelets of the holding bolts. No other cyclists were to be seen, just two stoic motorcyclists passed the other way, cautiously doing 10 mph past me. I held my breath, squealed just a little bit every time the wind tugged my front wheel taking me two feet closer to those steel ropes and each time I wobbled back violently towards the edge. The steel pillars and maintenance gurneys offering me occasional let up - but not much. It felt like I didn't breathe again until I got to the other side. No, I didn't breathe again. I laughed. I had survived it.
99 miles done, and I wasn't even suffering 100 mile bottom.
I couldn't quite believe it was 99 miles. It felt like lunchtime. Possibly because lunchtime is when I'm normally half way through a ride. Possibly because I ate a toastie and a large hot chocolate. The waitress asked if I wanted large, I said, "I'd say yes to anything you offer me right now."
Some riders were lurking in the corner, "I'll try anything once", I said, "but that is something I don't want to repeat in a hurry". They laughed. They knew exactly what I meant. When I sat down to eat I was shivering. I hadn't been cold outside but stopping indoors was doing nothing to warm me up sufficiently. Only the consumption of hot items was working. My rest stops were clearly necessary now.
I textd TSK. He said I wasn't far behind him and he'd probably wait for me at Waitrose at Malmesbury. I thought that'd be nice, as I ate my food but then I didn't want him to wait and miss the cut off and I didn't want him to think I didn't want him to wait so I didn't send a reply. I didn't want to miss out on my stop at Chepstow - I couldn't. I was really starting to need my break by then. The climb into Chepstow had been hard and the bridge harder.
I'd lost time on my way to Chepstow too. I was back to being 30 minutes ahead of time - although I'd ridden an extra 10km since the control to get to the services, I still counted myself as a little late when I left the services at bang-on the cut-off time. If I were to lose any more time to - for example - a mechanical or a longer stop, then that would be it for my day.
As I rode out of Chepstow services, the wind started to pull at the electrical pylons and cables, making whistling and whining noises. I plunged into the beautiful Forest of Dean, thankful of its shelter from the 40 mph gusts as the wind rustled the trees but not me. I shared a moment with a roe deer as we made eye contact across a clearing. Her eyeing me with intrigue and calm - ready to bound away if necessary but sure of her ability to outrun me and my mechanical device. She was absolutely right to be sure of herself as I hauled myself and my load up the hill.
Note to self - secure locks on audaxes may make me more relaxed but only serve to extend, not shorten, the time I spend in cafe's.
There were few vehicles in the forest which made it a very special place to be. In fact I wondered why there weren't more people around. Farmers don't stop for the weather though and after exiting the forest I had my third scary traffic encounter for the day as I squeezed into a high-sided verge to allow a tractor carrying two hay bails on spikes to pass precariously close, shedding the loose straw from his load out of the trees and onto my head. That's it, I was done with traffic.
Soon I was fighting my way up to the Somerset monument, staring at my Garmin OS Map as the reality of a chevronned climb (that's >14% or 1 in 7). I made a deal with myself that if I rode this I could walk up Hackpen Hill later when it got dark and was snowing. It seemed like a good deal and just as I was about to slalom it to take the steepness out, a motorist obliged and kept me on the straight and narrow.
I had reached the top of the world for a while. I swore at the monument before commencing my down hill to Malmesbury and hoping the rain would hold off. It didn't and by the time I was joining a folorn looking TSK, it had started to snow again. I inadvertently left my glove outside and joined TSK in the cafe for dinner - which turned out to be quick but insignificant (cheese and bacon pannini) and a desperately needed fresh fruit salad. It's amazing how a day subsiding on scooby snacks suddenly encourages a healthy desire for vitamins.
We left Malmesbury control dead on time again. I was happy I now had a navigator to follow - I'd already made a few minor navigational errors on my own. Whilst I had quickly spotted them, retracing my pedal strokes, even a few tens of metres was time-consuming.
I also let myself go in terms of planning and effort though - not knowing when we had to be at the next control or how far away it was, I stopped pushing myself nearly as hard. That said, with it snowing and the effort I'd already put in to not much gain, I don't think I could have gotten more out of myself. I always had it in the back of my head that Hackpen Hill was to come and for that I would need all of my energy.
We left Malmesbury in the dark and snow, now eating into our time to do the next stage as we were well after the cut off time when we left. We were onto familiar territory now and as we passed through the back of Wootton Bassett I was drawn top stop by the old house, take a look at the place but we had no time. Instead, we had those climbs. The approach to Broad Town hill went remarkably well. Even the climb went well. The drop off the back was fine.
TSK gave me options - do we really want to do Hackpen hill? As the snow came down around us, I resolutely dismissed the option of riding into Swindon to get on a train to Oxford. I'd battled hard to get this far and wasn't prepared to throw in the towel yet - time cut offs or not. At least the experience from this 300 would inform the next.
Even Hackpen hill was fine but as the tyres started to slide out from underneath us in the snow which was now settling on the road, we both got off and walked to the top.
The ride into Marlborough was familiar. Flashbacks to 10 years ago, watching santa arrive at the golf club in his helicopter to bring all the rich kids their Christmas presents. We dug out some food to eat - TSK initiated it and I ate crisps wearing gloves which largely amounted to me stuffing my face into the open mouth of the packet and forcing as many broken crisps into my gob as possible without dropping them on the floor. A passing pissed woman exclaimed, "OH MY GOD BIKES!" in the darkness whiwch I took as an expression of awe.
One climb back over the ridgeway into Sparsholt led us to the descent off the back into the Lambourne downs which was slow and un-enjoyable. In days gone by I loved these roads for the plentiful cornflowers, lavender and lush green fields of the horse race tracks, offset by bright white fences and dirt tracks across the side of the ridgeway. All I could see was darkness and flecks of white - mesmerising, sparkling but - essentially dull, repetitive and cold.
As I shimmied down the hill a little behind for some reason, I saw a bike on its side in the road. There were clearly two people and hoped that no-one was hurt. Thankfully, the downed bike was in a layby, the rider having just repaired a puncture and being ready to set off on his way. Knowing he was OK and unable to stop because of the cold, I continued - suddenly aware of how vulnerable we were. If I had a puncture in those conditions, I would not have been able to get going again. Even if I had managed to successfully change a tube without puncturing (my record for new tyres, even indoors, is not a strong one), I doubt my hands would have been good for much for a long time after and, given the shivering I had experienced at each of the last 2 controls, I was starting to have serious concerns for the rest of my body.
I pushed hard to reach Membury. I couldn't remember the cut-off time here but thought it was around 11pm. We rolled through the gate at 10:54 and crossed the grass directly to the petrol station. I hardly picked up my electronics off the bike - instead whipping up to the counter with my wallet and procuring a fruit juice and a receipt.
I then followed this up with an order for tea.
I couldn't actually eat anything and started to shiver again.
The tea went some way to warming me up but was too hot to drink and offset by the fruit juice out of the fridge. Now I started to feel sick too - properly sick. TSK ate a sandwich. I thought that was a great idea but just couldn't face it. Instead I went to the toilets and stood under the hand drier for an inordinate length of time. It felt good and genuinely went a long way to remove moisture from my leggings and around my midriff and lower back. I then had a pee, washed my hands and dried them some more for a long time before returning to finish my tea.
Before leaving, I shook out four heat pads - one for each glove and one for each shoe. I changed into dry socks and changed my wool jersey for a dry one.
As we were preparing to leave, the other rider with the puncture rolled by and into the main services.
We didn't see him again and assume he booked into the Travel Lodge there for the night. It'a good job I didn't realise this as I might have been tempted to do the same. Still, despite my temptation to call for a taxi, I did not. We dressed for success and I even changed out of my rain legs and into my long waterproof trousers to at least keep the wind off my whole legs now.
It worked. I rolled out of Membury feeling toasty warm. I downed an excessively sugary drink I'd made up and proceeded then into Stanford in the Vale where we had to collect the colour of a bench in the village as proof of passage before rolling out across the flatlands and back into Oxfordshire. It was an absolute pleasure to know we had no more major climbs to face. This walking through the snow was starting to get tedious.
Normally we'd avoid A-roads like the plague but at 2am the A 420 was practically dead. The traffic that was passing was not at all threatening, despite being confined to a single clear lane by the snow. Everyone gave us loads of room and riding here was much safer than risking a slide and a crash on deserted B-roads. Normally there's nothing quite like seeing your first road sign indicating the distance to your final destination. Sadly, when you're on the A-420, the first sign for Oxford that we saw still had 9 miles to go. 9 very long miles. Even then, when we reached the pubs and clubs of Oxford, the burger vans, the late night taxis, the Travel Lodge was still around 4 miles down a long and boring town road, now riddled with potholes and seams and slippery white lines hidden underneath the snow.
Our completion time limit came and went. Our guestimated 20 minutes late time came and went. TSK wanted to stop and get his proof of passage receipt earlier than the finish point - legitimate for this ride, but I could not stop. The prospect of spending two minutes in the cold with my body temperature continuously dropping was horrific and I continued to ride all the way to the hotel, pausing only to get a cash machine statement before crossing the road with the intention of falling into bed.
Of course this was when the real challenge began - out waiting the employee on the desk who was - possibly just intrigued - by what we were going to do with the bikes we wheeled onto the mat to drip and drop snow just like your average workman's boot. We semi undressed in the public foyer, took a stash of free newspapers into our room and then waited with another cup of hot tea for the boy to stop doing whatever he was going and at least go to the toilet / go to bed.
As soon as his back was turned we had bikes inside in a shot and safely stowed on opened-out newspapers to drip the night away. Although there was a slightly damp carpet, we didn't make a mark and left the place clean and tidy the next day.
We took it in turns to shower / stand by the heater then fell into bed at 3am. Propped up by life and the wonderful travel lodge policy which meant we didn't have to check out until 12, we slept until 9am then got up, loaded the van and drove home as soon as we could. Mainly to mitigate the time it would take our fatigued minds to drive through windy conditions and partly to out-run the potential mass exodus of business workers who are contractually obliged to travel on a Friday and a Sunday every week.
With only one driver change-over we surprised ourselves with our expedient arrival at home.
Have I spent the last two days recovering from an Audax-induced hangover? Hell yes.
Did I want to do another? A snowy one - no. Not doing that again in a month of snowy Sundays. It hurt. TSK agreed that I'd done 400km effort. Too big a step, too much risk if anything went wrong. Next time I'd just cancel.
A 300km - yes. I'm glad I've popped the 300k cherry. Keen to do another one because I know I can get inside the time limit given normal conditions, no minus -9 degrees wind chill next time.
I've learned lessons about what I can carry on this distance ride and still hope to make any time limits imposed. My big lock is not one of those things - though plenty of other stuff will still come with me for comfort levels. If we're going to call Audax speed training for long distance then let's do that. I can work on my load carrying capacity elsewhere. SO here's to Skeggy - hoping - for my next 300km event.
I'm looking forward to it.
Split analysis:
- 18.18 mile to the level crossing 11.3 mph HR 141!
- 6 minutes stuck at the bloody crossing and messing with brakes
- 26 mile 10.6 mph HR 139
- 26 mins going through Stow
- 35 mile 12.6 mph HR 141
- 52 mins cafe lunch stop
- 35.3 miles 11.1mph climbey bit to Chepstow HR 120
- 40 mins tea stop
- 27 miles 10.4 mph HR 131
- 32 minute Waitrose stop
- 22 miles 10.2 mph HR 132
- 7 minutes crisp stop in Malbrorough
- 11 mile to services 8.8 sorry mphs HR 120
- 39 minutes rewarming stop - shouldn't have!
- 12.72 miles 8.6mph to last info control
- Finally, a 1 minute stop
- 17 miles to finish. 8.8mph in the snow. HR 113. Just about given up.
Total time: 21:20. Riding time: 18:17 ish
Monday, January 01, 2018
The Festive 500 that Closed 2017
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| The brittle hand of someone who briefly forgot who they were then rediscovered themselves over a festive challenge. |
This year, being the year that I am doing lots of mileage anyway, I decided I have no excuse for not doing the festive 500 but I didn't really read the rules and to be honest I didn't really care. Does that reflect the fact that I didn't think I'd finish again? Did I really not care? I honestly don't know. I suspect I was being a little bit cocky. I just rode 200km, can't be that hard right? It's just over two of those and there's a whole 8 days to do it.
Throughout the week I found myself doing more and more math - was I gonna make it? I don't really care right? Wrong.
Andrew got a couple more rides in than me in the early days by going out twice when it was icy. At the end of the second day, whilst he was still out, I jumped on the rollers. It doesn't count towards the Festive 500 but doing the exercise made me feel better about the day, regardless and left me thinking, "screw the Festive 500, I'll do my own festive 500 and I'll count the kms on the rollers".
But then I went for a ride 2 days later and suddenly it was back on. I mean, if I made it including the rollers session, then I'd know I'd made it and if I made it not counting the rollers session, I could tell the world.
Whilst TSK turned for home because he'd practically done his bit, I carried on for another 3-4 hours to get in all the miles of the ride I had planned also partly because we'd just made it off familiar territory and for me and I was now onto unfamiliar terrain. It wasn't just headwindy anymore, it was new and exiting, there were things to discover. Plus the math turned around in my head, 135 plus 125 plus 70 plus 45 (on the rollers). In the end, I wasn't sure what I'd done and what I hadn't.
I got the laptop out at the end of my ride on the 30th and concluded that from Christmas day to New years day I would still have to do 100 miles - 50 miles per day - but if I could count our Christmas eve ride of 63km, then I only had around 60 miles left to do - rollers or no rollers. On the morning of 31st it all felt reasonably feasible. I could still do this thing and declare it to the world and so I set off for a further ride on New Years Eve.
Still the math turned over in my head, a symptom of me being fucking tired.
TSK asked me in the morning, "What are you doing today?"
"Going out to do some more", I said, slightly reluctantly. That said, I was going out to do one of the flattest rides that I know from home and secretly looking forwards to a day of riding on my own (without the expectations of "others" ie TSK) and no-one to make me feel slow by shooting past me at the bottom of the hill then waiting at the top like an excited Jack Russell. I got out as early as I could for a woman who ate two breakfasts and needed to charge batteries (both metaphorical and littoral). The plan was to be done by 6pm in time for a shower and quick change before new years' dinner.
This soon went down the toilet as I realised, at the top of my hill, that I had no water in my bottle or food in my bag. I stopped off at the ASDA in the village and replenished my stocks. No amount of environment was going to see me rolling down the hill to refill my bottle. Sorry environment, I bought a plastic bottle and binned it. Yeah I know, shame on me.
From there, I made a number of profound adjustments to my cleats position, trying to achieve that perfect ride position. It took me around 40 minutes to get out of the village and I still didn't feel comfortable
I decided to screw going through Chatsworth on New Years Eve for fear of traffic and instead opted for a reverse repeat of Abbeydale Road followed by a high-level wibble across Holmesfield Common and then a descent beyond Chatsworth to join the route. In the end, this included a number of 180 turns in the road as I tried to avoid as many hill climbs as possible and failed due to inconsistent map reading. It was therefore a relief to get onto my route so I could just start following a pink line on the map. I was also glad I was alone for this faffing.
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| Then I saw a sign. |
The only downside was my route had been mapped in avoidance of conurbations for maximum enjoyment. I very nearly helped myself to the bag of emergency Twiglets in my bag but I was struggling to be warm. I couldn't feel my toes and my fingers weren't working enough on my left hand to enable me to switch my big gear. I waited it out until I had reached Kat's cafe. Apparently Kat was out so I rolled-on by. Thankfully, there's soon a sign for a garden centre cafe and restaurant which kept me particularly happy. They let me lock my bike near the doors, it was warm inside and bustling and interesting. Everyone was happy and in good moods.
I demolished a jacket potato and resisted hot chocolate for fear of feeling ill from milk products. I stretched and tried to ease my frozen shoulders, my aching neck. My toes had thawed out but I was accepting that I had failed to take the wind chill into consideration when deciding what shoes to wear, I ripped open my hand-warmers and stuffed them under my arches to keep my feet thawed out for the rest of the ride. I opened the pack of Twiglets and stuffed them in the side pocket of my Carradice for eating easily later.
Stepping outside I shivered. I gave in, added a layer to my top and started riding. It had the good grace to hail briefly at 3pm so I changed into waterproofs and continued.
I reached Alfreton and thankfully this time, passed without consequence - no punctures, no confused old men.
I passed back out into countryside, crossing the M1 and starting my wibble North - finally, the tail wind started to kick in. At an oblique angle unfortunately. In my haste to get out I'd missed the trick of setting off towards the South East and returning more directly North, thereby obtaining the best tail wind vector for my ride home. Still, at least the end would be relatively flat!
The lights went on and in one last brief attempt to settle my ride position, I stopped in a lay-by to drop and tip my saddle slightly, move my foot-warmers into the toe box of my shoes (my toes were still frozen) and finally felt my shoulders ease for the first time all day. I can't believe I rode the best part of 100 miles in the last two days with my saddle too high.
On the other side of Sutton in Ashfield, a couple in their 50's waiting at the bus stop for their new year's eve out, watched me ride up the hill, "get those knees up" she shouted. "I'm trying my best," I said, "there's a party waiting in Sheffield!"
I reminisced about the last time I passed this way in early November and a full moon. The moon was full tonight as well and I had watched it here last time and then I saw an incredible thing, a flash of green light streaking across the sky, orange trail floating behind it, a piece peeled off. "Oh my god", I thought, "A meteor!". But it was new years' eve right? It was a firework, surely. There was no sound. No whizz pop, no bang, I know it was windy but fireworks don't usually fly by horizontally. It was windy... It was 5:23pm. Surely no-one sets the clocks forward 6 and a half hours and fibs the kids into believing they've seen in the new year?
Perhaps I was imagining it. I opened the Twiglets and started to gorge myself.
As I rode into Chesterfield it started pissing it down. It pissed it down last time I rode through Chesterfield. I sheltered under the railway bridge where it was dry to text TSK so he knew where I was and put the colourless lenses in my glasses. I propped my bike against a wall, covered in pigeon shit, inspiring the phrase, "any one of you shits on me, I'll climb up there and kill you so I will."
I used the best route I could come up with to get me out of Chesterfield. It differed slightly from TSKs preferred but I was aiming to stick to my plan of using the least built-up routes possible and if I wasn't going to do the Festive 500 I was going to have nice rides out of it - my way, not sacrificing enjoyment for the sake of miles. Still not caring, no Sir.
I peaked the hill and started to descend. I reached in my pocket for the glasses I'd removed in the torrential rain and shook the water off them before putting them back on my face. Crack! Tinkle! Shit! One of the lenses had come loose when I shook it and presumably was now sitting somewhere in the road - no doubt being run over by passing motorists.
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| I had no time for Photos from this ride. But basically it looked a bit like this! |
I ditched my bike in the long grass and set about walking up and down the road with my light, searching. Basically I didn't find it. When I replaced my light with my frozen hands, I missed, sending it smashing into the tarmac. Damn those Cateye 1200s are resilient but it had all got too much. "Fuuuuuuck yoooooouuuu Festive 500" I screamed at the ride, at the rain, at Chesterfield, at Rapha. Then I got back on and started riding my bike, the one clear eye, one rainy eye adding a certain hilarious outlook on life. Eventually I lost the will to persevere and removed the glasses, the other lens popping out as I crammed them into my coat pocket.
I continued Northwards, past Chesterfield and on to the Barlow Road. Up and up. Flying over the hill and down, dealing with the boy racers, ignoring them, finally surfacing back onto Abbeydale Road.
Now don't ask me what happened here but basically, I followed the road up to Dore, then (as has happened before) convinced myself that it would be better to go straight on through Hallamshire and Ranmoor and Crookes than descend to Broomhill and up again (to Crookes) whereas actually, what would have been faster is to stay on Abbeydale road into town and simply ride up the one hill like I had yesterday.
I still have no idea why I do this to myself. I have a short circuit in my brain that tells me this is the best route - and maybe its the straightest line (it's really not) but there's two valleys in the bloody way! TWO!* I got lost in Ranmoor like I always do. I got lost in Hallamshire like I always do - and I had a frickin' map to follow!
Still, arriving in Crookes, knowing that I had no more climbing left to do was overwhelming. Just the short hop through the village and I dropped like a stone to the house. I was over an hour riding from Chesterfield.
I was in and out of the shower and driving over to my friends' house within 30 minutes. No time to check the results but I knew one thing for sure, there was NO WAY I was going to do any riding tomorrow. Fuck the festive 500 indeed. It was all forgotten, the only way I'd finish it is if I counted my Christmas eve.
The moment I walked through the door Jez said, "We wondered where you were but I couldn't find you on Strava so I gave up".
"That's coz I'm not on it", I said, laughing and giving him a hug. Another reason why I shouldn't be allowed and aren't bothered by the Festive 500. Thankfully, no-one asked if I'd managed it - not even TSK. One thing was for sure, as I lounged on the sofa at 9pm, everyone else still being sociable, there was NO WAY I was going out on Monday - but could I resist? If it was only 30 miles to be done, would I resist?
I ate a massive pile of meat and wonderful salads - fresh guacamole, coleslaw, smoked ham and salmon, cheese prepared by my wonderful friends The Hawkins. After a brief sociable spell, I hardly drank anything, not through restraint for wanting to ride on Monday but because I didn't have the energy to be pissed and alcohol was only making me more sleepy. I allowed the others' conversations to wash over me - only narrowly resisting committing to a full pedal car solo season.
After we watched the fireworks and played skalextrix we drove home. "I've had enough", I said. "Fuck it, my festive 500 is running from Christmas Eve to New Years Eve." I'm not going out tomorrow. Them's my rules and I'm sticking to it".
"Them's are the rules", said TSK.
"Really?"
We got home, I fell asleep.
Not bothered, no, not in the slightest. First thing, up, breakfast, laptop on, watch plugged in, downloaded, righted, added, Christmas eve to new years eve, 555.3km. Excluding the indoor cycling - 506km. BOOM!
I would say I was happier just to have had a lovely time but truth is some of it was brutally hard, cold, painful and exhausting.
I would say I was happy with the accomplishment alone but the first thing I did was log on to Strava and start uploading my rides (don't normally use it).
I submitted my claim. All that effort, I wanted a cloth badge - no messin.
So how do you top that? You don't. You just keep ridin'. Because it's what I do now. I have bigger fish to fry. If I get to this point in June, lying in my bivi, just not wanting to move another muscle - seriously what'll I do? I'll have a bloody day off and finish the ride, that's what I'll do.
So I've taken my 69 bpm resting heart rate this morning and I have rested. Actually, I've washed my bike with it in the hope that next week something good will come of all this effort for my 200k in January (and I will at least be capable of riding to work on Tuesday morning).
Today's rest counts as "what I do" because it is bike and so I finish 2017 happy in the reminder that bike is what I do. The wilful challenge now is to remember that work is not what defines me, bike is. What better end can there be to a year?
Happy New Year Everyone
*The Hanging Valley, Mayfield valley climbs totalled 244m, added at least 97m climbing and a whole extra km to my route.
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Winter Solstice Ride - Audax 2017
I've done the Winter Solstice ride twice before: here in 2007 (our first year back in England) and in 2012 when I said this about it,
But this year felt different. Historically, Audax has been TSK's thing. I just come along for the craic, hanging on to his metaphorical coat-tails as he walks the walk as well as talking the talk. It's generally a social sport and I'm not a social creature. It doesn't mean I don't like the people - I love most of them - it's just I don't do the bike comparing and chitter chatter too easily and I don't know as many of the people as TSK has infiltrated the ranks over a series of much longer rides and many more years, and throughout the whole of those years, being one of the few stalwarts who make it through the winter months via a combo of DIY's and Permanent events to win the coveted RRTY award (for Riding Round The Year).
This year I felt more like I belonged. I don't remember going inside the start venue before. I know I've been there to pick Andrew up after a ride but I remember sitting out in the van, waiting for him. This year, I strolled on in, sat in the comfiest chair to take my gear off because it was my birthday and went to say hello to the organiser who we had volunteered for at the National 400 in 2016. When you spend an entire 24 hours in a team of 4 looking after 250 other people, you don't forget a face.
TSK shoved a tenner in my hands. "Mike's refunded our entry fee cos we volunteered at the 400". Sweet! "And I found a fiver!". Great, a free event. Even the petrol was covered.
Another lady sat and faffed with her brevet card and various other bits. She didn't say anything to me when we propped our bikes up next to eachother earlier and wasn't interested in talking now. I sipped my tea and stared blankly at the floor. To be honest, my brain was a bit cooked from a 5am start and I couldn't think of anything really to say that didn't sound dweebish or cocky. Soon enough her friend arrived, another lady and they started animatedly chatting together. Eventually I had enough things to keep me busy until departure time - unpacking my electronics, loading the course onto my Garmin. I took my waterproof trousers off and packed them and exchanged my fleece hat for a thinner buff.
Outside I loaded my lock on my bike and everyone wobbled out of the scout hut together.
I just pulled out in front of the other two ladies and joined a stream of men heading up the hill. I mostly got dropped which was only to be expected but I was happy that a major rush didn't come past me. Eventually the group got split in two by some changing traffic lights and we just sneaked through to riding, albeit briefly, at the back of the lead group.
A gap opened and I found myself thinking, "typical, best of the rest" as I rode at the front, wondering why no-one would come around me and take on the wind. Eventually, the second group caught us up but still everyone seemed happy to sit on at my pace. Great.
Eventually, TSK decided to change into a wet weather coat and I decided to dress down a layer as I was getting a bit warm with my fleece, body warmer and coat on.
Actually, I was a little bit hungry already too so I set about recovering a half-eaten energy bar from my last outing and demolished that.
TSK came around to do a bit on the front but hit a pothole and that sent my lip balm spilling into the road. Clearly I hadn't closed my top tube bag properly. As a fleet of riders called out to me I'd dropped something, I figured out exactly what was gone... and you don't let a decent lip balm go lightly so I put on the brakes, let the group go and turned tail to recover my lip balm. Nothing to do with having kissable beautiful lips, in Audax this is about avoiding the pain of chapped dry and bleeding lips from breathing into a sweaty buff in sub-zero temperatures whilst dehydrated beyond belief.
A few minutes later, TSK said, "leggings?" to me. I was a bit confused as usually "leggings" are the things that go over "shorts" and I knew he was already wearing his "leggings". Concluding that I was already quite damp but also still warm enough, I pedalled lightly whilst he put on his waterproof trousers, agreeing that I'd meet him after the Chelford Roundabout at the "Jesus bends". I popped into the Shell garage to dispose of my energy bar wrapper, much to the fuel tanker driver's bewilderment then passed out of the framing shop car park where my first wedding pictures were framed and over the Chelford Roundabout. I passed Jesus, dangling over the footpath of the road on his cross and duly waited on the outlet of the bends where I found my own "leggings" to faff with - deciding to remove my buff, keep it dry and replace it with the hood of my coat, hence keeping my hair dry for later in the day.
Finally we were swinging off the big open road and onto the Cheshire lanes towards Goostrey.
The quotation at the top of this page now amuses me for Goostrey is where I first noticed the rain properly. It started as we approached Goostrey and passed Jodrell Bank. Some visitors in cars were being hastily turned away so we were paying more attention to the 6 sets of reversing lights looking at us - but the sheer volume of wet stuff running down the road in Goostrey made it impossible to stay dry. Water flew off my front wheel into my face and onto my legs. Any negative thoughts about the place were replaced by distant familiarity for the pub, the shop where I replaced the batteries in my light in 2012 and the caravan park. By the time we left it I was trying to remember where we go next... and starting to worry a little bit about my hands.
I wanted to keep my warm gloves nice for later on in the day, expecting the rain to continue to fall and then the temperature to drop to around 3 degrees over night. Last time we did this ride unprepared we limped home at around 10pm, just sneaking inside the cut-off (we might have had dispensation for the icy weather then). I didn't want to get my warm gloves out but instead, tried to flex my fingers inside the thin ones to get the blood to flow and warm my hands up.
The back lanes to Middlewich was the answer to "where do we go next" and as we came out the other side, I finally determined that the gloves were not working any more. With freezing fingers, I "oozed" them off my hands and fumbled the pockets on my Carradice to remove the massive lobster claw fluffies. I struggled to ram my pathetic slabs of cold fish into the drying cotton jersey knit cuffs but got there in the end. TSK had ridden ahead, just as I was cursing that what I really should have done was put my rain legs on as well (like Mr clever clogs and his "leggings"). He remembered though that around the corner was Mike wearing his wooly hat trying to keep warm in his van, waiting to sign our brevet cards. As they chatted with another guy about his "way out" route, I took the opportunity to "leg-up". The other guy asked how many entrants and how many starters there were. 98 entered and 49 started. My take - I'd already "beaten" almost 50 people but then corrected myself that it isn't in the spirit of the ride (inwardly still smug).
We continued on through made-up placenames like "Church Minshull", "Ashton Juxta Mondrum" and "Occlestone Green". You gotta love the Saxons.
We gained a tail for a while, the man who decided to quit was suffering the cold hand too. He'd even removed his gloves in an effort to make his hands warmer. I appreciate the sentiment but it really wasn't working for him as he ouched and ooched his way along. For a little while, he admired my suspension forks which was nice because until that point I'd been a little sub-conscious about them and their unsuitability for mudguard use which had caused me some issues early in the ride. As we approached the Nantwich bypass he was really struggling with his hands. We crossed the road and he didn't come with us. I only assume he decided to take the right turn and head home, or stopped to do some star jumps to rectify the blood flow before continuing.
As I thought about him, I continued to worry about my own hands. Although they were toasty warm, I could already feel the moisture starting to seep through the seams at the tips of my fingers. For a start, my hands don't put out much heat and the contact with wet things - handlebars, levers - means it's really difficult to make gloves that are truly waterproof but also breathable enough to remain fluffy for long. Even these £60 motha****ers were starting to feel it.
We passed a few cafs along the way. The first looked a bit posh and tea-room / golf clubby. The second was the "one that they meant" but by then we'd already passed it, had never been in it before and were already plotting to get to Nantwich instead. At a slight detour to the route we headed for Nantwich town centre to the red and white hang-over that was the aftermath of the Christmas Santa Dash running race.
We found ourselves a Nero which turned out to be the greatest dog-cafe I have ever witnessed and settled down to watch a steady stream of dressed up pooches and sweaty santas parading by.
My number one priority was to dry my feet out a bit. This may seem like a whimsical desire on such a wet day when you're only going back out in it again but I literally had a small puddle sloshing about in the bottom of each boot so any gains in dryness were going to be welcome. I stripped off my boot and wool socks and stepped back outside in bare feet to empty the boots of water and ring out the socks, sparing my fellow customers the grim sight of brown water dripping from them... and my feet.
I drank my coffee and ate my lunch bare foot before reluctantly redressing to go to the loo. At least the extra air I'd introduced to the now re-fluffed sock fabric was helping to retain a bit of heat in the air pockets in the weave and when we left I was still damp but at least a damn sight warmer.
After about 8 miles we rode into Shropshire which is satisfying for a December ride.
5 miles later we arrived in Market Drayton and to our great surprise caught up to another cyclist. Actually, it was more of a surprise to her as we had been chasing for about the last 6 miles and only caught her when she stopped at the roundabout to wait for a gap in the traffic. "Where did you come from?" she said when we pulled into the petrol station to pick up some supplies and our receipts as proof of passage. The lone female rider had been thinking she was on her own. As Andrew and I chatted he said, "I'm really impressed with Yoo" (he calls me that when he's being shyly affectionate). Me? I said, expecting to be complimented on my speed. "Yes, Yoo", he said, "hardly any stops for food. You've done 60k then 80k!". I hadn't thought about it that way but yes, I am much more prepared to eat on the bike and am much better at knowing what to bring. Plus, still convinced I'd had the blood clot longer than anyone had imagined, I don't think my body was ever so efficient at carrying energy - instead burning it off in a vague attempt to constantly keep my heart beating against that / whatever restriction it was.
We explained to the other rider that we'd already had lunch in Nantwich. She was looking for the cafe and rode on ahead. A few moments later we found her walking the other way along the high street and directed her back to the right spot as she was starting to lose the will to live, although beyond being hungry, seemed in good spirits. Unfortunately we believe she later pulled out.
Market Drayton was setting up for some kind of evening festival, laying out fencing and closing the high street, effectively. A jovial council official directed us to ride up the path instead - refreshing - and we pootled out the other side without hindrance.
By now my hands were getting proper hot and the moisture issues I'd had from earlier were quashed as the rain subsided to drizzle and eventually stopped. My hands had dried off any leakage and I was now running the risk of starting to sweat into my good gloves. I decided to risk trying to dry out my thin gloves, knowing I could revert to the thick ones later if necessary.
So the lobster-claws were stuffed, unceremoniously into a side pocket of my Carradice and the thin gloves restored, sopping wet, onto my hands. Remarkably it worked and I soon warmed up the wet and started to dry it out. I was actually gobsmacked at how warm it was for December.
From Market Drayton, we started to get a tail wind - slightly oblique at this point - but it was enough to start to whoosh us along whereas previously we'd been occasionally buffetted about with a headwind. Our average speed shot up 1.3 miles per hour. It was a good day! The first few bites of Mars Bar from the petrol station helped somewhat and when they started to make me tremble, I tucked into the yukky energy bar which TSK already warned me was rubbish. The last third ended up falling under our wheels as I fumbled it in my hand and we left it for the crows and badgers. I'd already got what I wanted from it - enough energy to get me to Old Ma's coffee shop near Tarporley.
As we turned off the B5130 at Aldford, my mind was wandering and my backside was aching. We must've done 80 miles I thought, checked my watch. 79.89 miles. Yep, 80 mile arse. I'll know I've truly made it when I can get rid of 80 mile Arse. 90 mile Arse will make me very happy. Brain still wandering. Arse. Thankfully, Andrew picked up the info control at Aldford and then as we rode through Stretton, gawping at beautiful properties and enjoying a whooshing downhill, I thankfully noticed that we'd missed a turn and we briefly retraced to get ourselves back on track. We were definitely ready for a sit down on a different chair and some more food.
Through the familiar lanes of Tarporley. Almost on home territory now, we stopped in Tarporley for the Chester Triathlon last summer and I rode these lanes on my way to register. So my Garmin was peppered with little marker points giving me directions since I forgot to load my pleasant route onto the device before leaving home... so I did it manually.
Then the familiar sight of Old Ma's - the big farm buildings with the little cafe nestled in the forecourt, all big gates and bright lights. We locked up together just outside the window and TSK rushed in to order our tea. It was dead-on the 4pm closing time. The two young lasses (no Old Ma in sight) bustled about us, taking our order, sorting out cheese & beans on toast, apologising for not doing it right but offering us grated cheese on top of the beans instead of grilled cheese with beans on top (Fine! Whatever! Has Kev been here!?!) and unloading two of the most delicious lemon meringue pie slices known to man onto our tray. Happy Birthday to me.
I got my phone out to take a picture but instead got overwhelmed with texts from Becky and my mum which I proudly replied to, boasting that I only had 70km left to do and a big slice of pie.
In between mouthfuls of beans on toast and coffee, I changed out of yellow lenses to colourless ones (adding that they were also cleaner and therefore now clear! - it was like lasic eye surgery).
I got my battery out and plugged in my Garmin and reinstated my buff around my neck and on my head for it had now stopped raining and the coat was just too warm.
The pie was delish but it was time to get back out on the road. It was a little chilly but as soon as we got moving we were OK. We skirted around Oulton Park without realising where we were then, seeing signs for Winsford, I mused that I should know where I was but didn't have a clue.
That is until we mused about the "sunset" being in the wrong place and realising it was the bright lights (not so big city) of Northwich. To the West, sure enough was the after-glow of daylight on the horizon... or possibly Ellesmere Port, it's hard to tell.
Still, last time we were here (doing the route in reverse), we'd missed some of these back lanes in favour of a direct line through Northwich town - to much protest from me as it's quite a horrible town sometimes. This year, the ice was of little concern as most of it was either melted or washed away in the earlier rainstorm. On the basis that *I* - yes *me* (little miss icicle) was still riding in thin and damp gloves, ice really wasn't a bother this year.
We ploughed on down Mill Lane and Shipbrook Road, popping out in Lach Dennis before bobbing back onto lanes that took us through Lower Peover (resisting the Bells of Peover pub) finally skimming Ollerton and passing Manchester Airport where it was TSK's turn to lose his bearings but basically we were in my childhood back-yard. It is an understatement to say that I was relieved to be heading to Bredbury to finish and not facing the massive down-and-up that forms the Bollin River valley on the way to my parents' house.
Two riders passed us as we neared the turning and we exchanged "how are you doing?" pleasantries before my folly in Wilmslow took TSK and I on a detour through the sports centre carpark where we narrowly avoided puncturing on glass before rejoining the road. Still, at least I wasn't getting hauled along as part of a group that would kill me in the last 13 miles.
To write now that it was 13 miles to the finish feels crazy. I had it so fixed in my head that we were nearly there by the time we got to Wilmslow and I literally didn't notice that last hour except for the very last climb.
Partly because it's steep and it's long and its preceded by a downhill with effing traffic lights to scrub off all your momentum... and partly because it really is the LAST climb and as soon as you go down the other side of it, you're there - at the finish - done!
Of course TSK came right back past me on the way up the climb and, since he knew that I was happy navigationally, he continued on his way to start organising his stuff from the back of the car to get changed into something drier and less smelly. I joined him a few minutes later, throwing the damp and sweaty gear in the back of the car and replacing the stuff in my Caradice with dry, fluffy fleecy clothing and a towel. I rode around the corner to the venue and locked up the bikes.
Priorities - tea, apple, soup. Then wash, lying on the floor, stretching whilst TSK talked long distances and times gone by. In 2011 on this ride, he had been one of only two riders to complete. In 2010 only one man, Nick Firth, completed, such was the severity of the day's weather. It is said that he wished he hadn't bothered as it took so much out of him for the coming weeks.
I finally made it into the chair then into the bathroom to wash the mud and salt off my face (50% of it sweat, the other 50% off the road). It felt good to be in normal clothes, cotton knickers, fleece trousers and woolly jumper. I put on Andrew's shoes and went to get the car so I didn't have to put my wet cycling shoes back on. As I stepped outside, the two other lady riders had just got in - I assume. I quietly glowed. Still not sure what to say, I muttered, "well done". It sounded horribly patronising. They were still too engaged to really respond. I was actually quite engaged with trying to get my lock undone which seemed to have got itself stuck and I didn't have the strength or patience to fix it. I went to get TSK instead.
The drive home gave me a good 90 minutes to reflect as TSK snoozed in the passenger seat of the car, the satnav reliably guiding me home through the back-streets of Hyde.
It was nice to come out from underneath TSK's coat tails today. Almost literally, as I much preferred to sit on the front than take a wheel and eat the dirt flying off it. Long distance used to be his thing, that I occasionally came along on for the ride (pun intended) but now I've genuinely rekindled a love for it and honed that feeling over the summer. My anticipation of rejoining the Audax community was justified. I've been reading the magazines in earnest for long enough - dreaming of the day when I could hang up my swimming goggles and running shoes and get back to just riding my bike and holding conversations with people who mainly see me as the noobie and from whom I have so much to learn and emulate - not the other way round. I've become tired of being an experienced triathlete. Being a novice audaxer leaves me room to grow and I can't wait to let more experiences flood in.
On 16th I entered a 300k ride (The Dean - which TSK used to organise) so it's really a bloody good job the 200 went so well. It was by no means the perfect ride - though a little rain is really nothing to put up with in exchange for 9 degrees (heat) when it could have been minus something nasty and just dangerous - but I enjoyed every single friggin minute. When one guy commented that there was no such thing as a tail wind - just a good day - I felt it. The headwind didn't bother me. The tail wind didn't feel like a pay off, it just felt like everything was going swimmingly. Yes, some altitude would have challenged the whole ride a bit more but that's what summers are for... as I remind myself that The Dean is in March.
There was only one lesson learned that I took from today - which was about water and fabrics. I honestly couldn't believe the moisture that came out of my socks yesterday morning but also I couldn't believe what a difference it made after I squeezed it out. I can't begin to think what I would have done if I hadn't had spare gloves or heat pads with me yesterday (didn't need the heat pads thankfully) but I'd like to think that wringing them out might have got me somewhere and it's something I'll take forward in future. I only wish I'd thought of it in time to save the guy that was riding with us. All he really needed was a bloody good glove shop to be honest. Maybe I will also remind myself to pack some crisps - or crackers. Sugar really got to me after 5pm and so half a mars bar and the best part of a bag of M&Ms had a lovely ride around Cheshire.
So onwards. With another 200k organised in January, I am now embarking on the RRTY challenge, the first opportunity to link a 200km ride each month is inspired by a visit to Oxfordshire and Warwickshire to visit Silver which will be a wonderful follow-up to the ride (or replacement for it should everything go "tits oop" - so to speak).
Whether we make it through the RRTY or not, in 2005, I wrote this:
So there we have it: new goals set, new rules established, one for this year smashed... at approximately on Sunday 17th December, as I dropped my lip balm in the road outside the lovely Capesthorne Hall, I had clocked up a total of 5000 miles of cycling in 2017.
So for a week the depression loomed large on the radar. I lost all will to live for a while but in true Trepid style, instead of contemplating suicide, I just took some incredible risks. I cycled to work in the ice (Tuesday - Day 22). On Wednesday after another icy ride to work and back in the evening I managed to swim 1km (Day 23) and on Thursday (Day 24) I ran the 8 mile to work, getting a lift back to the city.This year I was much more prepared for the ride and in a much better place mentally. I've been building up the miles for weeks and last week was almost like a taper as I saved myself for Bradford. Then this week I went even easier on the bike, doing only one ride to work, one walk into town to do my Christmas shopping and then a bit of pottering about the house on Saturday getting my bike ready. I was really looking forwards to my first Audax since 2014 and what seems to be turning into a 5-year tradition for me.
On the day we had freezing fog, when I stepped out the front door and fell on my ass, I drove to work (Day 25). Some people decided they couldn't get to work!
On Day 26 I did a 200 km ride from Stockport out to Malpas, Market Drayton and back. I hadn't done more than 40 miles since Monsal Hill climb so 126 miles was an achievement. My legs were fine but my neck felt it. I didn't really care if I finished the ride or got run over by a bus but I met some lovely people whilst we were out there. The pouring rain from Goostrey (nothing good happens there) back to Stockport and the potholed roads gradually disappeared in the company of strangers, the communal joy of Christmas lights and the love shared in pointing out Jodrel Bank to people who otherwise wouldn't have known where to look for it. (it's where LBHN used to work).
At least living life on the edge (even if it was for the wrong reasons) was making me feel better. Little bits of self-treats - no matter how insane - were turning my mood around.
But this year felt different. Historically, Audax has been TSK's thing. I just come along for the craic, hanging on to his metaphorical coat-tails as he walks the walk as well as talking the talk. It's generally a social sport and I'm not a social creature. It doesn't mean I don't like the people - I love most of them - it's just I don't do the bike comparing and chitter chatter too easily and I don't know as many of the people as TSK has infiltrated the ranks over a series of much longer rides and many more years, and throughout the whole of those years, being one of the few stalwarts who make it through the winter months via a combo of DIY's and Permanent events to win the coveted RRTY award (for Riding Round The Year).
This year I felt more like I belonged. I don't remember going inside the start venue before. I know I've been there to pick Andrew up after a ride but I remember sitting out in the van, waiting for him. This year, I strolled on in, sat in the comfiest chair to take my gear off because it was my birthday and went to say hello to the organiser who we had volunteered for at the National 400 in 2016. When you spend an entire 24 hours in a team of 4 looking after 250 other people, you don't forget a face.
TSK shoved a tenner in my hands. "Mike's refunded our entry fee cos we volunteered at the 400". Sweet! "And I found a fiver!". Great, a free event. Even the petrol was covered.
Another lady sat and faffed with her brevet card and various other bits. She didn't say anything to me when we propped our bikes up next to eachother earlier and wasn't interested in talking now. I sipped my tea and stared blankly at the floor. To be honest, my brain was a bit cooked from a 5am start and I couldn't think of anything really to say that didn't sound dweebish or cocky. Soon enough her friend arrived, another lady and they started animatedly chatting together. Eventually I had enough things to keep me busy until departure time - unpacking my electronics, loading the course onto my Garmin. I took my waterproof trousers off and packed them and exchanged my fleece hat for a thinner buff.
I just pulled out in front of the other two ladies and joined a stream of men heading up the hill. I mostly got dropped which was only to be expected but I was happy that a major rush didn't come past me. Eventually the group got split in two by some changing traffic lights and we just sneaked through to riding, albeit briefly, at the back of the lead group.
A gap opened and I found myself thinking, "typical, best of the rest" as I rode at the front, wondering why no-one would come around me and take on the wind. Eventually, the second group caught us up but still everyone seemed happy to sit on at my pace. Great.
Eventually, TSK decided to change into a wet weather coat and I decided to dress down a layer as I was getting a bit warm with my fleece, body warmer and coat on.
Actually, I was a little bit hungry already too so I set about recovering a half-eaten energy bar from my last outing and demolished that.
TSK came around to do a bit on the front but hit a pothole and that sent my lip balm spilling into the road. Clearly I hadn't closed my top tube bag properly. As a fleet of riders called out to me I'd dropped something, I figured out exactly what was gone... and you don't let a decent lip balm go lightly so I put on the brakes, let the group go and turned tail to recover my lip balm. Nothing to do with having kissable beautiful lips, in Audax this is about avoiding the pain of chapped dry and bleeding lips from breathing into a sweaty buff in sub-zero temperatures whilst dehydrated beyond belief.
A few minutes later, TSK said, "leggings?" to me. I was a bit confused as usually "leggings" are the things that go over "shorts" and I knew he was already wearing his "leggings". Concluding that I was already quite damp but also still warm enough, I pedalled lightly whilst he put on his waterproof trousers, agreeing that I'd meet him after the Chelford Roundabout at the "Jesus bends". I popped into the Shell garage to dispose of my energy bar wrapper, much to the fuel tanker driver's bewilderment then passed out of the framing shop car park where my first wedding pictures were framed and over the Chelford Roundabout. I passed Jesus, dangling over the footpath of the road on his cross and duly waited on the outlet of the bends where I found my own "leggings" to faff with - deciding to remove my buff, keep it dry and replace it with the hood of my coat, hence keeping my hair dry for later in the day.
Finally we were swinging off the big open road and onto the Cheshire lanes towards Goostrey.
The quotation at the top of this page now amuses me for Goostrey is where I first noticed the rain properly. It started as we approached Goostrey and passed Jodrell Bank. Some visitors in cars were being hastily turned away so we were paying more attention to the 6 sets of reversing lights looking at us - but the sheer volume of wet stuff running down the road in Goostrey made it impossible to stay dry. Water flew off my front wheel into my face and onto my legs. Any negative thoughts about the place were replaced by distant familiarity for the pub, the shop where I replaced the batteries in my light in 2012 and the caravan park. By the time we left it I was trying to remember where we go next... and starting to worry a little bit about my hands.
I wanted to keep my warm gloves nice for later on in the day, expecting the rain to continue to fall and then the temperature to drop to around 3 degrees over night. Last time we did this ride unprepared we limped home at around 10pm, just sneaking inside the cut-off (we might have had dispensation for the icy weather then). I didn't want to get my warm gloves out but instead, tried to flex my fingers inside the thin ones to get the blood to flow and warm my hands up.
The back lanes to Middlewich was the answer to "where do we go next" and as we came out the other side, I finally determined that the gloves were not working any more. With freezing fingers, I "oozed" them off my hands and fumbled the pockets on my Carradice to remove the massive lobster claw fluffies. I struggled to ram my pathetic slabs of cold fish into the drying cotton jersey knit cuffs but got there in the end. TSK had ridden ahead, just as I was cursing that what I really should have done was put my rain legs on as well (like Mr clever clogs and his "leggings"). He remembered though that around the corner was Mike wearing his wooly hat trying to keep warm in his van, waiting to sign our brevet cards. As they chatted with another guy about his "way out" route, I took the opportunity to "leg-up". The other guy asked how many entrants and how many starters there were. 98 entered and 49 started. My take - I'd already "beaten" almost 50 people but then corrected myself that it isn't in the spirit of the ride (inwardly still smug).
We continued on through made-up placenames like "Church Minshull", "Ashton Juxta Mondrum" and "Occlestone Green". You gotta love the Saxons.
We gained a tail for a while, the man who decided to quit was suffering the cold hand too. He'd even removed his gloves in an effort to make his hands warmer. I appreciate the sentiment but it really wasn't working for him as he ouched and ooched his way along. For a little while, he admired my suspension forks which was nice because until that point I'd been a little sub-conscious about them and their unsuitability for mudguard use which had caused me some issues early in the ride. As we approached the Nantwich bypass he was really struggling with his hands. We crossed the road and he didn't come with us. I only assume he decided to take the right turn and head home, or stopped to do some star jumps to rectify the blood flow before continuing.
As I thought about him, I continued to worry about my own hands. Although they were toasty warm, I could already feel the moisture starting to seep through the seams at the tips of my fingers. For a start, my hands don't put out much heat and the contact with wet things - handlebars, levers - means it's really difficult to make gloves that are truly waterproof but also breathable enough to remain fluffy for long. Even these £60 motha****ers were starting to feel it.
We passed a few cafs along the way. The first looked a bit posh and tea-room / golf clubby. The second was the "one that they meant" but by then we'd already passed it, had never been in it before and were already plotting to get to Nantwich instead. At a slight detour to the route we headed for Nantwich town centre to the red and white hang-over that was the aftermath of the Christmas Santa Dash running race.
We found ourselves a Nero which turned out to be the greatest dog-cafe I have ever witnessed and settled down to watch a steady stream of dressed up pooches and sweaty santas parading by.
My number one priority was to dry my feet out a bit. This may seem like a whimsical desire on such a wet day when you're only going back out in it again but I literally had a small puddle sloshing about in the bottom of each boot so any gains in dryness were going to be welcome. I stripped off my boot and wool socks and stepped back outside in bare feet to empty the boots of water and ring out the socks, sparing my fellow customers the grim sight of brown water dripping from them... and my feet.
I drank my coffee and ate my lunch bare foot before reluctantly redressing to go to the loo. At least the extra air I'd introduced to the now re-fluffed sock fabric was helping to retain a bit of heat in the air pockets in the weave and when we left I was still damp but at least a damn sight warmer.
After about 8 miles we rode into Shropshire which is satisfying for a December ride.
5 miles later we arrived in Market Drayton and to our great surprise caught up to another cyclist. Actually, it was more of a surprise to her as we had been chasing for about the last 6 miles and only caught her when she stopped at the roundabout to wait for a gap in the traffic. "Where did you come from?" she said when we pulled into the petrol station to pick up some supplies and our receipts as proof of passage. The lone female rider had been thinking she was on her own. As Andrew and I chatted he said, "I'm really impressed with Yoo" (he calls me that when he's being shyly affectionate). Me? I said, expecting to be complimented on my speed. "Yes, Yoo", he said, "hardly any stops for food. You've done 60k then 80k!". I hadn't thought about it that way but yes, I am much more prepared to eat on the bike and am much better at knowing what to bring. Plus, still convinced I'd had the blood clot longer than anyone had imagined, I don't think my body was ever so efficient at carrying energy - instead burning it off in a vague attempt to constantly keep my heart beating against that / whatever restriction it was.
We explained to the other rider that we'd already had lunch in Nantwich. She was looking for the cafe and rode on ahead. A few moments later we found her walking the other way along the high street and directed her back to the right spot as she was starting to lose the will to live, although beyond being hungry, seemed in good spirits. Unfortunately we believe she later pulled out.
Market Drayton was setting up for some kind of evening festival, laying out fencing and closing the high street, effectively. A jovial council official directed us to ride up the path instead - refreshing - and we pootled out the other side without hindrance.
By now my hands were getting proper hot and the moisture issues I'd had from earlier were quashed as the rain subsided to drizzle and eventually stopped. My hands had dried off any leakage and I was now running the risk of starting to sweat into my good gloves. I decided to risk trying to dry out my thin gloves, knowing I could revert to the thick ones later if necessary.
So the lobster-claws were stuffed, unceremoniously into a side pocket of my Carradice and the thin gloves restored, sopping wet, onto my hands. Remarkably it worked and I soon warmed up the wet and started to dry it out. I was actually gobsmacked at how warm it was for December.
From Market Drayton, we started to get a tail wind - slightly oblique at this point - but it was enough to start to whoosh us along whereas previously we'd been occasionally buffetted about with a headwind. Our average speed shot up 1.3 miles per hour. It was a good day! The first few bites of Mars Bar from the petrol station helped somewhat and when they started to make me tremble, I tucked into the yukky energy bar which TSK already warned me was rubbish. The last third ended up falling under our wheels as I fumbled it in my hand and we left it for the crows and badgers. I'd already got what I wanted from it - enough energy to get me to Old Ma's coffee shop near Tarporley.
As we turned off the B5130 at Aldford, my mind was wandering and my backside was aching. We must've done 80 miles I thought, checked my watch. 79.89 miles. Yep, 80 mile arse. I'll know I've truly made it when I can get rid of 80 mile Arse. 90 mile Arse will make me very happy. Brain still wandering. Arse. Thankfully, Andrew picked up the info control at Aldford and then as we rode through Stretton, gawping at beautiful properties and enjoying a whooshing downhill, I thankfully noticed that we'd missed a turn and we briefly retraced to get ourselves back on track. We were definitely ready for a sit down on a different chair and some more food.
Through the familiar lanes of Tarporley. Almost on home territory now, we stopped in Tarporley for the Chester Triathlon last summer and I rode these lanes on my way to register. So my Garmin was peppered with little marker points giving me directions since I forgot to load my pleasant route onto the device before leaving home... so I did it manually.
Then the familiar sight of Old Ma's - the big farm buildings with the little cafe nestled in the forecourt, all big gates and bright lights. We locked up together just outside the window and TSK rushed in to order our tea. It was dead-on the 4pm closing time. The two young lasses (no Old Ma in sight) bustled about us, taking our order, sorting out cheese & beans on toast, apologising for not doing it right but offering us grated cheese on top of the beans instead of grilled cheese with beans on top (Fine! Whatever! Has Kev been here!?!) and unloading two of the most delicious lemon meringue pie slices known to man onto our tray. Happy Birthday to me.
I got my phone out to take a picture but instead got overwhelmed with texts from Becky and my mum which I proudly replied to, boasting that I only had 70km left to do and a big slice of pie.
In between mouthfuls of beans on toast and coffee, I changed out of yellow lenses to colourless ones (adding that they were also cleaner and therefore now clear! - it was like lasic eye surgery).
I got my battery out and plugged in my Garmin and reinstated my buff around my neck and on my head for it had now stopped raining and the coat was just too warm.
The pie was delish but it was time to get back out on the road. It was a little chilly but as soon as we got moving we were OK. We skirted around Oulton Park without realising where we were then, seeing signs for Winsford, I mused that I should know where I was but didn't have a clue.
That is until we mused about the "sunset" being in the wrong place and realising it was the bright lights (not so big city) of Northwich. To the West, sure enough was the after-glow of daylight on the horizon... or possibly Ellesmere Port, it's hard to tell.
Still, last time we were here (doing the route in reverse), we'd missed some of these back lanes in favour of a direct line through Northwich town - to much protest from me as it's quite a horrible town sometimes. This year, the ice was of little concern as most of it was either melted or washed away in the earlier rainstorm. On the basis that *I* - yes *me* (little miss icicle) was still riding in thin and damp gloves, ice really wasn't a bother this year.
We ploughed on down Mill Lane and Shipbrook Road, popping out in Lach Dennis before bobbing back onto lanes that took us through Lower Peover (resisting the Bells of Peover pub) finally skimming Ollerton and passing Manchester Airport where it was TSK's turn to lose his bearings but basically we were in my childhood back-yard. It is an understatement to say that I was relieved to be heading to Bredbury to finish and not facing the massive down-and-up that forms the Bollin River valley on the way to my parents' house.
Two riders passed us as we neared the turning and we exchanged "how are you doing?" pleasantries before my folly in Wilmslow took TSK and I on a detour through the sports centre carpark where we narrowly avoided puncturing on glass before rejoining the road. Still, at least I wasn't getting hauled along as part of a group that would kill me in the last 13 miles.
To write now that it was 13 miles to the finish feels crazy. I had it so fixed in my head that we were nearly there by the time we got to Wilmslow and I literally didn't notice that last hour except for the very last climb.
Partly because it's steep and it's long and its preceded by a downhill with effing traffic lights to scrub off all your momentum... and partly because it really is the LAST climb and as soon as you go down the other side of it, you're there - at the finish - done!
Of course TSK came right back past me on the way up the climb and, since he knew that I was happy navigationally, he continued on his way to start organising his stuff from the back of the car to get changed into something drier and less smelly. I joined him a few minutes later, throwing the damp and sweaty gear in the back of the car and replacing the stuff in my Caradice with dry, fluffy fleecy clothing and a towel. I rode around the corner to the venue and locked up the bikes.
\Post ride note: it gives me great satisfaction that I actually wanted to get back on the bike at this point. For the last months I have been indifferent, if not baffled, as to the improvements gained by a radical new choice of saddle for my new bike. The fact that I was able to execute a further 45 seconds on it, in favour of leaving the car in the car park - or walking - is testament to how comfy the new saddle really is.\
Priorities - tea, apple, soup. Then wash, lying on the floor, stretching whilst TSK talked long distances and times gone by. In 2011 on this ride, he had been one of only two riders to complete. In 2010 only one man, Nick Firth, completed, such was the severity of the day's weather. It is said that he wished he hadn't bothered as it took so much out of him for the coming weeks.
I finally made it into the chair then into the bathroom to wash the mud and salt off my face (50% of it sweat, the other 50% off the road). It felt good to be in normal clothes, cotton knickers, fleece trousers and woolly jumper. I put on Andrew's shoes and went to get the car so I didn't have to put my wet cycling shoes back on. As I stepped outside, the two other lady riders had just got in - I assume. I quietly glowed. Still not sure what to say, I muttered, "well done". It sounded horribly patronising. They were still too engaged to really respond. I was actually quite engaged with trying to get my lock undone which seemed to have got itself stuck and I didn't have the strength or patience to fix it. I went to get TSK instead.
The drive home gave me a good 90 minutes to reflect as TSK snoozed in the passenger seat of the car, the satnav reliably guiding me home through the back-streets of Hyde.
It was nice to come out from underneath TSK's coat tails today. Almost literally, as I much preferred to sit on the front than take a wheel and eat the dirt flying off it. Long distance used to be his thing, that I occasionally came along on for the ride (pun intended) but now I've genuinely rekindled a love for it and honed that feeling over the summer. My anticipation of rejoining the Audax community was justified. I've been reading the magazines in earnest for long enough - dreaming of the day when I could hang up my swimming goggles and running shoes and get back to just riding my bike and holding conversations with people who mainly see me as the noobie and from whom I have so much to learn and emulate - not the other way round. I've become tired of being an experienced triathlete. Being a novice audaxer leaves me room to grow and I can't wait to let more experiences flood in.
On 16th I entered a 300k ride (The Dean - which TSK used to organise) so it's really a bloody good job the 200 went so well. It was by no means the perfect ride - though a little rain is really nothing to put up with in exchange for 9 degrees (heat) when it could have been minus something nasty and just dangerous - but I enjoyed every single friggin minute. When one guy commented that there was no such thing as a tail wind - just a good day - I felt it. The headwind didn't bother me. The tail wind didn't feel like a pay off, it just felt like everything was going swimmingly. Yes, some altitude would have challenged the whole ride a bit more but that's what summers are for... as I remind myself that The Dean is in March.
There was only one lesson learned that I took from today - which was about water and fabrics. I honestly couldn't believe the moisture that came out of my socks yesterday morning but also I couldn't believe what a difference it made after I squeezed it out. I can't begin to think what I would have done if I hadn't had spare gloves or heat pads with me yesterday (didn't need the heat pads thankfully) but I'd like to think that wringing them out might have got me somewhere and it's something I'll take forward in future. I only wish I'd thought of it in time to save the guy that was riding with us. All he really needed was a bloody good glove shop to be honest. Maybe I will also remind myself to pack some crisps - or crackers. Sugar really got to me after 5pm and so half a mars bar and the best part of a bag of M&Ms had a lovely ride around Cheshire.
So onwards. With another 200k organised in January, I am now embarking on the RRTY challenge, the first opportunity to link a 200km ride each month is inspired by a visit to Oxfordshire and Warwickshire to visit Silver which will be a wonderful follow-up to the ride (or replacement for it should everything go "tits oop" - so to speak).
Whether we make it through the RRTY or not, in 2005, I wrote this:
When I think of the biffdays that have been great in my life, my 18th always comes to mind – because that is when I got my first pair of skis and boots from my ma and pa. Only once have I used my skis on dry slope surface – because at the age of 18 you can’t possibly wait for the next ski trip. I took the day off work, I drove to Rossendale, I paid 40 quid for two hours skiing but it was a Wednesday and no-one was checking so I spent the entire day going up and down the same 60 metres of carpet on a small windy hill on the edge of Lancashire. At closing time, I threw my gear in the “little s**t” aka Gustav-Sylvester-the-fiesta and drove back to Manchester, probably to get drunk with Tanya who had returned from Leeds Uni for the Christmas holidayFor a while after that, I tried to ski on my birthday every year, whether it was at uni, on the dry slope in Manchester or in Canada. Whilst I can't guarantee that every year will be a 9 degree year, I set out with some trepidation now to claim that in future, I might try and do a 200 every year on my birthday - whether it's on a Sunday or not - whether it's an organised event or not. Clearly this might affect my ability to do the winter solstice again so maybe I'll reserve the birthday for preparing for the Solstice ride. Anything, absolutely anything would be preferable to shopping for other people's presents which is invariably how my other birthdays as a grown up tend to go.
So there we have it: new goals set, new rules established, one for this year smashed... at approximately on Sunday 17th December, as I dropped my lip balm in the road outside the lovely Capesthorne Hall, I had clocked up a total of 5000 miles of cycling in 2017.
Audax History
Since the Audaxing calendar offers me a satisfying array of history, some of which is lost in the midsts of time as my own personal record-keeping technology has moved on, I'll log myself some stats here:
2007 - First winter solstice-201 km - officially part of the 2008 season(23/12/2007)
2008 - Castleton Classic-201km(20/4/2008), Heart of the Shires-206km(07/06/2008), Hills & Plains of Cheshire-212km(27/7/2008)
2009 - Wiltshire White Horses-205km(14/3/2009)
2010 - East Riding 200 - 210km(23/5/2010)
2012 - North-West Passage-200km(18/2/2012), Chirk-200km(25/3/2012) 9:18
2013 - Winter Solstice-201km(16/12/2012)
2014 - Mildenhall Cycling Rally-206km(23/8/2014)
2017 - Winter Solstice-201km(17/12/2017)
Splits:
- 20 mile 12.9 mph HR 134
- 1 minute chat!
- 38 miles 11.7 mph HR 129
- 30 minute lunch at Costa
- 5 mile 11.9 mph HR 127 to market drayton
- 1 minute petrol station stop
- 31 mile 12 mph HR 124
- 42 mins tea shop stop
- 43.76 miles 11.6 mph HR 100
Total time: 12:00. Riding time: 10:58 ish
Monday, November 27, 2017
First 100 - a proud and exhausting day
So, on Saturday I finished my first 100 mile training ride. How do I feel? Crushed.
Proud of myself, but crushed.
I sat on the sofa all day Sunday. I did manage to work and in retrospect, it wasn't the best thing to do with my body but I needed to physically do nothing (got shit loads done at work but that's nothing to be proud of on a Sunday).
Today it's left me wondering, if that's how I feel after 100 miles, how the fuck am I going to ride that over and over again for up to 16 days in Ireland... on hills.
I just have to believe I'll get the hang of this, I'll get stronger.
We drove to Harthill and left the car in the carpark and set off in freezing cold air. My hands were icy for a good while before I suddenly realised, on a random country lane that they weren't any more. We pulled into Rufford Park at 11am, scurried inside the cafe and had an early lunch of pastie and cake. It was very necessary, more than I realised.
Fully fed, we rode across the footbridge past the ford - didn't fancy wet feet today - and continued our route.
I noticed TSK stripping off his liner gloves and riding fingerless. Although I wondered how the hell he could manage it in the cold, I suddenly realised my hands were kind of hot - in sealskins + liners and stripped back my own glovage.
We passed through a mix of open countryside, woodland, forests, crossed the A1 at Sleaford - a roundabout I used to fly across in the 90 degrees direction in the car on the way to Norwich - and then rolled into Lincoln, suddenly dodging cars. I loaded an excellent spring on a wing mirror of a car that mistook a bike lane with double-yellows for a parking space, not realising there was someone inside. The sense of satisfaction as I rode away from an angry beeping driver was immense.
The high street was nice enough - busy enough to make us push our bikes. We didn't get any further towards Lincoln cathederal than that.
The steady throng of people coming down the hill were shoulder to shoulder so we rode out along the riverside to the entertainment zone and had a "posh" bike second lunch in the Handmade Burger Co. at 2:30pm.
When I planned the route I imagined all of this and sure enough, as we left Lincoln and joined the bike lane I'd scouted on Garmin Maps, we rode side by side into the setting sun for mile after mile. Just as we thought the disused railway line was about to run out, it started up again, passing under road bridges almost all the way to Tuxford.
About 5 minutes from its end we eventually had to concede to put our lights on and then we joined the road again.
As I began to slip behind, TSK offered me a banana to eat. I knew I needed to eat but couldn't be bothered to get the cake stashed in the bag on my top tube. Silly, really. Eventually we stopped in Clumber Park on the bridge over the river - familiar from duathlons, not from riding into the night.
It went some way to making me feel better but as the country lanes and head wind hit again, I started to just feel very sleepy (it was still only about 7:30pm). This time I did root around and found myself an energy bar. It gave me enough of a boost to keep up with TSK a little bit more but I let him navigate back to the car, not complaining that we were cutting a corner off my route because we'd added some in earlier in place of taking a short cut through a field.
We finally found a sign-post to Harthill at the second to last turn of the day with around 1.5 miles to go. Harsh. Really harsh. We argued over whether we would go to the pub for beer first or sit on the swings for a bit but we did neither and both flopped into the car, cranked the heating up high and drove home to get dinner delivered to our door by a nice man carrying a thermal bag.
In retrospect, I'd usually eat more on your average audax (an extra 1.5 to 2 hours longer) so it's hardly surprising I was so tired. Note to self: carry more food.
100 miles
8.5 hours
653m elevation
Proud of myself, but crushed.
I sat on the sofa all day Sunday. I did manage to work and in retrospect, it wasn't the best thing to do with my body but I needed to physically do nothing (got shit loads done at work but that's nothing to be proud of on a Sunday).
Today it's left me wondering, if that's how I feel after 100 miles, how the fuck am I going to ride that over and over again for up to 16 days in Ireland... on hills.
I just have to believe I'll get the hang of this, I'll get stronger.
We drove to Harthill and left the car in the carpark and set off in freezing cold air. My hands were icy for a good while before I suddenly realised, on a random country lane that they weren't any more. We pulled into Rufford Park at 11am, scurried inside the cafe and had an early lunch of pastie and cake. It was very necessary, more than I realised.
Fully fed, we rode across the footbridge past the ford - didn't fancy wet feet today - and continued our route.
I noticed TSK stripping off his liner gloves and riding fingerless. Although I wondered how the hell he could manage it in the cold, I suddenly realised my hands were kind of hot - in sealskins + liners and stripped back my own glovage.
We passed through a mix of open countryside, woodland, forests, crossed the A1 at Sleaford - a roundabout I used to fly across in the 90 degrees direction in the car on the way to Norwich - and then rolled into Lincoln, suddenly dodging cars. I loaded an excellent spring on a wing mirror of a car that mistook a bike lane with double-yellows for a parking space, not realising there was someone inside. The sense of satisfaction as I rode away from an angry beeping driver was immense.
The high street was nice enough - busy enough to make us push our bikes. We didn't get any further towards Lincoln cathederal than that.
The steady throng of people coming down the hill were shoulder to shoulder so we rode out along the riverside to the entertainment zone and had a "posh" bike second lunch in the Handmade Burger Co. at 2:30pm.
When I planned the route I imagined all of this and sure enough, as we left Lincoln and joined the bike lane I'd scouted on Garmin Maps, we rode side by side into the setting sun for mile after mile. Just as we thought the disused railway line was about to run out, it started up again, passing under road bridges almost all the way to Tuxford.
About 5 minutes from its end we eventually had to concede to put our lights on and then we joined the road again.
As I began to slip behind, TSK offered me a banana to eat. I knew I needed to eat but couldn't be bothered to get the cake stashed in the bag on my top tube. Silly, really. Eventually we stopped in Clumber Park on the bridge over the river - familiar from duathlons, not from riding into the night.
It went some way to making me feel better but as the country lanes and head wind hit again, I started to just feel very sleepy (it was still only about 7:30pm). This time I did root around and found myself an energy bar. It gave me enough of a boost to keep up with TSK a little bit more but I let him navigate back to the car, not complaining that we were cutting a corner off my route because we'd added some in earlier in place of taking a short cut through a field.
 |
| The silliness was earlier! |
We finally found a sign-post to Harthill at the second to last turn of the day with around 1.5 miles to go. Harsh. Really harsh. We argued over whether we would go to the pub for beer first or sit on the swings for a bit but we did neither and both flopped into the car, cranked the heating up high and drove home to get dinner delivered to our door by a nice man carrying a thermal bag.
In retrospect, I'd usually eat more on your average audax (an extra 1.5 to 2 hours longer) so it's hardly surprising I was so tired. Note to self: carry more food.
100 miles
8.5 hours
653m elevation
Saturday, November 04, 2017
First difficulties
Last week's riding was wonderful but it was straight back to work on Monday morning and a week which was filled with office drama. I tried to keep out of it as much as I could but got dragged into meetings when I could have been doing something more productive and had threats that my most successful and exciting project in years could be killed on the whim of some bureaucrat economist in Munich.
Mostly though, I raised above it, got on with my work and managed to ride three times and yoga twice and oh my! how those yoga sessions were needed.
My rides have been on the new bike (good) but not long (bad). On Wednesday I felt like riding to Buxton to see the Adventure Syndicate but in the end we took the car and ate dinner out in a relaxed fashion and then got home near to midnight buzzing with excitement so resting wasn't great anyway.
There was a lot of talk of the dark places we go when we're riding long distances and through the night and how badly we may behave and how we're all sharing it. Having the mental strength to deal with it. I know everyone suffers it and it's how we deal with it that counts but I've never heard it so openly spoken about - and so individually too.
I think I've got better at managing melt downs. Still I have the occasional moment when I plough on regardless and make things worse but increasingly I'm finding the will to step back, consider, stop and let things go before trying to proceed with more caution.
I still don't fail very often. I'm too stubborn and maybe I just don't push myself far enough so I stay in my comfort zone or at least wobbling along the thin line on the edge of it. I think TAW will challenge that for sure. If not the race itself then some of the events leading up to it.
After listening to Lee Craigie and Emily Chappel on Wednesday I feel slightly more confident that I can complete but mainly, far less concerned if I don't. While I have every intention of finishing, the start of my journey - plotting new routes around my same old backyard has already taken me down lanes I've never ridden on before and at times of day I wouldn't normally ride and I've had chats and conversations with people that have been more satisfying and more uplifting than anything I have ever experienced before.
After Wednesday's motivation, of course I rode to work both Thursday and Friday, taking the hilly ride home both days because it felt right and the hilly route in on Friday because I had to go to the post office. The post man brought me my new tent which was so excitingly light, I spent the day at work picking it up out of my bag to appreciate its lightness.
I finished the week exhausted, staring down the barrel of 122 miles of riding to make up the week's miles (I won't make that) and bursting for more, as well as a rest week. I reminded myself I get a rest week starting on Monday and got on with planning my Saturday ride.
Mostly though, I raised above it, got on with my work and managed to ride three times and yoga twice and oh my! how those yoga sessions were needed.
My rides have been on the new bike (good) but not long (bad). On Wednesday I felt like riding to Buxton to see the Adventure Syndicate but in the end we took the car and ate dinner out in a relaxed fashion and then got home near to midnight buzzing with excitement so resting wasn't great anyway.
There was a lot of talk of the dark places we go when we're riding long distances and through the night and how badly we may behave and how we're all sharing it. Having the mental strength to deal with it. I know everyone suffers it and it's how we deal with it that counts but I've never heard it so openly spoken about - and so individually too.
I think I've got better at managing melt downs. Still I have the occasional moment when I plough on regardless and make things worse but increasingly I'm finding the will to step back, consider, stop and let things go before trying to proceed with more caution.
I still don't fail very often. I'm too stubborn and maybe I just don't push myself far enough so I stay in my comfort zone or at least wobbling along the thin line on the edge of it. I think TAW will challenge that for sure. If not the race itself then some of the events leading up to it.
After listening to Lee Craigie and Emily Chappel on Wednesday I feel slightly more confident that I can complete but mainly, far less concerned if I don't. While I have every intention of finishing, the start of my journey - plotting new routes around my same old backyard has already taken me down lanes I've never ridden on before and at times of day I wouldn't normally ride and I've had chats and conversations with people that have been more satisfying and more uplifting than anything I have ever experienced before.
After Wednesday's motivation, of course I rode to work both Thursday and Friday, taking the hilly ride home both days because it felt right and the hilly route in on Friday because I had to go to the post office. The post man brought me my new tent which was so excitingly light, I spent the day at work picking it up out of my bag to appreciate its lightness.
I finished the week exhausted, staring down the barrel of 122 miles of riding to make up the week's miles (I won't make that) and bursting for more, as well as a rest week. I reminded myself I get a rest week starting on Monday and got on with planning my Saturday ride.
Sunday, September 24, 2017
3 Peaks Cyclo-cross 2017
The 3 Peaks this year passed by in a blur of: thinking I was doing better, not knowing how I was doing, puncturing, being average, ending with a time gain of 5 minutes over last year.
It was satisfying but a little disappointing, confounded by my dad not finishing due to a frustrating mechanical. The official refused continuation 12 minutes outside cut off on a glorious sunny day. He worked really hard this year to get back to fitness after illness... not easy when you're 67.
Another one under my belt but no daddy daughter prize this year and no sub-5 hour for me proving that I will have to train specifically for it instead of pricking about with triathlon and mountain biking. The legs felt slushy this morning. There's no other reason than I am knackered!
It was a beautiful sunny day. My friend Sue fed me flapjack on Whernside and I had great fun throwing stuff into people's cars (with their permission).
I wore old shoes which messed up my downhill running confidence and anyway I haven't done nearly enough of that recently anyway. Sub 5 hours is definitely possible but dedicating August to fine tuning may be required.
With my head in my next project already, it doesn't bother me too much that I didn't break any of my old records today. It matters more what I do tomorrow... or perhaps on Wednesday.
It was satisfying but a little disappointing, confounded by my dad not finishing due to a frustrating mechanical. The official refused continuation 12 minutes outside cut off on a glorious sunny day. He worked really hard this year to get back to fitness after illness... not easy when you're 67.
Another one under my belt but no daddy daughter prize this year and no sub-5 hour for me proving that I will have to train specifically for it instead of pricking about with triathlon and mountain biking. The legs felt slushy this morning. There's no other reason than I am knackered!
It was a beautiful sunny day. My friend Sue fed me flapjack on Whernside and I had great fun throwing stuff into people's cars (with their permission).
I wore old shoes which messed up my downhill running confidence and anyway I haven't done nearly enough of that recently anyway. Sub 5 hours is definitely possible but dedicating August to fine tuning may be required.
With my head in my next project already, it doesn't bother me too much that I didn't break any of my old records today. It matters more what I do tomorrow... or perhaps on Wednesday.
 |
| (c) Sue Thackray |
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