The Old Coach Road

It was TSKk's choice to ride the old Coach Road. 

Me? I've still got my eye on High Street - a path that claws its way up the backbone of the Eastern Fells of the Lakes, or might possibly end up being the end of the road for my Dignity (the bike) and my ego.

But still, its the closest to home.

The Old Coach Road goes from somewhere high in the hills around Ullswater to Mattadale on the other side of Great Dunmow and ends at lanes that take a rider past Threlkeld to St Johns in the Vale.

I plotted a route there and back and we anxiously left our accommodation at 9. 30am once wheel /tyre changes had been completed.

• • •

Lunch was packed to avoid the crowds and a multitude of clothing layers accompanied us. Most of which were removed within the 1st mile - it being spring and all. We flew through Pooley Bridge, ignoring the assembling hoards that descend on Granma Dowbekin's like a school dining hall. The main road was still quiet with only occasional cars passing. I'd plotted a route which took us off the A- road as soon as possible at the cost of some extra climbing including a 1:5 section. We almost considered sticking to the main road but I was firm that this was where the fun started and instead we enjoyed mostly traffic-free lanes all the way up through the static caravan parks peppered between ancient cottages which finally gave way to farmland.

The 1: 5, while tough, was just the right length to have me thinking "Right, this is too much, I'll get off in a sec" and then I realised there was just a little bit more to do. We were just in time to see a shepherd feeding his flock at the summit before we dropped down way too far for my liking. Then it was time for the final approach.

The walker's car park for our route was one of the old fashioned ones. There are no big mountains here, just an old coach road and two smaller insignificant fells that only really appear on obscure fell running calendars and the itineraries of doddery old men ticking off Wainwrights. There are no pay and display machines.  Sure enough 3 doddery old men were packing up their sandwiches and tying their bootlaces. It was time for us to get through the gate, around the corner behind the forest and sit down for something to eat out of the breeze.

• • •

We could see nothing from our spot other than the moorland in front and the tracks right and left but also, that was pretty much what we came for - yellow grasses blowing in the breeze. The food was much, needed. The trail ahead seemed largely ride able. Most importantly, the man with the slightly dodgy knee seemed eminently happy with it.

We climbed up towards the summit and were cautious over the stream crossing. The rocks were large and slippy with big gaps between. On the verge of unrideable on my gravel bike with 2.2" tyres on. We both walked it -TSK took the bridge because his bike shoes aren't waterproof and I was testing out my HT boots for heat-resistance. We took it in turns to pass each other on the Coach Road, as each of us stopped in sequence to photograph the scene ahead. The path was a dry replica of Scotland's Road of 1000 puddles at it stretched out, cutting a swathe through the moorland grasses. The flanks of Blencathra on the right, Skiddaw straight ahead and I had to strip down my clothing layers to riding in a teeshirt when the fleece, then the windproof got packed away. We couldn't believe our luck with the weather this week and finally I was reminded of the why.

It was so glorious that when the sting in the tail arrived we didn't care. The descent deteriorated into a bit of a mess. Clearly the Keswick/Threlkeld end gets more of a hammering.

For starters there were a few tricky rock bluffs - rideable for both of us but bouncy and uncomfortable for both bikes. This degenerated after the gate into a scrabbly mess of loose rock everywhere which had us both off and walking.

Half way down we took out a moment to watch and listen to a farmer practicing with his dog.

I say "practicing" as we could see neither dog nor sheep over the edge of the hill but the farmer stood stock still where he was shouting commands and seemed largely unconcerned by the outcome except for the occasional "Ye bugger" which I've never heard on "One man and his Dog" before.

 

Eventually we managed to pick out a sketchy rideable line down the edge of the lose rock and plopped out of the last gate onto tarmac, very pleased at ourselves for inadvertently having picked exactly the right way around to ride the Old Coach Road.

We were so pleased with ourselves, we decided not to cut things short at Threlkeld but continue on to Keswick to get the most out of the beautiful day. We dropped down the valley then up past St Johns in the Vale then over past the busy carpark for Castlerigg Stone Circle. The final meanderings down the lane threw us onto the coast to coast route behind the leisure centre then joined onto the railway trail into Keswick to be pampered by over-priced, disappointing coffee and baked potato (the potato was nice) at the Lakeside cafe.

We bought bread for breakfast and otherwise managed to avoid honeypot shopping except for popping into Alpkit for a free water bottle top up where I promised myself a new rucsac another time.

Back on the K2T cycle route we bought a (not) express ticket to Threlkeld because it involved a stop at ice cream central on the way where we watched a stand-off between a buzzard and a crow while waiting for our turn.

Getting to Threlkeld was the easy bit. From there we navigated on- and off- the A66 using the coast to coast route as a base. It climbed, climbed and climbed some more. Every bike route diversion (no matter how minor) seemed to climb higher than it's car-based counterpart. As ever, when driving this road in the past, I had never realised how many false summits there are.

I reassured myself by remembering all the effort we had gone to in the morning and that this was never really going to be any kind of "easy way back".

Eventually, tired of the constant grind of HGVs whining and never-ending false summits, we planned a visit to our new favourite pub at Dacre (which I've renamed "Daycare") for a well-earned pint. Much to our dismay it was closed until 5pm on a Tuesday so we made use of their street furniture (benches) and ate the remainder of our packed lunch while the Landlady fussed around us, putting out the recycling and moving empty barrels in readiness for the start of her day.

She was pleasant and friendly with us eating our own food outside her pub so we tried our best to eak out an hour before beer o'clock but the heat was disappearing out of the sun and we were ready to get home. Thanks to our reconnaissance on foot on Sunday we were able to navigate home seamlessly off road, avoiding diversions up to Penrith or down to Pooley Bridge. The few minor bogs on the bridleways were already damp-dry and we checked in on the lamb we saw on Sunday-curled up in a heap in 0°C temperatures looking almost dead. He was now up on his feet and standing with his mum, flourishing in the sunlight

• • •

TSK and I finally parted ways 400m from home when, inspired by the extra off-road excursion, I resolved to ride home a different route to the way out and completed my circuit using the Byway while TSK used the road.

There were more jarring tree roots than I remembered and, while I rode them all, he still arrived back before me.

What with cooking a full chicken chasseur casserole for our dinner it was A DAY and I am pretty chuffed with us both for it.

Looking forwards to doubling it myself.

Riding bikes for fun

 We went out for a ride together today, me and TSK.  We had nowhere to be, no mileage to make and nothing really to train for.  I wanted to buy something from Hathersage.  We ate, drank coffee and beer and had lunch outside a pub. 

We rode where we felt like and went home when we wanted.  

In short, it was bliss.

I've realised how unfit riding a low geared mountain bike has made me and I've vowed to ride road gears a bit more up these big hills just to keep fit.  I've vowed to keep the commuter miles going now I've started to come out from under a rock.

I've vowed to look after me.

A long time coming. Keeping it local.

 Since BB200 I've really struggled to get back on any of my bikes.  Nothing was wrong, I just didn't feel like it.

Days have passed in a flurry of work commitments.  Not unpleasant ones.  In a job where we're carrying out important support for Government sponsored environmental developments, it's incredibly satisfying to make my love of organising other people (engineers) into a deliverance of something meaningful.

However, I've worked some incredibly long hours and the day came where I needed to go for a bike ride.

Instead of going for a ride this week I have:

• been to the weights room twice
• run once
• walked a lot
• cleaned bikes
• rebuilt wheels
• serviced bikes
• changed tyres
• fixed up a paint job
• re-tensioned someone else's wheel
• Re-packed my big Carradice full of wintry clothing (full waterproofs etc).

Finally, I ran out of excuses this morning.

We summonsed the courage to be out of the house at 12:00, stomachs partially full with second breakfast.  The ride was labelled, ride where you feel like.

We headed up hill through Commonside and started to battle against the wind.  At Lodge Moor we pulled into a bus stop after only 40 or so minutes of riding and put on waterproofs as the rainbow over the Rivelin Valley got more and more vibrant, the closer the rain shower came.  We passed the Sportsman where kids played footie on the field, their parents corralled outside the pitch by a dirty rope and a selection of pub-goers stood socially distant from a bearded old man who commanded some kind of an audience.

We turned off towards the climb past Wyming Brook farm, a brief tail wind blowing us onto Soughley Lane where we both felt like giving it a poke, accelerated by the briefest of tail-winds.  The problem is, there's a 180 to this road so at first the acceleration was cut by the cross wind then after the hairpin, it was back into full-face wind and I just caught upto he-who-goes-off-too-quick before the final bend.  I was committed now and I huffed my way to the top.  I'd reached into bits of my lungs I haven't opened up for a while and it felt good and sketchy all at the same time.  It was hard but it's no wonder, I was only 12 seconds off my same time on a nice sunny day riding the Twiglet, with Chris Featherstone hauling up front.

Past the Lama farm, we decided on Chips and tea at the Norfolk Arms take away but there was a queue so we tried Dore then Totley but everywhere was shut so we disappeared into the woods instead, headed for the Graves Cafe and sat in a little pod shelter with tarpaulin over us and waited for two cheese toasties.  They were heavenly and the pod was like camping and there was Nutella cake so everything was well with the world.

I'd had enough poking into the wind so we conceded to head home, stopping at Waitrose to pick up dinner.  I must've been looking rough because a lad carrying a can of Strongbow at 2:30pm stopped to check I was OK, slumped in the remaining dry corner behind our bikes as the rain poured down outside my temporary perspex shelter.

After my Waitrose sit down, I must have recovered some legs and really enjoyed the climb up to the house.  I took in a detour because I hate riding through the village with all the parked cars and junctions and pedestrians and taxis in the bike lane so I went to pray to Buddah then dropped into home from above. 

It was the perfect length ride for a wet, windy day and a day when I just wanted a ride that felt nice and nothing went wrong.  The bike worked, I worked (hard) and I'm inspired again - just in time for being restricted to my own back yard for the next month.  

Just in time to start my Highland Trail training in earnest.

Riding to the Seaside for Decembivi

A sneaky check of my phone at the work Christmas do and there's a text from my buddy Karl, randomly asking if I want to do a 600 this weekend.

Excitement runs riot. The last 600  I did, I failed miserably - 5 hours out of time due to howling winds in my face for the first 200k. Here's a speedy wheel to sit on but, guys, like, December!

I  SAY I'll look at the weather in the morning and decide. I return to the party and mostly forget about it.

A number of pokes later over text, despite 3 degrees temps, rain forecast, more howling winds, I still have major FOMO. I doubt I can manage a 600 this weekend.  If I am physically able is one thing, but I have a new starter at work on Monday, I'm in charge and I would be doing both her and myself a disservice to come into work exhausted.  SO I do the right thing, check my maps and make a plan to meet Karl part way into his ride with my own plan to get home from somewhere like Donnington, on the return leg on Saturday.  I need to get a December bivi in and I decide that this weekend is as good as any other which may end up colder or wetter.

The hardest part was eking out an extra two hours in the office on Friday night but a bit of faffing got me out the door at 6.45 to pump up the tyres I put on the night before and hadn't quite sealed yet.  Straight onto the Northbound bike lanes by Meadowhall and then a lot of navigational faux-pas as I tried to pick up the old Woodhead road much earlier than usual.  The Garmin got sworn at a lot and eventually I resorted it mountain bike trails I know through Greno woods, culminating in me pushing the fully loaded Tripster, Dignity, up a steep gravel trail. Highland Trail training well and truly commenced.

Next, the Trans Pennine trail, studiously joined at the muddiest section. It must have been chilly because the tunnels felt warm and welcoming.

As soon as I got out of the embankments around 8.30 I turned the phone on for a bit. I was trying to meet Karl at 9.30 and I only had 10k to go across Silkstone common to join his route.

"In Greenfield, I'll get there as soon as I can".  He was a little late but that was fine, I re routed Northwards a bit to meet him sooner, planning to come off the trail at Penistone and head straight North towards Shepley.

I also realised I'd foolishly left work without a plan to eat, though a 3 course Christmas dinner at work was a good substitute, I now had time for some food.

I propped up my bike by the chippy window in Penistone and chatted to kids and parents just leaving the local orchestra practise.

Sainsbury's next to get some snacks for the road. I couldn't get my cable lock to work as the combination got fubar'd some time ago so I used the ziptie lock and rushed in and out again, the area riddled with boy racers and drunk teenagers.  My total haul was a bag of M&Ms and a 6 pack of popcorn which I stuffed in every available orifice of my bike bags, leading Karl think I had more stuff on my bike than I really did. That's what happens when I pack with 48 hours notice.

Onto Royd moor and the wind started to build up. Mostly it was cross-ways but when I turned into it, I was standing on the pedals with all my might to get up the slightest of hills. I'd killed a lot of time in Penistone and now progress was painfully slow. I topped out about 10pm and, looking around for somewhere  to stop, spied a petrol station, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, down the hill from me.

I decided to stop there to check Karl's spot and see where he was.

As I rolled into the forecourt, a blue Tripster awaited, signatory bikepacking gear dangling. I had no idea what bike he rides on the road but what are the chances of some other loon being out at 10pm with a loaded bike, half way across the Pennines in December?  Sure enough, a friendly van driver pointed me towards the coffee machine where my wheel-date was waiting with a hot coffee. Timing could hardy have been more perfect.

Coffee'd up we set off into the night under the guide of the pink line on the map for an absolutely ripping descent, traffic free and tail wind assisted.

We talked for hours, catching up on our BB200/300 experiences and about Highland Trail (mine just reccies) stories.

Sometimes it's great when the ride is the uneventful part and I was mining for information.

There was a railway crossing for some brake servicing and a fenland track to be navigated in the dark which led us to a very attractive-looking fisherman's shed.  Tempting as it was, it was too early and too cheeky to break and enter and bed down across the drain from the house, with a clearly marked 'private property' notice outside.

We threaded through villages, stopping occasionally for me to switch routes as I had accidentally downloaded the 6 segments off the website but the segments took us along more pleasant lanes so wasn't entirely wasted effort.

Around 2am we both conceded we 'probably' should stop soon as I had stopped chatting for the first time in 5 hours and gone a bit quiet. Yes, reader, I looked down at my Garmin to see it  was 1.35am then realised that was the distance to go to the end of my Garmin segment (1.35 km). It was actually 3.30am and I laughed at the fact I was no more tired than if I'd gone to a friends house and sat on the sofa drinking wine and chatting till 3 am.  This says as much about the tail wind we'd had as it did about the fact we'd only spent 5 minutes together since May.

Still, with 1km to go and still buoyed by enthusiasm to ride on, we were struggling to find a bivi spot as everywhere looked kind of wet. A few churches looked promising but they were finely regaled in bright Christmas lights and near to lively-looking local pubs or busy roads.

Soon, though, the brown signs started to appear for Hessle country park.  With parks come picnic  benches offering dry surfaces or dry under-surfaces.

We pulled in. It wasn't the quietest and definitely not dark with a full moon and street lighting but the trees gave enough cover and there was the promise of morning toilets.  The picnic benches had been dried in the breeze but I opted for the damp floor which was well drained and soft whilst Karl took to the bench itself to... I dunno, practice sleeping on a precipice?

We each bedded down, discussed the relative merits of sleeping under moving branches then slinked off into our own cocoons, me vaguely aware that I was starting to drown on something distinctly cold-like.  I did not fall asleep easily, though I was warm and cozy.  For a while my face remained exposed - as much as it can with a hat pulled over my eyes.  I fidgeted somewhat but my brain was still buzzing from the evening's entertainment and the exhilaration of staying awake on the bike for so long.

The joy was soon replaced with anxiety as the breeze in the park changed and picked up.  The wind rushed through the suspension cables on the bridge and I worried that our passage in the morning might be impaired by a closed bridge - should we have bivi'd on the other side?

It got a bit chilly with the bivi inflating in the new wind direction so I zipped over my head and opened the side zip instead, glad I'd chosen to sleep close to the ground - boundary layer fluid dynamics floating round my brain as the lights went out.

I told Karl, like every great new friendship, I'd hate him in the morning when he woke me up.  I was awake before him but stayed where I was for a while, hoping he would just get up for a pee and go back to bed, but no, he rustled the bivi and my snoozing was over. 

 

I had a proper good faff to get going.  My schedule isn't quite as honed and my sleeping bag is far fluffier.  My priorities centred around popcorn consumption and a long hike for a pee as the warden was occupying the ladies' toilet. Karl's theory - that the warden was more scared of us than we were of him - seemed well founded as he cowered behind the steel bars and sent me slinking off into the undergrowth for a private pee and change of leggings away from enthusiastic runners and dog-walkers.

An hour later, we were in a café in Hessle, tucking into a breakfast and so much tea, the owner regretting opening his door so early.  Given the lack of veggie breakfast I tucked into a selection of "extras".

And so the bridge!  Slightly less terrifying than crossing the Severn, there was more space, less traffic and a glorious low sun which made everything just a bit gorgeous, especially Karl's pirate impressions (cough).

I can't remember when the day stopped being fun.  We had second breakfast at which I started to contemplate quitting earlier than planned but agreed that there was no point until I'd eaten something.  The cake was wonderful but the coffee was awful.  I hatched a plan to keep going till I'd had enough.  At least within easy riding of the route were: Gainsborough, Boston, Lincoln, Sleaford, Nottingham, Derby... etc. - all of which had stations leading back home.

At 1pm we found a pub for lunch which was very fine.  Both of us were a bit done-in and we loitered a bit over rehydration and sugary drinks.  My nose dripped with increasing frequency and my body started to feel a bit heavy.  Coming outside to a flat-ish tyre wasn't great but the pressure went back in so we set off again.  I spent a lot of time staring at Karl's back tyre ahead of my own then staring at his left sock as I sat in the sweet spot slightly left of centre, cowering from the wind.  I checked the speed radars: with me on my own I was cracking out 10mph.  At least in his slipstream (when he managed to ride slow enough), we were managing 16mph. 

Eventually I tired (pun) of the view - there's only so long you can stare at a sock - and we diverted onto a minor road (my route again) to get off the main road that was forcing us to ride single file.  At least on the back-road we could ride side by side and enjoy the scenery as we (I)  tore our (my) knee ligaments apart.

When we got to Gainsborough, I knew it was time for me to quit.  I felt weak with a head-cold and my right knee was just struggling.  Whilst I tried to insist on sending Karl on his way, he seemed more up for ditching the dual carriage way we'd found ourselves on, and diverting through town to navigate me to the station, saving me a frustrating Garmin search.  We said our goodbyes and I set off up the platform to check where the train that was sat there was headed.  Sheffield - NICE!

So, whilst Boothy carried on valiantly into the evening, I warmed up at the hospitality of First Great Western whilst eating more popcorn and M&Ms, in between blowing my increasingly drippy nose and dot watching.

I was duly delivered to Sheffield station (after a good 40 minutes sleep restoration) where I rode up the steep hill to home quicker and easier than any head-wind I'd battled against that morning.

On loading my ride to Strava I clocked myself a QOM - in the category of "no woman in her right mind has brought a bike up that".  A tiny Avenue I'm sure I've been up before on a bike, but there you go, now I rule it alongside some bloke called Simon.

So no brilliant and glorious finale to my 12 of 12 Bivis a month, just a quiet (conversational) limp through.  It was exceptional to finish the year off in company, freshly motivated by resolutions and advice and general scab-picking over options and choices for the HT.

This weekends ride did what some BAMs before it have done - got me out when I didn't necessarily feel like it and shaken me about, blown the cobwebs off and taught me something.  With the winter ride coming up, I'm anticipating an ongoing theme...

Till then, it's cloth badge time.

Bivi A Month - to be different October

I could claim BearBones 200 as my October BAM but, given the opportunity to legitimately bike camp under the Derwent Water dam as part of my Fell Running club, I could not resist this weekend's beer and volunteer deal.

Dark Peak Fell Runners hosted the annual Fell Relays this weekend, with 1800+ competitors and supporters to move between a carpark in Bamford and Fairholmes car park at Derwent reservoir, all hands were required on-deck.  As a gift, the organisers put on a little do in a marquee at Fairholmes with camping options. 

On Friday afternoon I packed quite a lot of comfort gear into 2 paniers on my hardy but silly Tripster ATR and Lauff forks and wobbled my way over the A57 in rush hour traffic.

By the time I left Sheffield, I reckon 50% of people passing were fell runners (who are closely related to long distance bike packers more than they'd care to admit) who gave me lots of room. 

It started raining as I hit the bottom of the valley outside my house and continued.  I added the waterproof and sweated up / chilled on the way down.  It got properly enjoyable when I turned onto the Kings Road to Fairholmes, relatively traffic free as all fell runners were suitably fed and inebriated by then.

I hadn't booked so had brought pasta and sauce to brew but then there were enough burgers to go round so I "helped".  The tin mug got used for beer from a keg. 

The tent had a brilliant layout with most of the party camped at one end and a few (including myself) grumpy old gits pitched at the other end behind a van to drown out the noise of the party and generator and get out of the lights.  Not necessary though as the loud waterfall of water pouring over the dam from the last few weeks rain was sufficient white noise to cancel out most din.  I went for a short walk in the dark and drizzle before bedding down at 10:30.  I'm told the party ended about midnight but I was already sound asleep - with the tent, thickest sleep bag, extra blanket, fleece trousers and down booties on hand - luxury indeed.

Tent within a tent

In the morning I burned some porridge - on the basis a gas stove is much stronger than a meths one.  Fortunately it was still palatable if a little brown and crispy in places.  The stove was too large for the little mug so I balanced it on the lid of the big mug which will forever now have a discolouration ring to remind me of this day.

I probably disturbed most people but I had to be down at the Bus stop in Bamford for an 8am briefing.  I packed up and spent 15 minutes trying to get one of the sponsors' vans into the race field before heading off on my own path down to Bamford.

There I was equipped with an attractive plastic hi-vis vest and spent the morning dancing in a pair of gardening gloves to direct motorists to park in the car park in stead of attempting to pull into our bus stop.  We dispatched 1800 runners plus their packs / gazebos / cakes over a few hours without causing any traffic disruption or delaying local buses (except for a minute here or there).

Fetching

I spent my lunch brewing soup and coffee whilst standing by on the radio to start dispatching the busses back to Fairholmes to bring people home.  Had a walk by the river and realised it's a long time since I've just SAT in the countryside and enjoyed it... though the bus view was a little off-putting.

Unloading the buses was hectic, matching teams to gear and trying not to get buses and cars picking up kit crossed over. 

Still, we did it.  Happy to report that a bunch of people walked back and there were 140 bikes on the racking provided for the sustainable option.  A good warm up for a fell race.

After all the excitement I forgot I had to ride home.  My bags were heavy, having not eaten my food from the night before and picked up a discarded sandwich box.  I also had the burden of three jerseys that I failed to pass on to other people. 

Faced with needing to walk up the A57 because I didn't have the gears, I instead opted to ride up to Stanage and back over the Moors.  Much walking ensued but at least I wasn't getting close-passed by HGVs.  I cursed as I realised I'd added a lot more climbing to my route.  Still, I texted TSK and he had the oven on and the timer pinged as I walked through the door, cold and starving. 

56km, 1000m.

Pre-Transatlantic Way - The woes, the wobbles (litterally) and the Way.

In 10 days we embark on the Transatlanticway – a 1400 (ish) mile race over ¾ of the way around the Irish Coastline.  It’s known to be a bit of a gueller. 

1. a)      It’s a long way.
2. b)      It’s into the prevailing wind for a large proportion of its distance
3. c)       It pisses it down a lot on the west coast of Ireland
4. d)      It’s still a long way

People have asked the Adventure Syndicate (a group of female adventurers who spend their lives adventurising and through doing so aim to encourage people – mainly women and girls – to take on new adventures… or as we called it in the 80’s – turn off your TV set and go and do something more interesting)… anyway, people have asked them, “are there any normal people out there, doing this stuff, y’know, people with jobs and normal lives?”

I give you, me.  And, to be fair, plenty of others – teachers, nurses and yes, engineers, IT professionals, scientists, accountants, researchers, authors – who ride by morning and evening and spend 8 hours or more 5 days or more a week at someone else’s disposal before hurtling around like lunatics the rest of the time, trying to squeeze into some kind of major event or another every so often along with all of the training required to even get you onto the start line, never mind over it and around to the finish.  Our only major contribution to the encouragement of others to take on adventurising?  We turn up and watch the events, the presentations, the videos, buy into the rhetoric then purchase all our own kit (or eachothers' off-casts) to keep the industry that supports the real winners afloat.

In the meantime we try our best to perpetuate the myth in our personal theatres, offices, factory floors and board rooms but inevitably at the end of the day, still manage to come across as some kind of unearthly super-human to your average desk touting, machine operating, scalpel weilding, hospital gown folding, board-rubber hurling podgy average human being (there are intentionally lots of averages in there).

The inevitable response to “I’m just an average human being” is to gaffaw in wonder.  Occasionally we draw one in and they go on to complete multiple ironmans – but its rare.

I have done precisely 41% of the volume of training I wanted to do for this race.  Trust me, I have a spreadsheet that shows it because if there's one thing engineering professionals can do well, it's write spreadsheets. 

Almost as soon as I’d finished my last long ride (during which I entered this one) I drew up a plan to get me from the measly volume of riding I had been doing to where I wanted to be (right now, as I sit here typing this). 

The plan involved multiple long rides during the week combined with long efforts at the weekend, responsibly interspersed with rest days in between.  The gains in distance across time were unfathomable so I did a stupid thing and took out some of the rest days to smooth the leaps.  In retrospect it was always set to fail but also, as happens with every day Joes (and Janes) the job took over. 

I’m a senior engineer for a gases company but I have no control over anything.  Senior managers retain all that –and I’m talking really senior.  So getting a project and delivering it are two very different things.  I won’t labour the point in my blog but my beloved career (and I do love it) has taken over this year as I try to do the career of two people.  If I was a real engineer, this wouldn’t be a problem.  I’d spend my weekends working or building trains for fun and my week days and nights working for the love of it but fortunately I’m also afflicted with the joy of cycling.  I could have improved my fitness through strength training exercises but fortunately, I enjoy riding my bike so much more than lifting weights or squatting on a mat so I tend to ride my bike instead of hitting the gym.  Such is life.

So here I am – a REAL person – trying to do something unreal - Race a bicycle around Ireland in 7-15 days (accepting that I’m going to be slow here) clocking up 100 miles a day and surviving on a minimal amount of sleep where it can be grasped – B&Bs, campsites, hotels, hostels, benches, beaches or bus stops.

I made one more mistake – which I’m prone to do with these things, but that’s the fun part of it – the learning.  Instead of just sticking to my training plan and doing what I’d told myself, I decided to resume Audax UK riding.  

Audaxes are long distance rides (usually over 200km – though shorter ones exist) which are published routes undertaken solo or as part of a group ride on a given date.  The organisers publish the route file, feed you at the start, monitor your progress as you collect receipts or stamps from establishments along the route to prove your passage.  You then get a pass or fail mark for completing within a set time frame which is based on a 15 to 30km/hr speed (so quite generous really for the average cyclist). 

It sounds like an excellent way to start getting more miles into the legs no?  It is and I got hooked in a way.  I decided I wanted to get my first RRtY badge.  Audax isn’t competitive (pass/fail result) and so to replace this, cloth badges are given in exchange for targets.  I have several 200 badges but felt the need to extend my collection to a ride-round-the-year badge – at least one 200km ride every month for 12 months.  I added a few 300km rides to the suite to buck the distances.

The traditional way to do this is to start in the winter months to get the worst over with and thereby increase your chances of completions as time goes by and you get more tired – but the rides get easier.  I started training in October and was blessed with weather then did my first ride in December, January, February – all in excellent conditions for the season.  Then I upped my game to a 300, nearly died of snow, timed out and so set off on a campaign of 2 weekly-audaxes to make sure I hit my RRtY target.  

Within 10 weeeks I’d done a out-of-time 300, a 200 to replace it, another 300 to nail the distance before shit got real with Ireland and then my scheduled 200 in May.  That was two weeks ago.  This has all led to a lurcher effect, lurching from one ride and recovery to the next without actually managing to squeeze in any real training rides or weightlifting.

It all sounds productive “riding your bike” training but audaxes – though completed on more comfy bikes than an average road race - are generally much lighter than long distance independent race machines – particularly how I prefer to travel.  I’ve done a lot of long rides which have been towards that 15 kph scale and not particularly heavily laden (although I did take a 1kg lock on a few for good measure).  Unfortunately I haven’t done many 50 – 90 mile rides carrying the full weight of my race rig.

The valid fact is, without the audaxes to keep me going, there's a very significant chance I wouldn't have riden nearly as far as I have this year.  Without the set dates to aim for, the work excuses come into the fray.  The days off to prepare for a ride don't get booked and a late night Friday and an early start Monday all begin to eat into riding time.  In balance, I feel it's been the best training I could have done, even if not the most relevant.

Yesterday we went for our first weighted ride since January AND IT WAS TOUGH.  What was it about this one that made it tougher than January of all times?  Well, straight forwards: In January, we travelled together as a pair – we shared a tent, a stove, a fuel bottle, a lighter.  In January, it was only for 1 night – we didn’t pack any spare clothing on the basis that the next day would see us warm, dry and moderately clean again. In January, we did all of our packing the day before, drove down to a hotel and started fresh in the morning.

Yesterday, for the authentic experience and to minimise the amount of time we spent on the bike eating into our precious recovery… yesterday, we got up at 6am, spent a sizeable portion of the morning doing pre-race planning like plotting an audax route to be integral to the race, ordering club kit before we go, planning some overnight stops (ha! Planning).  We then went for lunch before spending a sizeable portion of the afternoon and early evening digging out all of our kit and loading it on the bikes.  This time, a tent each, stove each (because reasons*), cups, “cutlery”, pegs, food supplies & coffee – race quantities (at least day 1) measured out into containers and packed.  We then ate our dinner and finally set out for a ride at about 8:30pm.

As a baptism of fire (and to stay in the evening sun) we rode up the hill, not down.  As music blared from neighbours' houses and passing cars we realised it was an exceptional evening to leave the city.

The Sunset over Stanage Edge was impossible to capture fully on a phone
but I did have to try.

We rode a familiar route - down Frogatt (much scarier with a suddenly laden bike and brakes that you're putting off servicing until the last minute), across Calver crossroads and joined the Monsal Trail at Hassop station.  

We dipped in and out of tunnels with chilly subterranean air and pottered about looking for somewhere to bivi for the night.  In our search we found glow worms and then a perfect pitch.  Tents were up in no time.  I was too cold not to get in my sleeping bag and feeling a bit exposed - in more ways than one.  a) we'd only ridden 20 miles and I was knackered b) I pitched my tent straight into the wind and a chilly breeze was blowing straight over me.  

I admit, I didn't clean my teeth and fell almost straight to sleep.  It didn't last long though and I woke shivering in the breeze with a tail off my tent guys tapping the canvas right above my head.  My ear plugs were still in a bag on my bike.

There was no point waiting it out - I got up, undid all the guys, span the tent 180 degrees, span my sleep mat back 180 degrees and got my ear plugs out of the bag.  I got in the tent and it was baggy and on the piss so I had to get out and fix it all up again. It was approximately 1:30am. It all worked and I got back in and slept straight through to the alarm at 5am.  It's all about the practice right?

We were fed and caffeinated by 7 but then delayed our departure because unexplained reasons.  It was 8:30 when we arrived back at Calver to treat ourselves to more coffee and teacakes at the caf.  I checked and was impressed by my friend's Ironman time - another great normal person with a normal life doing brilliant stuff.  More and better.

We resumed our ride, back over Froggatt.  The climb was long but I still had a gear left and crested the hill without any bother.  We descended to town and to be honest, the urge to keep going on somewhere else was overwhelming but I stayed en route to home, promising myself that when I got in I'd sort some stuff out.  I don't need to over-do it now.

I worked through into the mid day sun, working on TSK's bike a little then eating in the garden.  Eventually I wilted indoors before flopping into bed and sleeping solidly for 2 hours.

When the alarm went off at 3pm to make sure I can sleep tonight, I felt like hell.  I snoozed for a bit longer, convinced that by the time I woke up it would be 6pm and TSK would be coming home.  It was, thankfully, only 3:30 and I at least felt like writing and eating toast - yes toast, I was SO hungry.  

How am I going to ride 1400 miles? I am wondering.  I can't even manage 40 without collapsing into bed!  So I've come to my blog to find answers.  Stories of all the times I've tried to do too much up to two weeks after an audax.  Stories of how I feel amazing just 3 weeks after an audax.  Of how that's the perfect time to recover.  To remind myself of the progression: In February - no rides after an audax, March - 40 miles after an audax, April - 60 miles + 2 x 25s + 2 audaxes, May - a 60 mile + 2 x 40 miles with all the extra gear on board, not to mention 2 x 60 mile Norton rides.  Yeah, I think I did OK.  Yeah, I think that finally, my recovery is justified.

Today's ride (and yesterday's) unnerved me a bit.  I wish I'd done more on a loaded bike but weather, commitments, audaxing, life aside, could I have done it?  Yeah - if I'd wanted to.  If I'd put audaxing to one side.  Would I have done it?  Probably not.

The heat probably also contributed to how I felt today.  I didn't really notice it riding but I was clearly dehydrated and cooked myself in the garden a bit when I got home.  Reasons to be relieved if it rains in Ireland.  Reasons to stare the wind in the face and say, "So?".

The fact is, I'm now here, 10 days from the start.  I have 10 days to get used to riding with weights or 10 days to recover my muscles.  It will likely be a combination of both so I've left the bike packed as there's every chance he's going to come to work with me for a few days so I can adjust fully, get the hips in check and take a few steps closer to getting the brain in check.

For on the 7th, we ride!

*If you can't believe I'm carrying a stove, reasons is this: I like to be self-sufficient and I also like to eat.  Running my body on empty is not really an option.  Yeah yeah, we can all do it - for a limited period only - but I am female, 5'11'' and skinny as fuck (well, 65kg so not completely skinny).  Yes, I have some body fat but I like it and it's normal.  My normal weight without effort is not very fat though.  So if I get into a hole I will suffer for days.  My brain goes to goo and I can't achieve anything.  I'd rather carry a bag of desiccated food and finish a day in good shape with a meal than face a sleepless rest feeling hungry and miserable.  It also means I can make myself a coffee when I'm feeling washed out which will be the difference between making it to a cafe in an hour rather than 2 hours if I'm falling asleep on my feet - which has been know to happen - literally.  Besides this, for me, independent racing is as much about the camping as it is about the cycling.  If I had the fitness to win this thing then yes, I might only take 7 days off work and ride through and eat shit in petrol stations but as it is, despite it being a race, I am in it to enjoy my holidays and, quite frankly, the number of times I have mulled over leaving behind my trusty stove behind has been far outweighed by the number of times its presence has both brought me joy and saved my bacon.  It is the freedom to eat where I choose and experience some amazing sunsets as a result.   I have a lightweight titanium stove and meths stash which I anticipate will last me at least half of the race.

(final) lessons learned - regular matches and a stove cap are required.  My tent can not be pitched with the door into a cool breeze! My synthetic jacket is the best hat I have. My eye mask and ear plugs need to live in the sleeping bag.

The rest will soon be history.

Position, Plain Peaks and Troughs 200km Audax

On 8th April I wrote this.

For some reason I didn't post it.  It was just before Skeggy which was way more interesting.  In retrospect, this post is more interesting to me than the Skegness ride so I have now published it.

On 30th April my faith was wavering.  The more I have ridden recently, the worse I have felt.  My bike position never feels good.  I haven't left the saddle alone - forward, back, tilted, up, down.  My left heel wants to turn in.  My right heel wants to turn out.  I slide my cleats forward and back, in and out.  What feels great one ride, feels horrific the next day.  On top of that, my shoulder pain (like none I've ever had on a bike) has persisted for months with only occasional ease coming from Marcus massaging the living daylights out of my Psoas on a monthly basis.

Someone suggested I get a bike fit but I wasn't paying £100 for someone to do what I've been doing myself for 30 years, only to find that a day later it all feels wrong.

For a day, I changed my saddle back to the ones I ride on all my other bikes.  It put me in completely the wrong place so I put the ISM one back again and rode to Skegness on it and everything was fine.  Then the day after Skegness I felt awful, my bike felt awful.

I hoped that the move from my winter boots to summer shoes would ease things - better cleat position.  Sadly, the fidgety feet still happened, my left foot feeling like it is hunting for something.  Not wanting to be straight, not wanting to be crooked, wobbling around with every pedal stroke.

Whilst all this was happening, my faith in my training was wavering.  I did so many great events and whilst I am able to ride 300km or 200 hilly ones, I seem to be doing it more and more slowly.  I recover better, I feel better after one, I am back on the bike but still I feel wrong.  My resting heart rate (if my watch is to be believed) is hovering around 55 - 60 with occasional peaks up to 70.  How can I sleep all night with a resting heart rate of 70??  Back in March when training was just getting going, my hear rate hit 42!  I am, on paper, getting less fit.

Finally, on my way home from work on 30th April, I admitted that the problem might still be the ISM saddle.  Hip issues are caused by a saddle that's too narrow and whilst this one is only slightly narrower than my normal saddle, I guessed that might be the problem. 

This time I was careful to measure its position and, last Thursday, I put it in exactly the same place as the ISM saddle sits.

As soon as I rode it to work the next day it felt perfect.

I did a few miles on it during the week and then, sensibly (my god!) decided not to ride it down to Shropshire for May bank holiday weekend but instead take the bike down in the van and enjoy a more comfortable easing in of the "new" old saddle over 2 x 60 mile days with my club mates.  I wasn't too worried about the suitability of the saddle (I've been riding them for years including the 500 Canadian miles this summer) but didn't particularly want to cause myself too much chaffing, having been riding a saddle with no nose for 6 months now. 

The saddle performed. From the moment I set out from the bunk house with my mates, I felt comfortable.  We rode up hill and down dale for hours and I felt like I was on my cyclo-cross bike - but comfier.  The shoes still felt a little odd but I knew that I'd left the right foot in a traditional position with the left foot slightly wide because that knee tends to figure-of-eight around if the foot is not planted  just right - leading to chronic wear on my knee.  The only other thing that was wrong was my gears.  After weeks of diminished riding due to pain / fatigue / lack of faith / flat 300s I was feeling it a lot on the hills.  Of course it didn't help that I was out with Norton Wheelers who regularly ride the Peaks and the Alps and are used to shorter, yet more violently climby rides.  I struggled at the back unless I got a good run out front on a descent to whoosh me up the other side.

 The chaffing was not too bad - though did happen - unlike the ISM saddle which, despite its narrow, has always been chaffe-free.  It was looking like the problem was solved.  There remained one last test - 200kms... but before that, a lovely parcel arrived from Sigma Sport, including a 34 tooth block for the back end.

With a light-as-you dare bag packed, including an omitted lock, we set out yesterday on the Dore-based Plains, Peaks and Troughs Audax.

A lovely morning for a ride to the start

I've rarely done such a local Audax so it was a novelty to ride to the start and I only had to be up at 6am to do so.

We had more toast and crammed down some coffee before heading off with 20 or so others into the hills.  The front group quickly dispatched with me, one woman on the road ahead.  I retained my second place until the bottom of Sheldon hill climb at which point I was passed by number 2. 

At the top though, they were waiting for another girl and I stayed ahead until we arrived in Longnor, being swept up at the top of the climb but then sitting on the front down the descent.

It was too early for a stop for me so I packaged cake into my frame bag and set off, snapping a pic of the majority of other female riders as they came in and went out.

Longnor Control

From Longnor it was a long haul over the Roaches to Congleton.  I'm disappointed that I didn't stop to take a photo here.  Descending past Hen Cloud was amazing.  So many little roads away from the major ones that I didn't know existed.  I knew the climbs into Congleton would come as I've fell raced on Congleton Cloud.  I didn't remember how steep they were. 

As soon as I dropped out into Cheshire, I was passed by a ferrari, a porsche and a Range Rover, like a border patrol. 

There were a number of info controls sto get me over to The Spinney Caravan shop Cafe.  The staff were grumpy, the hob stopped working and my mushrooms on toast (although cheap) were both insubstantial and time-consuming.  Still, at least I had caught up TSK who rode with me through Cheshire to a mixture of Crewe-based motorist insults, singing and turns on the front into the headwind until we circuited Cheshire's second city and set off back East with our tail wind in tow

By 5pm we were in Leek.  We collected an info control then headed into Costa for an un-scheduled stop.  TSK was in need of a sit down and I was in need of more sustenance than mushrooms fried on to white Mothers' Pride bread.

He ordered me a bucket of coffee so I added tiffin to the bean wrap I had scoffed and then we hit the hills again. 

The man was suffering but still surged ahead.  I climbed more steadily on my new gear, zigzagging on the steep climbs but still smiling my way up.  We re-grouped at the top to put on jackets and then descended back onto our side of the Peak.  TSK pulled ahead on the hill climb again and I continued to breeze up, enjoying riding in short sleeve jersey and snacking my way through large quantities of food.  As I pulled into Youlegreave, TSK was just finishing the pint he'd been promising himself all day.

I ordered a baked potato and wolfed it down, greeting the next person in as I vacated the table.  "foof", he said, "This is hard!".  I knew it was hard but really wasn't feeling so bad.  I kept my mouth shut.

I put on my windproof to cope with the setting sun and headed for Bakewell and Baslow.  Rain started to fall properly as I began the climb to Owler Bar.  The sleeves of my windproof started to wet-out as it got heavier but I was also pumping out a fair heat and un-zipped everything, only taking the rain on my back.  What a wonderfully warm evening.  Only a moderate niggle from my right calf gave some hint that it is milimetres away from being aligned with my left and that I need to stop twisting it about.

Thankfully I did have my waterproof jacket and rain legs with me and stopped at the top of the Bar to get comfortable for the ride in to Control.  A few minor navigational issues in the late evening and parts of town I do not know but I was soon back, arriving just as the other girls were heading home and eating yet more food. 

We waited for the last finisher to come in - just because I knew he wasn't far behind me.  We welcomed him in then headed home. 

What I had been dreading - the long climb up the hill to home.  From Eccleshall Road to Broomhill.  We then dropped down to the Uni, through past the Octagon, under the underpass, dodging the drunken students and then up through Walkley.  I hit the lights at a roll and sprinted up the hill to our junction.  Satisfying.  I had some left.

Taking stock today and according to data, this was one of the climbiest rides I have done.  It turns out that data is not always what it's cracked up to be when it comes to the logging system I have been using for the past 10 years but hey, I need my confidence bolstering.  The organiser bills it as a 3100m day and that is what I got on my results on the Garmin.  Adding in the 135 m and 166 m of sheffield riding and it's quite an impressive number.  The likes of which have only been repeated in TNR. 

As I listened to Lee Craigie on Thursday advise that it's the day in / day out base that's most important with long distance riding, I hope that I've done enough base, even if it hasn't particularly been of the day in / day out nature.

I had every intention of going for a ride today but things got the better of me and in the end, it pays to be in control of fatigue going into the working week.  Maybe not totally in control but vaguely on top of it.

Elevation aside, I am mostly happy that I am now moderately comfortable on the bike as this will be key to all - feet, backside and cadence sorted.  I've tweaked cleats to get them to match and hope, that this week, I can finally - once and for all - put my demons and insecurities to rest.

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:

1. 18.18 mile to the level crossing 11.3 mph HR 141!
2. 6 minutes stuck at the bloody crossing and messing with brakes
3. 26 mile 10.6 mph HR 139
4. 26 mins going through Stow
5. 35 mile 12.6 mph HR 141
6. 52 mins cafe lunch stop
7. 35.3 miles 11.1mph climbey bit to Chepstow HR 120
8. 40 mins tea stop
9. 27 miles 10.4 mph HR 131
10. 32 minute Waitrose stop
11. 22 miles 10.2 mph HR 132
12. 7 minutes crisp stop in Malbrorough
13. 11 mile to services 8.8 sorry mphs HR 120
14. 39 minutes rewarming stop - shouldn't have! 
15. 12.72 miles 8.6mph to last info control
16. Finally, a 1 minute stop
17. 17 miles to finish. 8.8mph in the snow. HR 113. Just about given up.

Total time: 21:20.  Riding time: 18:17 ish

Where did it all go? Or... Where did it all come from?

I struggled yesterday and I struggled today too. Where did all my hill climb fitness go?

It was only the mid cyclocross season when I was still doing 90 miles on a Saturday and racing on Sunday. In December I was aceing 200km and riding 500km over Christmas week and yet I have had a number of weeks where I just can't seem to get the miles to stick. Weekday miles come and go only to work and back and I can only manage 40 miles on a weekend day.

Where did the fatigue come from? - well, I know the answer to that one.  Last week's relatively hilly 200k plus three rides to work on a week which saw me working 50 hours.

But what happens is, I sit at home in between, knowing that sooner or later I have to start linking these days together just day after day after goddamn day because that's what I do now, every day. I ride my bike as far as I can, all the time.  My ride plan for the race is to ride at least 98 miles a day.  This will see me back just in time to catch my Ferry home.  I actually expect to ride more than that most days and then I look at myself now and think, no way.

It really is ages since I got in from a ride and needed a bath. Perhaps that is the problem. Rides have gotten too easy. In the interests of making them long, I have made them all slow and around a lack of stimulating speed the legs have got lazy.

Today I was so tempted not to go out but the weather was so nice I couldn't resist.  Cold as hell but the sunniest it's been in ages. I tried to take it easy and enjoy it since yesterday was hard enough but I couldn't help myself from heading into the peak and was rewarded with quiet roads due to the cold but an immense sense of wellbeing as the sunshine flooded my body and I was treated to a golden pheasant glowing in the sunshine and mile after mile of breathtaking scenery as the bright but low sun cast stark shaddows on the crags, which made me grin even when I was exhausted.

After lunching in Castleton then doing some ambling around plenty of climbs I stopped for tea in Tideswell before heading out for home around 4.  I threw in an extra mile whilst trying to decide which way to go home - opting to enjoy a climb over Great Hucklow and the lovely lane to Abney - my favourite road in the Peak.

And then, just when I thought I'd had enough, I towed a bloke up Surprise View Hill Climb and destroyed myself completely.  It did my ego the world of good and I actually dropped the fella and then he came back past me over the final climb to the Norfolk Arms, as I blew up unceremoniously.

As the sun set behind the moors, I struggled through Ranmoor and into Crookes and then flopped through the back door, my toes and fingers now searing with pain from the cold.  I ran a bath, didn't even pause to turn on the heating and drank recovery hot chocolate and tried to rewarm from the outside and inside. 

To my hands and feet, the water felt hot.  My legs weren't so sure, it felt hot but not as not as it did on my feet so my legs decided it was cold water.  My back and head (the warmest of my body parts) at least recognised the water as mostly warm, though I was slightly alarmed when both big toes went black.  The right one subsided quickly but the left one swelled into a blistered end with little feeling in it. 

It seems fine now but I think that (possibly initiated by my Kings Tree ride) is the closest I have ever come to frost bite.

After 5 minutes I added more hot water then had to leave the bath before things got too cold as the heating hadn't yet come on.

I went straight to bed.

TSK came in drunk from podcasting to rescue the heating situation and then at least I had to make some tea - which I have enjoyed immensely and feel moderately human again after my 40 minute turbo-kip post ride.  Moderately human I say.  It's nice to have this fatigue back.  It's nice to be contemplating going to work knackered tomorrow.  It's good that I got out two days on a row. I proved I can do it.  The fact that it was sunny is a boundless benefit.  I'm giddy on the vitamin D and now know never to miss an opportunity like that again.

There is so much to be said for a potter in your own back yard, because it can lead to something bigger, something better, or failing that, just a little sunshine.