Februarbivi 2020

Before ramblings

Mojo is weird.  It can be absent one minute then wholly present the next.  A mountain bike leaning against a kitchen radiator, once loaded, suddenly becomes motivation.

After the January ride 6 weeks ago I recovered a little then did a few little rides. We went out to watch a fell race then the week after, set off up a local bridleway near home.  It's a sustained climb but not difficult.  I usually find an excuse to sit on some steps as I leave the woodland that demarks leaving "town" - even though it's already countryside - and starts off "moorland".  I eat a butty or faff with my cleats.

This time those steps broke all resolve.  I sat in the grass in the shelter of the trees and faffed with my feet as a sqally shower passed by and, friends, I retreated.  Dropping down to the bottom of the valley, I was ashamed of myself so I diverted up the next bridleway - starts off as an HAB - and forced myself to ride over Stanage in a hooley.  It was hard and I had to get off and push to avoid being blown over to Holme Moss.

The descent into Bamford wasn't an issue as the wind hit Stanage Edge full-on then went vertically up so a bit of sailor's tacking got me off the hill.

I don't often use the garden centre caf in Bamford but it's a great place.  The waitress even empathised with my sigh as I pondered going back out.  I pretty much rode home a different way and got into bed.  The highland trail was no longer looking good.

With that kind of history, I wasn't looking forwards to going out again and I've put it off and put it off - with the weather.  I changed a saddle on the bike to try something new and fixed the forks after Welsh mud got in the lockout in October and I've been thinking of replacing the final elements of my old bike - frame and forks with something more pliable than Aluminium (frame) and shite (forks).

Don't get me wrong - plenty of effort has gone in to my training.  My weakness is my weakness - literally.  So gym weights are the order of the day to strengthen my legs and back to ensure I can carry my bike more often and for longer than I currently can. This is a challenge as I only lift just over half of its laden weight right now.  My rides to work have been more intense, giving me insights into the potential gains from what I am doing in the gym and finally I'm more comfortable on my bikes than I have been in a long time so some work that my physio has had me doing on flexibility are paying off.

So it has come to pass that February nearly disappeared.

After loading my bike this morning and other general faffs - including sewing my club jersey one last time.  It got to 12:54.  I'm not a person who takes well to missing lunch so with a half-packed bicycle, I dressed in civvys and walked over to my local cafe to lunch nearby instead of some over-priced peak caf.

I sat in the window contemplating the outcomes of my hard work and actually looking forwards to a night out.  All of a sudden, places I haven't wanted to go for a while feel like places I want to be on a bike - even in the dark.  After weeks of events or trialling kit for events, this time I was going to load up properly with my brew kit and food.  I scoffed my lunch and headed home.

After

It was gone 3pm when I finally rolled the bike out.  TSK had been for his ride and got home.

I took my usual route out of the valley, a series of bridleways up and down the side, culminating in Wyming Brook where I was joined by an evening rider.  A rare person who totally "got it" that I was going out for a cheeky pre-work bivi but warned me that the forecast was for snow.  Bugger, I forgot to check the weather!  Still, I had packed heavy so it didn't really bother me.

He rode on ahead when we hit the steeps before the car park then a ride around the reservoir gave me the best view of the evening - the fringes of sunset falling on the reservoir.

I headed over to Stanage where I rode on past the pole before dropping down to the Yorkshire Bridge in dusk. 

The light went on as I set off up the trail around the shoulder of Win Hill - a regular unofficial trail centre, I tried to stick to the main routes but inevitably ended up on a footpath where a surprising, smiling dog walker warned me of the slick mud.  She was right.

When I left the trees my dynamo light illuminated just enough heathery tussocks to see my way towards the summit of Win Hill.  I wouldn't have gone this way in daylight.  I wouldn't have gone this way in the dark except for knowing that the alternative route was a clamber under low-slung trees over baby-head sized boulders that are impossible to ride.  So I thought I'd see where the path took me.

The path took me direct over the top of Win Hill.  A place I haven't been since my Forestman training in 2013.  Mainly due to me quitting running and hiking in place of full time riding.  The approach was hard but grassy and heathery and then we were there, clambering up the boulders to the top and facing a descent of boulder fields on the other side.  I don't seem able to make it through highland trail training without lifting my laden bike off the occasional cliff.  To hell with the instructions not to pick my bike up by the dropper post.  Oops.

Through the darkness we snaked down the other side, our shame of riding on paths eased by some bastard that's been up on the moors in a 4x4 and ripped the hillside to pieces.  It was practically unrideable, unwalkable and I took to the thin line of footfall by the edge of the 8 inch deep trenched tyre ruts and rejoined the bridleway over to hope cross.

There I turned right, dropped down towards the A57 and paused at the Boundary for my first outdoor pee of the evening, watching the red and white lights passing by in the valley below.  It seemed like the first time the wind had dropped in weeks and I felt lucky to be out there, alone in the darkness, slightly illegal and exhilarated.

Nailed the descent to the bottom (thanks dropper) but ran out of gas on the way up to the road and had another sit down to scoff a bag of brazil nuts.  It was dinner time but it would have to wait till I reached my hut for the night.  Just the one stop, thanks, it was getting chilly.  As I remounted the bike and nudged the Garmin screen, it brightly told me it was 0 degrees C, though I actually didn't believe it because until I had stopped, I hadn't felt the cold at all.

The A57 crossing feels like an uncomfortable brush with civilisation that I'm happy to get over and then the push up to the outdoor centre where no-one was home, the weekenders all gone back to their normal lives.

The Beast darkened, was ridden with occasional dabbing and I spat out the bottom, reassured of a water top up for my dinner at the Fairholmes cafe.  The security lights came on to illuminate my bottle fill as I sprayed clear water into the dog bowl to flush out any spiders before I filled the camelbak.

We pottered along the road, observing a vehicle coming the other way, way across the reservoir.  They slowed as if watching me back and as they drove back again 3 minutes later, I wondered if someone is actually paid to go and check the place out every time some dehydrated cyclist sets the security light off at 9:45pm.

Still, it was time for my push up to the hut which I did.  In the slippery smear on the limestone slabs, I couldn't be bothered faffing for trying to ride it and my bike was heavy with stove, fuel and food.  At this precise moment it occurred to me that my sleeping bag might not have enough warm to see me through a night at minus *Whatever* 4-ish?  New bag: can't remember rating... -4? Zero.  Bollocks, try it out and see, you can always just go home.

I brewed up chicken curry - actually too much food since my earlier binge on Brazils.  I couldn't find my tea bag for the hot water brewed on the last of the fuel so I dropped my Nalgene bottle of whisky in the hot water to heat up and enjoyed a warm dram of Jura 10yo for desert, swiftly followed by the plain hot water.

With the luxury of the hut I completely changed into dry comfy clothes: new tights to try which were excellent paired with my dry waterproof trousers; synthetic down, an extra wool top, hat, gloves.

I slept on and off till 1am when I just shivered.  I contemplated just going home but couldn't face packing up so got up for another wild pee and then settled down again to try sleeping some more with my waterproof jacket added to my legs and feet and a reduction in the number of socks I was wearing so that my thermal socks were loosened - so more efficient.

I woke up again at 3:55, four minutes before my alarm clock for getting into work on time.  I was chilly again but not surprised, since the wind had shifted, was blowing in the doorway and a sloppy layer of snow was laid on the ground outside my hut.  Spatters of icy water had been dropping through the roof onto EmVee.  I packed straight up rather than brew coffee.

I contemplated retracing my tracks into the valley and riding home up the road climb in preference to slopping through the puddles on the climb back to Devil's bridge.  No, though.  I love that climb far too much.  Sure, I couldn't be arsed to slide about trying to ride it but how could I resist the snowy hike out, the view across the moors as the sky lightened (no chance of a sunrise in the grey slop that coated the earth).

Snow!

And so I trudged.  The familiar puddles and gates marking my progress up the hill in  the thin light of my dynamo and the headtorch dangling around my neck after my main spare bike light died hours ago (that headtorch is my new best friend).

At the top of Derwent edges I set EmVee down and climbed over the edge of the footpath to dig into my waterproof trousers and hitch up my leg warmers after the long hike out.  There was still no sunrise, just a steady stream of aeroplanes making their queued descent into the airport and the grey-white lumps of the peak stretching as far as the cloud allowed me to see.  I turned tail and slithered through the remaining boulderfield to the track out.

Joining the traffic on the A57 for the down-lift was a trial of will as I ground slowly through the pouring rain towards home, a shower and a warm bed.  There was no way I was going into work in the morning but it was fine - I've done enough days recently that they owe me some back.

A van drenched me head to toe driving through a stream (now crossing the road) at full speed as he overtook.  I just laughed.  I was already drenched through and my waterproofs took it remarkably well.  I walked through the door with still-dry feet under the trousers, gaiters, goretex boots and waterproof socks.  Clearly I hadn't tried hard enough.

It wasn't long (57km).  For what it was, it was quite hard (1500m) but I was out and sticking to something and that felt like all that mattered as I slumped into bed till 11am.  Not the greatest day out but it had its moments and it's done for February.

January bivi 2020 and the Bear Bones Winter Ride

I've never done all of the checkpoints on the BB Winter Ride before.  Last year I arrived with an "ambitious plan" but failed to complete my planned route due to high winds delaying my progress.  Back then, two 65-70k days seemed too much and I started with a plan to fail, though I really didn't mind.

This year, two 80-90km days seemed eminently do-able.  It's amazing what the Highland Trail can do for your perception of "hard" and "far".  Still, I kept reminding myself it was winter and was happy to accept less if snow/ice other weather prevented the full lap I had planned.

I mapped an anti-clockwise route, with the Elan Valley as the final checkpoint - a suitable place to get a breakfast or a lunch on day 2.  Beyond that I didn't really think about resupply - which is an odd thing for me.  I planned to travel light with space in my packs for food and make do or divert to civilisation where required.

When the weather came in before the event I was dismayed to find strong winds and rain were the order of the day - yet again - for my official rides.  I'm getting a little tired of this!

At the school in Llanbrynmair we were so early we helped set out the tables and chairs then drank tea, loaded up and rolled out, my new Bear Guide sitting on the bags on the front of my bike for a Navigator's view of the trail ahead.  As I set off at a sauntering pace, Karl jogged past on his way to register and we had a quick catch-up before I set off a second time.

 Left and left out the gate and onto a bridleway almost immediately.  I was really early so there really was no-one else around.  Also, the way went immediately upwards and was heavily loaded with cow shit most of the way to the top. 

At the top, a cluster of pens with cat flaps surrounded a heat lamp under which three kitties huddled in a cat basket.  Cute but a little weird.  Above that, a house, gates and open access to the moor where the herd of cows waited to walk nonchalantly ahead of me for the next 200m.  One, with an eye lid hanging off where, presumably, the cow with horns had poked it in the eye.  It was fetid and minging and bloody but it was too early for me to disturb anyone in the house about it.  I followed the half blind cow along the path slowly until eventually the field opened out and I could ride.

There were plenty of beautiful moments above Pennant on the moors.  The wind hadn't got too bad.  The rain hadn't started.  I made a few navigational errors and had a wonderful hike a bike up a near-vertical waterfall to get back to where I started 30 minutes earlier before dropping down.  How was it that left and right were already getting muddled in my head?  Cow Shit Hill must've been harder than I expected.

I descended the valley on forest tracks, passing at one point through a bunch of hunters - the hounds way up on the hill and then random middle aged white men with rifles and green/grey clothing waiting ominously.  I verged between being pleasant and aloof and trying to get the fuck out of there before I got shot.

Finally, to the road between Macynlleth and Dylife.

At first the ride up the steep road was wind-assisted.  A slight tail-to-cross wind caught my back enough to push me uphill and I found myself soft-pedalling up a 20% incline.  Soon though, the cross-vector took over and I had to lean hard right to resist being blown sideways.  Finally, I didn't have enough lean and the wind was lifting me and the rear bike wheel off the ground.

Like being hit by a transit van, I veered sideways across the road, hit the grass verge, half-flipped over the bars/bike and rolled backwards down the slope slamming into the wire fence that caught me from being blown into the field.  Bollocks.

I tried riding once more, ready for it this time - but the gusts were too strong and I had to slam brakes on before being catapulted again.  I climbed off the bike and started to push.

Even that was getting harder and harder.  I stopped at the top of a rise, in the lee of a bank and assessed the situation ahead.  The wind was ripping over the saddle ahead of me, the grass flattened and the rain droplets flying horizontal.  There was no point in going backwards, but could I make it forwards?  I walked out into it.  Within seconds, the bike was rammed against my leg, forcing me over, forcing me towards the steep grass verge to my left, the barbed wire.  In preference to falling again, I dropped to my knees and pressed the bike into the grass.  I was still being pushed over so I stuck my elbows and head in the grass and waited... and waited and waited.  A car passed without even stopping.  I know we're not all cyclists but if I saw a bike on its side and a person on their knees, I'd probably stop.

What little respite I got from the gust was still too strong for me to stand up.  This was it, I was stuck here forever.  My only hope, was to try walking with the bike down wind of me and - if the worst come to the worst - let go of her to blow away all the way to Aberdovey without me.  The problem was, I couldn't stand up and I couldn't stand the bike up against the wind.

I crawled around to the upwind side of my bike, every limb fighting the wind when I lifted it.  The bike bags caught the wind and I couldn't push her up so I flipped the bike upside down and over, letting the wind blow through the wheels until the handlebars were by my side.  Tentatively, I righted the bike and half-stood.  With me bent-double and the bike at 45 degrees to horizontal, we half crawled, half tripped our way up the hill, occasionally stopping to let the back wheel come back down to earth as my bike behaved like a kite, occasionally stopping for me to drop to my knees in the gusts, ramming my handlebars into the road.

Walking on the right hand side next to the embankments was less breezy but the saddle of the hill was almost impossible as all winds channelled up the valley into a 6ft gap.

After an eternity of battling I reached a view point - a wonderful slate wall offering wind protection.  I was joined by 6 more passengers to the wind.  We all empathised about the conditions, ate, checked our teddy-bears and tried to make some plans.  Someone said, "oh, and here's the rain, 25 minutes early".  "What time is it?" I asked, as medium-sized droplets started to pelt us through the gaps in the slate.  "1:30". It was time for some food - 4 hours had lapsed and I hadn't eaten.  Lunch was a cereal bar.

Not pouting.  This is my "angry at the weather" face.  Nobody pouts with food on their face.

I was worried about the descent off the other side.  The cross wind climb was bad enough but the thought of doing it with any speed behind me filled me with dread and I didn't relish the idea of a long downhill hike.  89km was starting to go down the toilet.

Thankfully, just over the brow, my route took a turn off the road onto a broad gravel trail which snaked its way through the Cwms and reservoirs west of Dylife and into my first checkpoint.

Rain sheeting across the dam at the tiny Llyn Cwm Byr and my trail snaking off into the cloud.

It was an enjoyable down hill, the worst of the wind taken away by the hillsides and rough grass surface that had replaced farmland meadows in the valley.  I plotted my route along the track and into the trees, instead of following the edge of the valley down river on an alternate bridleway.  I don't know which was best but I enjoyed the temporary shelter afforded by the forest for a while before arriving at the Afan Hengwm to the next checkpoint at Llyn Llegad Rheidol.

I laid my bike down and hiked up and down the banks for a while, trying to decide how the hell to cross the roaring river when out the corner of my eye I saw movement.  A lone BearBone was standing on the bridge up stream - a bridge I may not otherwise have noticed - so I pushed and hauled my bike over rocks to reach his previously known position, crossing the river unscathed (though not by any means dry).  He did not notice me, he chose a different path and I do not know who he was but I am very grateful to him.

Another tiny watery blip in the mountains came at 16:09 which, had it been a nice day, would probably have been sunset.

No sooner had I regained the trail, I realised where I was.  I got my feet wet here before - falling off the boulders (now submerged) the last time I crossed this river and didn't notice the bridge.  It was in the BB 200 route and I recalled that the worst was yet to come.  Please please please I thought, don't say I routed myself that way.

Not much further

I didn't - although I did hike-a-bike push into the "sunset" up a 20 degree slope of clod and I couldn't help think of Ben Alder in Scottish "summer".  It was the kind of climb I enjoy because I like wild walks and sometimes I just happen to take my bike on them but also it's the kind of climb I'm glad I'm not putting someone else through my poor route choices because they'd be miserable.  However, 45 minutes later I was at the slightly larger Nant-y-Moch reservoir.  It was 1645 and I still hadn't had lunch.  By now I was pouring brazil nuts and fruit into my gob straight from the bag so straight road sections like this were very welcome.  This reservoir also had two high walls along the dam which gave me some respite from the weather and clearly made me rather happy.

I crossed this dam en route to the next checkpoint, its sister reservoir, Llyn Craigypistyll.  By 4:45 and no lunch, I wasn't thinking too well and I was soaked to the skin.  At the other side of the dam, I found a sheltered spot (still wasn't very sheltered) and carried out the, now very necessary, task of adding a layer on my top.  I considered switching my baggy shorts for waterproof trousers - the wet leggings were no longer cutting it without the warmth of daylight.  Unfortunately my favourite trousers don't permit me to pull them on over boots so I didn't brave the extra exposure and opted for faster riding instead.  My last act was to wring the water out of the bear's feet and pack him away in my rucsac in the vain hope that he might stay slightly drier and slightly lighter (it didn't work).

The road was a welcome relief from bog-hopping and gravel-bashing and I smashed out a few ks on the road before following the route up a dirt track.  I soon noticed it was an out-and-back and whilst I knew I'd routed an out-and-back, I didn't actually expect myself to be this far round so soon so I checked the Garmin.

I was indeed en route to Llyn Craigypistyll - a place I later found out had been placed to encourage a rather fun descent.  I set off again and ground my way up the slope - which was hard, knowing I'd have to retrace my pedal-strokes soon enough.  Just as I was losing faith, my front light caught a fawn-coloured heap of earth by the side of the road.  On top of it, perched like a rock, ground into stone, was a nightjar.  Its beady eye briefly assessed my incursion on its surroundings and in a flash it was airbourne, leaving me to question what I had just seen.  I'm fairly new to twitching and since I have read about the nightjar I remain intrigued by them and at a loss as to how I might one day see one of these illusive and incredibly well camouflaged nocturnal creatures. 
https://www.northwaleswildlifetrust.org.uk/wildlife-explorer/birds/swallows-swift-martins-and-nightjar/nightjar
redlist nightjar image

The blurb above indicates they're summer visitors so I'd be surprised if I really did see one.  Chances are they bugger off in this weather - though temperatures are decidedly May-like at the moment so you never know.Lord knows how you spot one on foot as a twitcher, never mind photograph the things but on the seat of a bike you suddenly illuminate stuff that didn't expect you to be there.  Maybe one day

This brush with birding notoriety brought all the satisfaction I needed to the climb so by the time I reached the locked gate across the bridleway, I was beyond redeemed.  I couldn't be arsed to lift my bike over steel so I waved at the next checkpoint, 500m below in the blackness and did a u-turn, beaming with joy at my nightjar sighting.

At the next checkpoint, Dinas, I'd dreamt of pitching up by the lakeshore by the boating hut with a fellow BearBones rider, rolling out my bivi, watching the stars from a well insulated cocoon, dwelling on a wonderful dinner and a snifty whisky.  I hadn't actually looked at where it was into my route but it looked like somewhere sheltered and quiet.

As it was, I rolled down the friendly access driveway to the reservoir and peered over.  I could just about see the water ahead but little else in my light.  Certainly the boat houses on the map were on the other side of this gate and it was still only 6pm.

I did a U-Turn and headed back out.

After Dinas, my route turned up onto a bridleway which cut off the road section through Ponterwyd then headed towards the next checkpoint - the butterfly park.  However, at 6pm, I needed to eat and my general plan was to head for the nearest conurbation and keep hunting until I found real food.

Better than looking at my Garmin, when I spilled out on to the road, there were streetlights glowing through the rain and there was nowhere else I wanted to be but by the warm glow of those streetlights.  I passed the bridleway entrance and freewheeled down the hill towards the village.

At the tee junction, I could see a BP garage to the right and at least decided to seek coffee, chocolate and directions - possibly use of a toilet.  I locked up the bike and squelched indoors.  "Don't be alarmed", I said.  The lady behind the counter smiled whilst I got my coffee and chose chocolate.

"I think the others have mostly gone to the pub" she said.  It's like she read my mind - and yet I was pleased that there were "others" in the area.  Clearly I was not alone.  We chatted whilst I drank my coffee and dripped on the floor.  I explained we had all started at different times and were doing different things so I didn't know if any more would come.  From what I'd heard, I didn't expect so.  Most people seemed to have a plan to bail out or sleep in their cars.

I asked if I could use the loo but then she pointed out she'd just given me directions to a nice warm pub - fair point.  I'm glad someone's brain was working.

As promised, as soon as I turned out of the garage (right - so it was a good call not to go left into the village), I saw the lights of the pub.  I couldn't see the others' bikes out front so went to my usual spot in the beer garden with the bike hidden from the road and locked to a picnic table.  Good job as I forgot to bring the garmin in and wasn't frickin going back out for it until it was time to leave.

I gathered together electronics, dry gloves for the departure and clean waterproof trousers and dry top for the pub.  Inside was a small bar with Reg, Froggy, Steve, Rich, Psling and Kev(Raggedstone) huddled at the table by the fire.  I was welcomed with cries of "don't sit down!" although the barman very happily brought me a bin bag to park my wet backside on.  For a while I took a table to myself - intending to ABSOLUTELY FILL it with food - leaving no space for anyone else but was joined by Psling and Kev (I think) to eat our meals together.

They tried to second-guess where I'd been but I was too tired to remember and had left the Garmin on my bike.   Eventually I remembered to say I was heading for Elan and they concluded I was going to Claerwen Reservoir on the way.  They warned me of the one ford I had to cross - which they thought was rideable - and then told me all the others had bridges. I bloody hoped so.  Since the Highland Trail (and in fact, before it) I've been wary of being washed away - with or without my bike - and today's experiences of the breeze, weren't helping.

At a changing of the guard, three souls set off into the wet and windy weather to bivi/bothy whilst others debated taking a room for the night over additional courses, pints, deserts and further tea (me).

Sitting by the fire with my socks, boots and tops drying on the hearth gradually increased the likelihood that I would venture back out for the night.  I'd come to prove myself to myself, not to hunker down in a hotel or get a lift home.  It was only one night after all and I had a new sleeping bag to test which is rated to 0 degrees so perfect conditions were prevailing and may not be later into winter.

A lemon meringue pie was the final calorie loading I needed... and a wash down with tea and then I set off into the mizzle (brief respite in the storm) to hack out a few more miles.  On up the road, the empty empty road.  This is why I like riding in the dark and poor weather.  I eventually reached the butterfly house at 1042 pm.  A quick scout revealed I wasn't going to get away with joining the butterflies in the polytunnel for the night so I retraced to the true display of the darkness, the light show taking place at the Cwn Reidol Reservoir weir - all blue and green.  Very nice.

To sate the cold seeping into my bones, I took the bridleway up the slope above the village for a brief hike to get the blood flowing.  There had been talk of bothies and Devils' bridge whilst I was in the pub but I didn't take notice.  Both the sleeping bag and the Trep were on test so I continued with my resolve to sleep wherever the mood took me - be it in desperation or by stumbling across something dry and/or sheltered.  I don't mind rainy sleeps too much - especially when it's only the one night - but I can't abide snorers or farters or alarm clocks or phone notification in the middle of the night and being forced to get up and get out from the dry is worse than deciding for myself I'm too wet/cold/need to get moving.

Still, as I passed through Devil's bridge, I started to open my eyes to shelter opportunities and just as I was about to turn my back on the area, I noticed a small woodland just off the road with picnic tables.

For a while I jostled down the path, hoping there would be some more discrete tables away from the road but it just got wetter and wetter so I reverted to the roadside table and set up a bivi on the table with a tarp over my bike to keep boots, coat, helmet, socks and rucsac dry.  I emptied my food into my bag and - for the first time ever - climbed inside wet.  There had been a break in the rain - just long enough to get set up but as I began to get ready to climb in the rain restarted so getting into dry clothes went out the (non-existent) window.  I decided to save them for the morning - or mishap.

A few things went wrong here.  I should've bivvied on the ground and used the tarp to keep the rain off my head.  Instead I pulled the bivi over my head so spent the night breathing into it building up condensation.

I forgot a pillow - all my dry clothes were in the bag that I use as a pillow.  I used a sit mat that I'd brought for comfort and stacked my gloved hands under my head.  It worked for a bit but my shoulders got tight.  Eventually I pulled my drip dried rain coat inside to use that which worked remarkably well with a fleece hat on to protect my head from the wet.  However, the coat eventually spread out and wasn't much of a pillow.

Given the slightly damp sleep I was getting, it isn't surprising that I woke with the alarm 2.5 hours later, slightly chilly and ready to go.  The down bag had hydrophobed (just as it says on the tin) so that was good but it wasn't getting enough loft in this bivi to do a great insulating job.  In future I might be testing my old bivi for a looser fit.

At 3:30am though, I was relatively raring to go.  I was keen to live up to my plan to complete all of the checkpoints and needed all the time I could get.  Also, it wasn't *actually* raining.

Wake up photo.

And looking into the trees from the slimy-est picnic bench ever invented.

Alarming happy camper.

Kit packed away reasonably quickly, I set about devouring the chocolate stash for breakfast.  A boost a boost, a chocolate boost! Pont Rhyd Groes passed in my bike lights.  I spend much of my bike packing life noseying at expensive country town properties perched perilously on steep road climbs - they are some of the moments I remember most from Ireland, the Braunton 150, many bearbones and audax events - steep, silent communities.

Reluctance to leave town with its tempting bus stops, led me to quiz the Garmin.  How far was it to my next checkpoints?  Was there even any point in being here?  Fortunately I worked out it was around 15km to get there and then there were 3 within a 10k radius.  It was worth it, if only to pass the time before I could phone for a tempting recovery at a decent hour.

Then eventually I stepped out onto the moors, the chossy chossy moors.  For a good while I pushed over clods in the darkness.  At 5am I questioned my life choices.  I made some reasoned guess that I'd see the land start to lighten in 2 hours (surely, there'd be an hour-long sunrise?).  At 5:30 I lost my way.  In pushing along a trod, I'd missed my path.  For a while I hoped it was a Garmin mapping error as there was no alternative route shown on my map and the actual course was exactly 200m to my right (ergo, at the bottom of a bloody big hill) but where the track turned right 90 degrees, mine did not.  Reluctantly I saved my ride and got the other GPS out - the one with the OS maps on.  I was on the wrong path.  The one I had been following was a footpath and stopped in the middle of the moor and went nowhere - possibly to a grouse butt?  I turned tail and retraced - thankfully the trod becoming more rideable downhill - and found my route.  I could see the headlines, "Hypothermic mountainbiker dies on moors - she had a map, compass, dry clothes - everything she needed yet she didn't act".

More lonely civilisation at the building with the right hand turn - trying to sneak through the gate without waking the obvious dog.  He barked a few times then couldn't be bothered.  Me, I zipped down the road - happy to be picking up speed again.  Even the steep road climbs couldn't damp my appetite and I enjoyed every single inlet along the Claerwen reservoir as I eked my way towards the checkpoint dam.  They were long kms but they were fast-ish (except for the occasional hike-a-puddle) so they all added up to knocking ks off the route.

In a gradual lightening of the sky Claerwen was as close as could be to a sunrise.

Somewhere along the byway next to Claerwen reservoir I noticed that the banks of the road, the fields next to me were no longer dark grey but fawny-grass colour.  The day had arrived.  I'd been riding for 4 hours.  The river crossings were going extremely well but eventually it had to come didn't it?  The ford loomed large - over 30 ft of water crossing to be done.  I checked up and downstream for a bridge but there really wasn't one and where the channels were narrower they were also deeper.  There was nothing else for it.

I didn't ride it, I strode out across it purposefully with the bike downstream so it wouldn't pull me over.  My boots and socks were already saturated so it really didn't matter - except my left leg warmer had slipped down so that was now in the full flow of the water and also saturated.  It still wasn't as bad as my May Corrieyarick pass crossing.

I carried on for a while after until I could find a sheltered spot to sit down, relieve myself of the sloshing boost full of water and pull my leggings up to "dry out" inside my waterproof trousers.  A peppermint cream made an excellent addition to this activity.  Little did I realise that I was being gained on!

If you look just to the right of this pic you can see Javi enjoying the moment.

I nearly didn't pic the dam.  Having stopped to eat something and empty the water out of my boots, I was keen to get going but just at the last minute I decided to keep my records.  As I turned in a layby to take this shot, an orange coat came into view, pointing out at the reservoir and possibly taking his own pics.

Further down the road I was joined by a sprightly Karl, Javi and 2 others (sorry, didn't register) who had a quick chat.  Javi telling me they were heading into Llan (this is what I heard) for some foooood and Karl regaling me with stories of Javi's alarm going off every 2 minutes for the last hours of their kip.  THIS right here is why I don't do bothies.

It was great to have their company for a moment but there was no way I was keeping up so I left them to their fooooooood and headed back up on my own path, secretly pining for a few hash browns and a coffee but instead burrowing into the Brazil nuts from the night before.  It didn't occurr to me that they were going to ELAN.

My turn was up to the checkpoint of Penygarreg Reservoir which I photographed on the way up, whilst still pondering turning back for whatever cafe the boys were going to, having already decided I was still behind and needed to make it to Elan! The fact that I'd just ridden away from The Elan Cafe didn't register.  Clearly I have to be careful about my brain not working at this early hour of the morning.

Instead of heading "straight back" I stuck to my route, in search of a last elusive checkpoint that didn't exist.  Still, good things come to those who fuck up.

I don't know if I chose the worst route over to the Wye valley to head home but there's every chance.  Without any breakfast in me, I resorted to the thing I was carrying that most closely represented a meal - beef jerky.  I haven't eaten beef jerky since Audax ruined it for me but have continuously carried a bag around for moments just like these.

Protein, sugar and a vague essence of chilli which is enough to persuade the body it might be hot food.  I munched up the valley and the world became a beautiful place.  With this descent off the hillside to enjoy,  it's hard to argue that the tussock hopping to get there wasn't worth it.  At best I was following a quad / dirt bike trail and then I got this as a reward.

Down.

At the head of the Wye valley is Llangurig.  I've been there at breakfast time before and EVERYTHING was shut.  There was a very real risk that if everything was shut this time, I would phone for a husband taxi.  However, I remembered my Banksy (courtesy of Fitz), "If you get tired, learn to rest, not to quit".  Also, I think @Jenny Graham, "Never quit when you're hungry".  I had no qualms about walking into the Blue Bell inn in the hope of a meal.  The very real hope.

"We've got beef or lamb roast and the normal menu" she said.  I grabbed the menu and just stared at it.  "You know what?  Beef roast sounds great".

It wasn't until it arrived I realised I was eating *MORE* beef.  Lots of beef.  It was irrelevant.  I devoured it, the roast potatoes the parsnip, the extra boiled potatoes, the cauli.  I had no room for another plate of carrots and turnips.  I texted TSK to see where he was - out on his bike and eating in Mac.  That put paid to any temptation to get a lift home.

Despite the rest and the feed, I still felt like bailing out but I promised myself I'd ride, crawl back if I had to.  Indeed I knew I couldn't look myself in the eye if I'd got a pick up - never mind anyone else.  I remembered as I walked out that I had forgotten to lock my bike up.  Despite everything we've been through together, I was disappointed to find she hadn't been stolen.  I guess I'd need to ride it back then.

I'd plotted myself a lovely route back on the back-roads and forest roads around the back of the Staylittle / Clywedog valley but I couldn't remember their condition and / or steepness so for some reason I justified taking the main B4518 to get back.  I know it's a horrid road - I've ridden the opposing East side of Llyn Clywedog before in howling winds last year and looked across the lake at the succession of steep climbs on the other side.  For some reason I suddenly justified the struggle over ease of navigation and completely discounted the alternative Haffren Forest route which I've also done before.  I was pretty proud of myself for holding it together on the 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 5th climb and riding it but when it came to the 6th, 7th and 8th climbs (I didn't even know existed), I got off and walked.  Again, thank fuck for bad weather, there were very few other vehicles on the road.

Getting full value for money, I lolled into Llanbrynmair at 4:30.  Perfect time for tea, toast, cake.  Not the last one home, with two of my pub-mates still to come in - not far behind me - and the others already telling tales of a nice night in a shed and the train ride home from Mac.

It was a late one to bed back in Sheffield, especially since I insisted on doing the laundry to avoid the sticking pile of mess on Monday morning so bears-and-all (except us) went in the wash. 

Even fluffier than before

On Monday morning I slept through my  race alarms - 3:30am, 4:30am, 5am - only getting woken up by my 9am move alert on my watch to which the words, "Fuck I should be at work now" crossed my lips.  No Bearbones shower, I dressed for the office, threw in a few towels in case I got time for a shower at lunchtime and drove to work for my meeting, still smelling of sweat, damp and cowshit.  Thankfully the meeting start time was 10am so I got 20 minutes for a workplace shower and went into the rest of the day slightly tired and smelling mostly of a guy from the Lynx advert.  If I hadn't had bags under my eyes, I don't think the ladies in the office could have kept their hands off me.

Thanks to everyone that kept me company this weekend - no matter how briefly.  Thanks to Stu for the dots and Dee for feeding us and looking after us, even though you were poorly.

Novembivi

I couldda taken the bivi gear to spain but I didn't and instead headed out with the bivi and bag but no tarp to a sheltered spot I've regularly passed at just the wrong time.

This visit I was slow enough to make it by 10.15 pm and thankfully the space was vacant. 

Got a great day for sunshine and moon-rises and a great night's sleep, waking at 5am for the ride home to get a shower and pack for 3 days away with work.

It was raining when I got up. Talk about making the most of the weekend.

Bearbones 200 2019

Somewhere along the way I forgot that I've got this.   A few weeks ago, I attempted a 200k ride for funsies.  I took two nights out with my kit, leaving from work on Friday and returning home on Sunday afternoon - as many brew stops and cafe stops and lying-down stops as I needed.  I arrived home happy but very very tired after 4000m of climbing.

When the BB200 route was published with 5600m climbing in it, I seriously wondered how I'd be.  "just like last weekend but with an extra vertical mile on the end".  Doesn't sound too do-able with a 25kg loaded mountain bike.

I took what remaining leave I had - a day after the race and a half day before the race and arranged to work from home on Friday morning.  I drove to Oswestry on Friday afternoon for the usual fill of food and a great travel lodge night.

Arriving at Llanbrynmair to find friends from the HT 550, having ridden in from somewhere, I walked out with their teeshirts for onward transportation later.  By the time I'd waited out a shower in the van, they'd set off and so I decided to do the same instead of sit around drinking tea and getting nervous. 

Someone in a camper stopped me heading out the wrong way Mick? - sorry I didn't see you it was dark in there.  Stu booked me out at 07:50.  I needed all the daylight hours I could get.  I momentarily wondered if I should have got more to eat but it was too late, I was underway now - no turning back.

Eventually I turned off-road with a few people for company.  We splashed through puddles on the trail and my new friend, David, moaned that he wanted my bike which miraculously bounced and cut through the water whilst he had to push his gravel bike around the puddles.  It was all relative though as David's legs miraculously pedalled past me again on every hill climb.

He gleefully informed me that the wet bit was still to come.  Apparently this bog has form.

I managed not to get my feet wet, largely by being tall and bridging across every stream.  I was smug.  I spent a little time wondering how the chap in front was managing to ride through the chossy path we were on then realised he'd found a different path.  An adjustment in elevation by 1m put us in a much better place and I sat down for a bit to snack and watch a steady stream of slightly faster riders pass.

At the stream with incredibly steep sides, I was chuffed at carrying my bike up the slope.  Work in the gym and a few hundred quid on carbon Jones bars has paid off and I can now pick the bike up loaded from the ground.  Convenient sheep trods made it easy to place back on terra firma.

Every silver lining has a cloud though, and just as David announced the "end of the worst bit", I crossed a river at the wrong point, slid off a rock, got my bike wedged and plunged in upto my knee, dropping my bike fully into the water.  Only one food pack came out the other side dry.

I heard a ladies' voice coming down the slope behind us as I stopped to remove my boot to empty the water from it and wring out my sock.  Thankfully, brand-new socks are great at sucking warm air back in to replace the wet and my foot was soon warm again.

The lady who caught me up was Hetti and we had a chat for a while before she rode on ahead and then I passed her eating sandwiches at a gate.  Somewhere in the distance recesses of my mind I remembered my race planning.  Remembered thinking that I wouldn't be anywhere useful for lunch and I should pack something in.  Oh dear.  Still, I had plenty of food with me and managed to snack for the next 3 hours.  Finally, Hetti passed me back as I sat on a grit bin, eating and emptying more water from my boots.  They don't call it street furniture for nothing.

David started hunting for water top ups in villages which meant I kept passing him, self assured that I'd left that morning with a 2 litre Camelbak. 

He told me he needed to be in Barmouth by 8pm.  I said I didn't know what time I'd be in Barmouth and I think he took that as a sign and got the fuck on with it after that.

In Machnylleth I was planning on pressing on to the Co-op for a short stop but a red pedestrian crossing light and brief encounter with another rider persuaded me it was worth the detour to eat some real and warm food.  Hetti was leaving as I arrived, witness to me emptying half a pint of water out of my left hand food bag and trying to dry out my cable lock before deploying it. 

I picked the bakery which unfortunately disappointed.  Bad coffee, a paltry quantity of beans on the toast but I left with a take away scone in a paper bag.  I didn't bother with a water top up as I still had quite a lot left and Barmouth was only 4 x 200m climbs away according to my notes.

Passing by the Centre for Alternative Technology was weird.  I'd stayed there as a pre-uni student, all full of enthusiasm for the future.  'nuff said. It was a long time ago.

I tried to count off the 200m climbs but, as I thought I'd finished the third, I checked the elevation profile on the Garmin and found I was half way up the second climb. 

I stopped at a gate and drew out my buttered scone which I'd been dreaming about for some time.  It wasn't buttered at all but whole and disappointing and I hated the bakery some more.  Still, it went down OK.  Ian Barrington came past on a fat bike, bemoaning a lack of rear brake with the descent into Barmouth to do. 

Just before the last climb, the rain started to come down properly.  Finally time to drag the waterproof out but I didn't bother with the trousers.  Another rider in a red coat was caught as I moaned about the rain that wasn't booked.  We exchanged places a few times but I was ahead pulling down to Barmouth.  As I chilled out on the descent I decided I'd definitely stop in at the toilets - even if that meant I didn't get a meal in town.  (too much information alert): I hadn't had a pee for 12 hours and, despite the obvious dehydration issue, I finally needed to go.  I'd drunk the last of my water 20kms earlier and it's easier to fill up in a loo than get a cafe/hotellier to do it for you.

I was pleased enough that I'd considered Barmouth to be a sleep stop, if necessary.  Getting there in time for dinner was a massive bonus. 

Coming in out of the rain, the bogs felt warm and dry - ish.  I brought the bike in for convenience and sat on the loo with the door open, watching it.  Its tiny dynamo light dying from lack of movement.

I wrang out the socks again and poured the sloshy boot water down the loo.  My fellow rider passed, whistling.  I'm not sure he was being polite or just entertaining himself.  A few others passed whilst I regained my composure and put on a fleece.

Over the bridge into Barmouth and I couldn't face the melée of Saturday nighters, spilling out onto the pavement to drink beers.  I did a tour of the one-way system and found a Chinese restaurant with a bus stop full of teenagers opposite.  The pre-requisite holiday resort garden of monkey puzzle and palm trees provided me with a bin to lean and lock my bike to within sight of the takeaway.

I felt for the teens with nowhere else to go on a Satuday night but a drafty bus stop... whilst I sat on the bench in a chinese takeaway shovelling veg chow mein into my gob with a plastic fork, my baggy shorts round my knees to protect the bench from the dirty bum and give me the added bonus of warm ankles.  The owners didn't mind and were probably just kind of glad I didn't attempt to go in the restaurant next door.

Outside, with the teens gone, I sat amongst the discarded chips and a broken egg (?) and added leg warmers to my layers and removed the fleece that I'd put on in the toilets.  I wouldn't be needing that for a while.

Two hilly loops to the North now.  I had a sleep spot planned for one of them, with a target to stop at midnight, with rain forecast between 1am and 4am.

As the road got higher, the houses in Barmouth got fancier and then we turned off onto a mega climb where I caught up a few riders ahead as we took on the push.  We all took our own paces and occasionally had a chat.  I found solace in dark chocolate from time to time.  Desert on the move.

Down the long descent I forged ahead, some kind of brain-out, lights on mentality took over.  Getting near the bottom, navigation was challenging in the face of gates stating "no access" although clearly the only way the route could go.  I decided that access was prohibited to motor vehicles and passed by un-challenged onto the second loop.

More pushing, more chats in the dark.  My planned stop was too early and did not look so tempting in the soggy dripping darkness so I ploughed on towards midnight.  Over the summit and down another long, wide descent.  This time loose gravel started to turn me off.  Unpredictable under-wheel, undetectable in the dark and the final straw was when I rode through a seemingly-shallow puddle, only for the ground to give way and threaten to a) swallow me and b) drown me sideways. 

At the first sign of midnight and a solid patch of flat ground off the main trail I decided to roll out my mat and bivi (great combo) and pitch my tarp. 

Not surprisingly, this did not go as well as I had practised in the loft and I had to adjust it a few times before finding I could get comfortable underneath the tarp.  I'd used my bike as an anchor for one of the pegs which worked in theory but then got in the way of my feet when I lay down but I wrestled it into shape.  It wasn't easy because the ground was a bit rocky so every peg was also wedged under heavy rocks which I had to move when I moved pegs.  Not the best plan but at 1am I fell soundly asleep and at least I didn't wake up in a puddle when I first stirred at 4:45 to heavy rain. The sound of a few tyres passing wasn't enough to get me out of bed.  With 130km under my belt, I only had 70km to get through on Sunday and I didn't have to use my sleep kit again.

I went back to sleep and waited for the 5:30 alarm.  It was still raining so I snoozed until 6 when I finally decided I should get the hell up.  The tarp wasn't big enough to shelter in to make breakfast but had served well to keep my rucsac, socks, coat, shorts and boots dry overnight.  My trousers were still dry ready to go on.  They went on over the top of my full sleep kit, including putting my bib shorts on over my synthetic down coat.  I sight to behold but I didn't give a shit - it was all about getting the waterproofs on and staying warm since I was setting off on a descent.

I was dismayed I'd left my bar bag open and poured a pint of water out of that.  Thankfully the dry bag inside it was closed, leaving a dry haven for the clothes that had to share the bag with my tarp and bivi bag.  The hydrophobic down sleeping bag did its thing and packed away with just a surface coating of rain drops.  The sleep mat stayed relatively dry as I packed it away in the shelter and then stuffed the soggy bivi away separately. 

Thankfully, given the breakfast situation, it wasn't far to the bottom of the hill and a wonderful National Trust carpark toilet site at Tyn y Coed, complete with wooden sheltered bench.  I brewed up, made coffee and porridge and enjoyed the sound of rain whilst sitting in the dry.  As I supped my brew, Mark (another rider dressed in red) came by and said hi, asking about the cafe at Coed y Brenin.  I said I thought it opened at 8 - it was 8:10 - and he carried on up, emboldened a little bit. 

A lady in a camper pulled in to use the toilets and exclaimed, "Oh how lovely, are you having a little bike packing adventure?".  I didn't bother to explain the "race" thing and just said yes. I was so taken aback after the last few weeks of middle aged men telling me I should be scared.  She was genuinely interested and excited and wished she'd seen me earlier so I could have stopped with her. 

She drove off and I went to use the sweet, pine smelling toilet facilities too, topping up my water on the way.

In retrospect that was a little foolish as I then rode all the way up the hill to Coed y Brenin centre with an extra 1.5kg water on board and I knew it.  Despite my porridge breakfast, by the time I reached the top of the climb, I was having a little wobble.  I was absolutely starving hungry and any thought that I could have skipped the draw of the cafe evaporated (like it was never really there). 

I dropped in and hooked my bike up on the racks.  A day-rider was also waiting for them to open.  It was now 9am so I paced up and down like an impatient tiger, chatting to this guy about how hungry I was.  Finally at 9:02 the doors were opened and I went straight to eager canteen staff with my order.  Veggie breakie and coffffeeeee.  MORE.

Mark's bike was outside on the deck and I was just about to go and look for him when he walked in another entrance and brought my coffee to the table and joined me.  I reciprocated by fetching us both cutlery when my breakfast arrived and we caught up on our race so far.  He'd been out with two of the other riders (Jason and RedefinedCycles) who had passed me in the night but had become separated.  They spent the night above me (in elevation), under an excavator for shelter.  I was impressed!

I sat the table whilst he went for water top ups and toilet and he sat the table whilst I went to get dressed in the loo - add a bra, take my sleep leggings off from under my shorts.  We went our separate ways as I faffed with water - picking up some spare for the road ahead by filling my frame bottle.  There was a big loop of the Coed y Brenin forest to do.

I ignored the Yee Haws exciting about "the suspension on this one!" and carried on my slow progress through the forest, to be replaced by a long straight mountain road over the moors.  I dunno, I guess it got into everyone's head and I started catching up the boys.  RedefinedCycles, playing music called ME to prayer, if no-one else and I stopped staring at the road and started enjoying the view around me.  I rode past Mark, who said, "It just kills yer back doesn't it?"  I kept quiet - no-one likes a smart arse who's been in the gym.  Then rode on up to Jason, eating pasta and holding the gate open - hero. 

I looked at my Garmin.  50km to go and 1600m climbing left - there was my extra mile of vertical climbing and I had 50km to do it in - it felt easy.

Down into the forest again and getting near to Dolgellau where I thought I might need a lunch stop. 

As I wobbled down the narrow lanes, back in "civilisation", I had a little red car pull up behind me, beeping his horn to let me know he was there.  I wasn't too sure what he expected me to do about it so carried on riding, presumably, he wanted me to stop so his metal box could go first.  He beeped twice more before we got to the top where there was enough room for me to let him pass safely.  Which he did.  Still, the rush of adrenaline from pure annoyance made me wobbly so, having chosen the right direction I decided I'd rather cook the food I was carrying around.  Food, unlike farts, is better in than out.

I found a dry bit of ground in the lee of a tree and boiled water.  I was eating my pasta when Mark came past, then Jason and Redefined.  I watched them all make the same mistakes, (did try to call out, honest), then waved as they rode past. 

Fuelled by pasta and being passed, I packed away quickly and set off up the road after them.  Just as a tea shop came into view.  Bugger.

I couldn't pass up the opportunity for more food and joined the others for cake, though with a belly full of hot pasta, I declined tea.  I paid and munched my scone (this time with butter), then took my tiffin out with me, leaving the others to a warm shed with a heater.  They had started out later on Saturday so had more hours to spare for a completion.

My brain started doing maths since it wasn't convinced I should have stopped.  I'd gone from 12 hours to do 70km at 8am to 5 hours to do 35km - though now with a suitable level of calories on board.  In theory do-able but I remembered we still had the Dyffi forest to go which was guaranteed to be challenging.

In the meantime though, there was some road riding to do and some of it had me off on my feet - so hardly making up any time.  The descents were steep too and a little treacherous with moss down the middle. There were two bumps to do and I'd managed to persuade myself they were the best route back to the finish and quitting now would be counter-productive.  This tricked me into thinking it wouldn't take long.  I couldn't believe there was still 4 hours of riding left and yet, the day had already taken 6 hours - where did it all go?

Finally Dyffi forest happened.  Puddles upto my handlebars - some of which were passable, most of which weren't.  I bog hopped, climbed, punted and swore my way around.  I admit to getting a bit emosh in here, pleading, "When will it stop?" and just as I thought it would, another puddle appeared.

I met another rider asking, "How far do we have to go?"  20k I said and kept pedalling because I couldn't afford any time.  I hoped he was OK, in retrospect and worried that a guy who doesn't know how far is to go might also be lost without GPS.  I knew the others were behind and hoped they would pick him up. 

Then the downhill started and, with my old bike and tight forks, I had to get off and walk / slither down.  At one point I had to set the bike down and let it slide so that it didn't take me with it as I bum-slid down behind.  I begged to please make it stop.  It was time for a rest but I didn't have time.

Finally I cruised into a beautiful patch of forest with vigour, only to sink up to my hubs in more bog.  And so it went on.

I'd been watching the Garmin trying to target a km every 10 minutes.  Fuck I could run it faster but, it got depressing as the time slid away and then when I stopped watching the Garmin, I started making navigational errors and the time slipped further away as I had to back-track.  Sometimes away from some really nice looking bridleways which took me back the way I'd come.  Doh!

Finally, down in AberAngell I could let it go on the roads.  I dropped onto the Jones bars to tt my way to the finish, only to find a tree crossing my path.  The entire crown of the tree across the road, I tried to climb through it but there was no way my bike was coming too.  I considered the field (which other riders had used) but decided not to trespass and back-tracked to the road to ride around through Cemaes.

I wasn't sure which way we'd end up riding back and suspected this was one of my least favourite roads in the area where I'd got so tired during the May ride I stopped an brewed up in a layby.  It wasn't though - it was in fact a very engaging twisty road, too hot for my waterproof but I wasn't going to stop to faff it off.  The rain stopped, the sun came out for the last time - at around 6pm and gave us a sunset and some colour to what had otherwise been a grey day with grey rain and grey rocks and dark puddles.  Suddenly the grey was swathed with green and the bracken turned to copper and life was good. 

Suddenly "Ll" came into focus on my Garmin screen and a zoom out led to a call of, "That's fucking it!" as I realised Llanbrynmair was a junction away.  The clock eaked towards 6:45 and so I sprinted for the line, through the carpark and ran my bike down the stairs and beat on the window at a surprised Dee, who peered through the lit room at the darkness outside.  She met me with a smile.  Having gone from, "I'm just gonna finish this thing, even if I need two nights out" to "back with an hour to spare", she was as pleased as I was. 

4 more riders were still out.  The three I knew about and I helped to identify Alex, the lone rider I'd seen in Dyffi, though I didn't know why he was struggling.  Not much later, Redefined, Jason and Mark arrived, to let us know that Alex had knee trouble and had asked them to leave him to ease his own way out of the woods.  He came home just as I was leaving to get changed, lessening everyone's guilt at leaving him to it.

I would have liked to do better - felt like I deserved better TBH - but it's given me a great taste of possibility and confidence this time.  No shortcuts, I now know I can finish it and the stats are a good comparator for other events.  More rest than I would have liked which would have normally been mitigated by my tent giving me the shelter to pack up at 4am, not 6am.  More food than necessary - given that I brought lots back.  But what the feck, I enjoyed it.  Is that the point?  Was it a race?  It certainly isn't billed as one and it didn't really feel like one, except against me and time and that, dear friends is quite enough for me.

September Bivi

Given that the weather for the penultimate weekend in September was forecast to be beautiful and warm, I was super motivated to get out.  On Thursday night I was packed up and ready to roll.  On Friday morning I rode to work and left EmVee in the carpark.  I wasn't even phased by leaving my rucsac at home and having to ride all the way back up hill to fetch it.  

I finished work early but stayed at my desk, plotting an impromptu route.  I'd had a great idea to head North towards the Yorkshire Dales.  I knew I wouldn't make it there but a trip towards Howarth didn't seem too wrong.  Not wanting to dally at my desk too long, I opted for the easy Garmin Mapping service which meant I didn't really have much idea whether I'd plotted a roadie or MTB or walking route!

I left the office and headed straight for the Trans Pennine Trail (TPT).

There's a wonderful bike lane that trundles up the side of the M1.  It's surfaced, mostly, with tarmac but it's fabulous to finally cross the motorway, full of cars and turned towards Thorpe Hesley.  I wibbled through all kinds of back-road / greenway bike lanes through industrial estates I couldn't otherwise show you and then back into Wortley.  Finally off road and crossing the fields, it was a great relief but I was getting hungry.

The pub in Wortley looked a bit posh so instead I got on the TPT itself and rode outwards towards the Peak, dropping down at Oxprings to eat dinner in the Waggon and Horses.  

A passing walker accosted me as I locked up.  "Ooooh, are you... 'bikepacking'".   

Me: Erm yeah.

Walker: aren't you scared.

Me:erm No.

Walker: I think you're very brave.

Me: Not really.

Walker: I fancy a go at that.  

OK, so you're not scared?  I left it.

I ate my dinner watching the sunset and persuading the waitresses to come outside with my food.  I tried not to spend too much time indoor in the warm.

I left the pub in fading light and joined the TPT again up to Dunsford Bridge.  From there, my first tentative pedal strokes on new territory, I took the trail around the edge of the reservoir.  Much to my disappointment it wasn't really a trail it was a road with closed gates.  Still, better things were to come.  I enjoyed the reservoir in the fading light and climbed up on to the Pennines, chatting with some locals out for a dog walk in the dusk.

A few sweeps around woodlands and forested slopes and I finally dropped into Holme (yes as in Holme Firth and Holme Moss).  I flipped in and out of minor roads which I'd never been on before then finally, started the climb out of the village.  I was getting pretty tired and would start looking for somewhere to sleep soon.

I took a wrong turn, chose the wrong side-road out of two options.  Obviously, descending at speed, out of two choices, I took the easier option - after all this was a pleasure ride not a race.  Of course, I chose the wrong one and ended up at a dead end but a look at the map told me there was a footpath straight up the hillside to the other road.

I climbed up some incredibly steep steps then through a gate.  By now the light was completely gone and as I plodded along up a steep slope, my wheel off the ground half the time, my dynamo light gradually died.  In the darkness I realised I'd totally lost the path and my feet were now stepping in deep piles of dead leaves and cracking branches.  I alerted the owls who hooted at me through the trees and the foxes started yapping.  With the steep slope I couldn't stop here.

I looked around with the strong light to see if I could see the path but to no avail but what I did find was a patch of flat ground, just down hill of a tree with its roots part-exposed - the perfect place to lock up the bike a roll out a bivi.  Even more perfect that I'd lost the path and the wildlife seemed to quieten down.  I decided to risk it and pressed the OK button on my spot.

This was my view

I was a little apprehensive.  A new bivi bag.  I put my mat on the floor and slept in the bivi bag with a sleeping bag in.  Just as I'd got comfy, my final thought was, "I hope this tree doesn't fall over in the night" but it looked sound so I shut my eyes.

I was a bit excited so was awake until midnight.  TSK texted me to make sure I was OK as my spot didn't ping.  I sent a text then went to sleep.  I was woken a few times by foxes and once by a dream that a helicopter was passing searching for my spot but otherwise it was a quiet night.  The alarm went off at 05:45 and I had thought I was on the wrong side of the hill for the sunrise but as time went on, this appeared. 

I didn't even have to get out of my sleeping bag.

The daylight brought more good news, the path I had missed made a meandering slope across the hillside to join the road at a simple stile without me having to break my ankles pushing the bike up vertical any more.

The sun continued to rise as I made my way towards Diggle reservoir.

After this photo things got a bit bright for photography.

At Diggle res, the light was incredible and the solitude was amazing.  The bridleway is made up of old cart tracks, rutted through years of use, giving a real sense of history to the place.


It was around 7am and a kestrel flew along the path straight towards me before banking away 3 metres from my front wheel.  Wheaters and finches zipped around catching early flies and sheep lazily chomped away.

I reserved breakfast in Marsden in my mind but couldn't hold on that long and ended up in a cute little cafe called Ivy's in Meltham.  A bit of a greasy-spoon, I ordered tea but then noticed the filter coffee so a double-whammy to go with my veggie breakfast (with black pud).

By now I was a bit fed up of roads so I started to do a lot of messing about with the route - constantly stopping to zoom in/out of my Garmin OS Map to find bridleway diversions.  They were all wonderful - I was having far too much success.

I reached a rather puzzling routing where my plot seemed to follow the M62 for some distance.  Confused by this from the map, I didn't quite know what to expect.  Sure enough, the "road" (footpath) leads straight along a dam, on top of which sits the M62.  Whilst I was very tempted to ride across it, I was also a little hesitant.  Footpaths in broad daylight aren't really my thing and a large group of people were assembled on the other side of the dam.  I decided to give it a miss and descend the road to take an alternative bridleway instead.

Unfortunately I descended the wrong road and just ended up on the Yorkshire water service road on the bottom of the dam.  I took a thrash through some trees and bushes to try and hike my way out but just got confronted with a wall of nettles and a chasm of water so I hiked back out.

Advertising truck graveyard with the M62 along the dam in the distance.

After all that I needed lunch and pulled into the Co-op in Ripponden to stock up.  I enjoyed riding with my backpack this weekend and tootled my food down the road to a pleasant bench to sit and eat at for some time.

I made scribbles across to Cragg vale on joyous double-track by comparison and I rode for hours, doing double-backs just to cover more ground off-road.  There's only steep ways out of Cragg Vale though and I rode up Penny lane on the cobbles.  Only at around 13:30 did I allow myself to drop into Hebden Bridge for some more food and coffee.  It was busy though so I lay in the sun on the bench, my face shielded from the sun by my nose bags and I ate food lying on my back whilst people milled about.  I never found the will to lock up and go for that coffee so I set off without any water top up to get away from town.  In retrospect it wasn't wise but I managed.

No wonder I was tired after this Balsam explosion.

Instead of riding down the canal the rest of the way I climbed back out up the steep sides of the valley and back onto the top of the pennines.  It was glorious and I had a pee in the tussocks, looking over Stoodley pike.  Crossed the moors to the pike and joined the hundred-or-so people milling about near the pub.  I ordered a coffee at the bar but they couldn't be arsed / weren't bothered / were too disorganised to take my food order for a mid-day desert so I downed my coffee and left - without actually having sat down at all.  Before locking up, I remembered to go back in to fill up my Camelbak then set off towards Todmorden after a long chat with a toothless man who "fancied doing what I do" but also thought that I might get attacked.  I was starting to worry that men aren't very brave at all.

Stoodley Pike in the distance

Stoodley pike in the less distant.

It was great to ride away from a pub full of screaming kids and poor service but I was conscious that I didn't have much food with me and it was 5:30pm.  I bounced over the pennine bridleway for a while, finally dropping down towards the Rochdale canal around 6:30, just above Walsden.  As I sat down to eat a cereal bar, a couple of mountain bikers approached from behind me.  Just a couple of mates from Walsden out for an evening ride.  A week earlier we'd been in the 3 Peaks cyclocross together.  We had quite a long catch up as they offered me tea and plied me with Colin the Caterpillars and I munched on nuts and cereal bars.

I tried not to get distracted by the job in hand though - getting home before the rain on Sunday.  I politely declined accommodation and continued on my way with directions to a local pub for dinner.

Unfortunately I passed the local pub at speed and decided I could still go another hour on a belly-full of caterpillars.

All was well until I dropped down from the Nirvana of the Pennines to a slightly disconcerting Littleborough.  My first intro to the town was a gang of yoofs, complete with grey hoodies and white face masks throwing stuff at eachother across the street.  I'm sure they were just cold and having a game to warm up but I was tired and not in the mood for gaming.  Thankfully, they weren't interested in a middle aged woman on a crap-splattered bike, wobbling through their midst so I continued along the bike lane with the stoners and the drunk guys before drizzling out onto Hollingworth Reservoir.

It was just as busy as the Stoodley Pike pub but more adult this time and brilliant news, there were a pair of bike packers sitting at the far end of the beer garden out front.  I rolled up with an, "I see my people" and we settled down to chat about our day, the Highland Trail, work life balance, beer, chips and other bike-packing topics.

It was a fine evening, though they were staying in the campsite up the road so settled in for the night.  They broke the news to me that the weather forecast had changed (it seems me and bivi bags are cursed) and attempted to persuade me a stop would be a good thing.  However, I was still a little shaken from my Littleborough adventures and decided my lock was a bit shit for a night in a relatively populous campsite.  Besides, I still had that long ride home and two more Pennine crossings to do.

The "where do you go from here?" conversation was quite vague in that I was still just following a pink line on a map, plotted hastily on Friday night.  It involved hills and South but apart from that, I didn't really know but hoped it would get wild enough to camp again soon.

I recounted my tales of middle-aged men calling me brave all throughout my ride which made my friends gaffaw into their beer.  "He thought I was afraid of being attacked!"

Pffssst, "Who by?  The sheep?".  A new armoury of response.

I had my dinner (a little too much after all the Colin) and then set off down the road, returning a few minutes later to retrieve my credit card and pay my bar bill.

Good evening Rochdale!

From Hollingworth lake the crossing of the M62 is much nicer, a long meandering up hill from the pub on a closed road which down grades into open double-track. The weather held off and I summitted back onto the Pennines at around 10pm. A gig in Rochdale drifted up on the dark air and I listened to a warbling rendition of England's "Green and Pleasant Land" before enjoying the fire works display as I picked my way across. The hills somewhat belittling the whiz pop below.

As I realised I was back out on Saddleworth Moor, I realised there's one thing I'm irrationally scared of and that is the ghosts of dead children as I was chillingly reminded of the Moors murders in my dark and lonely world.  I tried to focus on the wildlife, the heather passing, the quiet munching and farting of sheep.  It didn't help returning to civilisation by a house on the A672 to a 40" TV screen image of a large, anguished child in some pokey TV drama.  I shuddered and concentrated on the main road crossing ahead.

An (I'm assuming) couple who had stopped to (look at the view) chose that moment to turn the headlights back on full beam and I tried my bestest to keep my eyes on the trail and ignore the dazzling flickering lights as someone wandered around the car to relieve themselves in the long grass.

Down the hill was a little tedious from here.  I couldn't decide whether to continue following the Pennine Bridleway or give up and get on the road.  Every time I pondered a road I was nervous of ending up in a town filled with drivers and drunk people so I just kept following the line on my map which seemed a good pick to be honest.  I kept expecting Mossley to show up at any time but it was a good 2 1/2 hours before I found myself somewhere I vaguely recognised on the map - except for riding past Diggle, whose reservoir I had slept at 20 hours earlier.

I was still outside of Mossley though when my Garmin finally died its death and I dug out its replacement.  I committed to sticking on the pink line though instead of riding around the border villages of Tameside and worked my way back up onto the Moor.  A "No cyclists" sign on my route had me a bit confused as there are quite a few pleasant bridleways around there but I dutifully dropped down and climbed back up again to Higher Swineshaw res before stumbling across the perfect bivi spot just as I was starting to get properly sleepy.  My plan to ride as much as possible to get dry riding done had worked and it was time to bed down before the rain came.  It was 1:30am.

With rain on the way, I was happy to find that the Thermarest just about fit inside the bivi bag with me and my sleeping bag in it too.  It was a tight squeeze but it just went.  I spent most of the night asleep with my face open to the elements (a first for me) except to sit up at 4am and retrieve my midge net as I was getting bitten on the face.  Netted and hooded I went straight back to sleep and woke up to the drizzle at 5:45.  I pulled the bivi over my head and closed it off except for a 12 inch breathing hole.  The perfect fit over my shoulders meant that very little condensation from my breathe made it past my shoulders and into the rest of my bag so when I properly woke up at 6:30am to heavy rain I was still relatively dry.  I waited out the worst of it then decided I'd better get up in the drizzle and pack away in a weather gap.

A beautiful spot

The other way

Deep rumbles of thunder in the distances added an urgency to my packing and I was lucky enough to get my sleeping bag packed up before the heavens opened for a few minutes, soaking the bivi and mat.  I was OK in full waterproofs this time (learning from the Peak 200 attempt) and even my shoes didn't seem to wet out too much.  It eased to a drizzle at I headed down hill to Tintwistle.

Dropping onto the main road I checked the route.  I was about to leave civilisation until getting to Penistone about 50km away.  I definitely needed to find breakfast.  It was 8am on a Sunday morning.

A few glances down side roads revealed nothing but a corner shop/paper shop and then I found this wonderful place.  I called in the door to check they really were open and a cheery "Yes" had me beaming from ear to ear.  I locked up and fell short of ordering myself a "Full" or "Monster", instead going for the "veggie" which she hadn't done in a while so I had to remind her what was in it.

With "no eggs" and "a bit of extra everything" I tucked in.

The only downside is, there was still no decent coffee - it had been 24 hours since my last coffee at Meltham but I could not complain.  I stuck £2 in the charity flapjack box and headed out on my Sunday bimble home.

As Pennine Bridleway became Transpennine and I wiggled my way over to Dunsford Bridge again, the rain actually ceased enough for me to remove waterproofs and enjoy the final passage over the "hard bit" in the company of sheep and a good wild pee stop.

From Dunsford bridge it was like the home run.  Gently downhill all the way to Penistone and lunch.  Pie and peas are the best at the Penistone caf.  More tea and bants with some ageing road cyclists heading the other way.

The hill climb through my local Wharncliffe woods, wearing my patience a little thin and I had little time for the horse riders who had been "going for ages" and needed to know how long it would take them to get to the pub.  At their plodding pace.  Their whining almost made me feel guilty as I plodded away at speed.

Home.  I wasn't looking forwards to the climb up the hill.  In the end the only climbing I did was to get off my bike and push as soon as I ran out of momentum.

I bartered with the rest of the clear weather and sat in the garden to drink a cup of coffee (finally) in the last of the glorious weekend weather, before retreating to the bath and then the bed.

A fucking brilliant weekend out.  200km 4000m.