BB200 2022*

*no placenames have been used in this report so no spoilers for the November crew.

I get pretty fed up with the comparison between bike packing, unsupported racing and life - especially work. "It teaches me resilience for my job" Bollocks. If your job ever puts you in the hole I am in now -you need to leave and get a new job.

I wanted to get a blue badge this year. In the (all of 2 weeks) build-up between my last race and this one, I set my heart on a blue badge. I have 2 green ones already.

Last week I sat at my computer to figure out the time gaps between "aid stations"- or as we call it in the self-supported world - every village offering a food source. I worked it out for 3 speeds - 28 hours for a blue badge (6.8km/hr), 6km/hr usual Trep speed and the 36 hours time limit for a Green again (5.4km/hr).

• • •

There was nothing else for it. I'd have to ride my long legs off to make the petrol station in time for closing. My best plan was to carry a dehydrated meal for dinner & hope to top it up with hot water from the petrol station coffee machine, not cold. I left the stove behind and pared down to a top tube bag and minimalist seat pack. I still took a tarp, lightest sleeping bag and mat - despite my temptation to throw caution to the wind. I know it gets dark and revolting when I have no quality sleep.

It felt too easy at first. I met Tom coming the other way at the top of a road climb - which alerted me to my wrong turn. He's right, I do owe him beer.

Nelson and Hannah soon caught and passed me. I wouldn't see any of them again.

Finally we turned off road and I instantly regretted not switching to grippier tyres until I got used to my racing tyres and thanked myself later for sticking with the lightweight option (as I pushed the bike uphill and needed to lift it over fences).

At the next descent, torrents of water paid testimony to 3 days rain just-passed as spray peeled off the tyres and onto my legs. I went in for the gaiters and they stayed on until lunchtime when they got too warm to tolerate.

• • •

Cath caught me up on the way into town and I started off by almost leading her the wrong way then calling her Fiona all day. Sorry!

We spent the cruel detour chatting as much as we could, debating loss of layers. We did some bike-sitting outside the shops as John (see later) popped in to buy his lunch, then Cath and I set off together for a while. One steep push-up and all my cyclocross training separated us again as Jay and Mart/k(?) caught up to take the reins. We switched around the order of things as I passed them faffing or snacking and they were faster on the bike.

• • •

Eventually a steep climb left me just taking time to walk while I ate some food - partly so the eating was easier, partly to get a rest from my saddle. My mates disappeared over the hill, only for me to catch them again. They were filling water bottles by a river. The moon was rising behind. There should have been a kiss. I thought we were nearly at the pub so I'd wait to fill my water bottle there. 

We weren't nearly at the pub. 

Landmarks came & went. There was no pub. Another rider caught me as I faffed. Sorry dude I never got your name. He was younger, fitter, more gravelly. Then there were 4 of us for awhile, and just as quickly our young friend pulled away, as did Jay, chasing the closing times at the pub.  There was a lot of hungry struggling from all of us.

I arrived at the petrol station to our young friend eating, Jay & Mark/t heading up to the pub and then John arrived. (I have no idea what his name is so John will have to do).  There were 3 of us again. 

We debated whether the others would make it out of the pub.

I brewed up my dehydrated curry which was fantastically shit. Sorry Firepot, it didn't hydrate on just 400ml and I couldn't be arsed to fetch more water.  It was ridiculously spicy for an adventure meal. No. 

Half of it got packed in case I needed it later then I regretted carrying it, it was so bad. I enjoyed coffee a bag of crisps so stocked up on some other stuff before setting off again with John just behind me.

• • •

I mused on my plan - were there really, as I remembered, lots of road miles between here & the next stop? Probably not but I thought, maybe. I piled on leg warmers - my waterproof coat for extra warmth and set off.

Of course just as Cath (Fi) arrived, we were ready to go. We wished her well.

There weren't more road miles We were on a bridleway - in a field. The road wasn't far away - so close that when I hit it I called out "not far" to John behind me. He passed me in the forest with a "What brings you here at this time of night?" As the stream ran down the path we were walking on I responded with "the water, I just fucking love the stuff" He offered to help me lift my bike over the fallen tree but I was resolutely purist, admitting I'd have said yes had we been on a fun event and not a personal ITT "challenge".  I slung the bike under and just about managed to un-wedge the Jones bars from the fallen trunk whilst I scissor-kicked my legs over.

Onto the steepest of descents. My pal had ridden ahead. At the top the tyre track was so deep in the gully I could crawl either side on my knees.

In the middle I cursed Stu. This wasn't any good for tall people at midnight as the trees whipped my helmet. Then I remembered I had a dropper post which helped a person of almost 6ft a little better.

At the bottom the slope threatened to tip me over - thank god for the dropper post.

I dealt with the chill by keeping turning the pedals on the road section. I knew where I was and there was a flat grassy patch ahead I'd scoped to sleep in if I was desperate but I wasn't desperate enough as it was too open and breezy.  I reasoned that there might be somewhere lower down (but before I reached "The Fog") that would be warmer and out of the wind.  I had my eye on the shelter of some bracken and briars.  

Climbing up the mountain road I let a few drivers pass as this is rural Wales and you never know how drunk/high people are at midnight.  The second guy turned off at my exit from the road, parked up and turned his lights off.  I rode past as quickly and discretely as I could hoping I wouldn't by mauled by released dogs or joy-ridden off the route.  My plan to pitch up for a sleep was being scuppered by the thought of a rogue 4WD rolling through my pitch at 2am.

The route detangled into a stream of ruts and puddles.  I fell in one and when I went to put my foot down there was nothing there and my whole body weight pitched onto one hand.  There was a lot of swearing and one soggy hip as I tried to wrestle myself upright again.  

Just then I noticed my water bite value starting to leak. I did the best I could to stow it away from my shorts but my left leg was soaked again.

As we descended into town, I felt a cold drip of water run straight down my bum crack from the spray off my back wheel. What kind of fresh hell? Though I was actually impressed that the shorts had done this good a job at keeping me dry so far.  I stopped and added my goretex trousers over the knee warmers, hoping that my body would push the trapped moisture out into the cold night air. I'd noticed the temperature inversion at the petrol station and the valleys were only starting to get colder. By the time we approached town, I couldn't face camping low down away from the Bridleway so thought I'd push on through. By the time I reached John snacking, I was hell-bent on reaching the town at the bottom of the valley and climbing back out again as soon as possible.  I checked he was OK and continued on.  It was the last time I'd see him.

I wasn't really OK though.  I was a bit sleepy and I also recognised that if I were going to carry on I'd need to wear my insulating layer to ride on.  When I saw a sign for public toilets, I felt like all my prayers had been answered.

Tentatively I tried the door on the ladies'. Not only were they open, it felt so warm inside. I set my bike against the wall, folded the baby change station back and sat down on my sit mat. Perfect. Wrapped in my sleeping bag I fell asleep with a bar of chocolate in hand, my head wedged between the cubicle wall and the baby-change table. At some point the motion sensor reset and the lights went out. I grabbed my pillow & blew that up but couldn't be bothered with my mat. It was too much effort and thought it'd look worse to have blown up a camping mat if I was disturbed and moved on.  I tried lying down with my bum on my sit mat but it was too cold and uncomfy on the tile floor so I sat up again and used the pillow to prop up my knees so they didn't feel locked-out. I slept a little more, only being disturbed by someone else leaving the gents next door and I wondered if it was John. My alarm went off at 3 am and I stayed in my makeshift bed a little longer - consuming the breakfast I had carried with me all day - which was very satisfying compared to chocolate and crisps.

Before I left I tried my new toothpaste tablets but was too lazy to dig out my toothbrush. I was pretty disappointed that the chalky, flouring lumps just stuck to my teeth uselessly and I probably swallowed more of it than I should have.

• • •

I redressed in my goretex trousers for warmth and tried on my highland trail Marigolds for extra hand warmth but they were too tight to fit over my long finger gloves - good job it didn't rain. I had liner gloves with me that did a great job of making my hands feel warmer and I tore into the warmer pads I'd packed at the last minute on Friday night - putting one in each of my gloves and my waterproof socks.

There were a few cars still moving around town - people coming home from clubs in Aber, I guess, or going to work. I passed through town and onto yet another steep bridleway, constantly looking out for the haematite-coloured glow of a lightening sky in the East. It didn't come soon enough to stop my second wave of sleepiness The toothpaste incident had left me feeling somewhat sick and I didn't dare drink any more of the half-empty bottle of coke in case it ended in some kind of volcano effect. Eventually I decided to try it out and stop for a turbo kip while the sun came up and/or I vomited.

This time I got my Tyvek out to lay on the damp grass and threw my tarp over me like a makeshift bivi.  I put the sit mat under my bum and just used my helmet as a pillow. I was warm enough in all the layers I was still wearing from town and by elevation I was above the temperature inversion.

I didn't need a second alarm, the birds started singing above me.

• • •

Crows were caw-ing and a red kite mewled overhead. When I opened my eyes the sun was already rising. I got moving again, getting joined by a much faster rider who gleefully told me he'd had a luxurious sleep in his little tent, then he was gone as I continued to deal with night demons and my dodgy tummy.

One thing that was reassuring me was the passage of kms. No matter how rubbish I was feeling, 70 soon turned into 30km to go and I started to believe that a sub-28 hour finish was possible. 

I constantly recalculated. Going up hills it didn't look good. At the bottom of downhills it seemed just in reach then my gears started to play up. Several people had already been laughing at the bizarre noises coming from my drive train but now, when I went to shift up, the change only came 20 or 30 seconds later when I least expected it. It was not what tired legs were expecting for the rolling hills and country lanes to the finish. I checked the distance to go and the elevation profile and discovered a new climb which I had completely forgotten about. Selective memory? 800m! FFS

All of a sudden it didn't seem doable. A band of 3 merry men came by. Each one asked me if I was Ok. I was not Ok. They didn't hang around long to talk to the grumpy old lady. The last guy passed saying, "It's ok, we've got all day". I did not want all day. There was no way I could go on feeling this shit all day and this would be a lot of effort to go through just for another green badge. Serious thoughts of quitting entered my mind. It felt like there was little between me and the finish but a lot of time. In the next village I went to have a sit on a bench then realised the 3 merry men were along the road a little sitting at tables outside a shop serving coffee. Perfect.

In theory I waved goodbye to time limits and decided to stop for a lovely brew with my new friends, try not to depress them any further, and eat some cake.

For the fifth time that morning I decided it was all stupid, I wasn't going to play any more and the clock could go to hell. I'd have had a lovely sleep if it hadn't been for that pesky alarm. What was I rushing back for anyway? The coffee, cake and company was good and I found I was slick at getting my stuff together and getting on the road. By the time the guys caught me up I had stopped to remove my layers before the big push up to the wind turbines in the sky. For a moment I started to think 28 hours was still doable.

Somehow, two "camp" stops meant my gear was all awry and despite ditching/eating a lot of food it was quite a challenge to repack all my bags. Some things that had been packed away had to be unpacked, relocated and repacked and my coke bottle finally drained and squashed just to squeeze my gaiters into my stem cell bag. There was stuff everywhere.

• • •

I set off up the climb at an angry stomp. I was soon off the bike and pushing but the coffee and calories were doing their thing. The canister of tuna bean salad I'd been carrying for 2 days was digging into my shoulder blades but there was no time to stop and sort it out.

An undefined track across tussocky moorland leads to a wind farm. Only the thought of gravel roads leading to the turbines brought me any hope and then the locked gates came.

The first was the worst. A primal scream was the only mechanism I had to lift the heavy bike over the tall fence and then I got the rear wheel caught on the barbed wire and dropped the whole thing hard onto the crushed stone, carbon bars first. That made me mad. Then some gymnastics to get me over the awkward gate rendered un-climbable by the anti-sheep mesh welded in place.

The next one was easier but still annoying. The third one was taking the piss. There was a lot of swearing as I wondered: why lock the internal gates? Do wind turbines escape? Surely it's inefficient for the work crews. I was further enraged by the perfectly acceptable bike gates at the other end with full, unhindered access.

The tuna salad still dug into my back but I was cheered up by a happy farmer on a quad bike giving me a wave with his stupid collie grinning into the morning sunshine.

I checked the distance to go: 13km in 24 minutes. 32 kms/hr average - a big downhill but some flat and short, steep climbs on the road to go. First gravel then slate flew by under wheel, then more gates - horrible gates. Gates you have to get off for. Gates you have to lift shut. 

8km in 20 minutes 24 km/hr. I flew down the hillside, cow shit and water spraying everywhere. For once the cows were running the other way- thank god.

6km in 12 minutes but now there was tarmac and a sweet, sweet tail wind. I stamped on pedals, hauled the bars span my legs on the downhill till I couldn't go any faster then tucked hard. Begged drivers not to pull out, took the racing line, ran the red light through the roadworks because it will catch you even if you wait for green. 2km to go in 5 minutes. I rounded the bend. No-one was in the carpark to witness my elation. I totally missed the driveway so ran down the stairs with my bike and banged on the windows.

"I'm back".

27 hours 58 minutes. One very happy Trep.

A short winter ride

Yesterday I got my boots sorted out.  The cleats were worn down to a level of ineffectiveness that was getting dangerous and they'd been in the wrong place for months.

I sat on the bed, unable to decide what to do.  After another week of riding to work, I felt too tired for a big ride.  Eventually I completely dressed in cycling clothing with all the figuring that I'd go out and see how it felt and then make a decision.

I fixed the cleats on the boots and set out without a coat or gloves for a little test ride up the hill.  

The feet fine.  The bike felt surprisingly comfortable.  For some reason I was expecting 400m of torture but no, it was comfortable - almost easy - even if it was fully loaded.

Unfortunately, a vicious wind ripped up the valley and it started to rain.  Cold and snivvelling, I retreated to the house, put the bike inside and changed my clothes.  Instead we dressed like hikers and walked into Sheffield for lunch and a spot of urban training.

Today however, nothing was going to stop me from going out.  My fears of a torturous bike had been allayed, I could go out with ease and riding in the rain would give me an opportunity to finally take my lightweight paramo out for a proper test ride.

With all layers assembled I stepped outside to lock the door.  I'd been here before - that feeling of being indestructible, immune to the weather.  This is what I do - tough.  That's me.  I certainly didn't care that it was raining - that my rucsac was already wetted out as I swung it onto my back.

I rode back up the hill and onto the climb past the pump track.  Half way up my left knee was screaming in pain again - there's the familiar bleedin' torture - ignore it, it might go away.  I pedalled across the sodden rugby field and up the short kicker into the woods.  At least my tyres held out over the slippery tree roots and I managed to pedal the loaded bike up and over without my legs dying or the wheels spinning out.

It was a different matter on the descent as I scrabbled to maintain control and avoid a sideways slither off the path and into the brambles.  I only just held it together which was a relief as there were a lot of people around.  I survived the road crossing and dropped onto my local trails.

Things went well in the woods and then I climbed up onto the roads that lead to the open hillside.  By the time I turned away from roadways, I quickly realised I no longer wanted to climb any further upwards, especially not to follow another exposed road towards the peak.  Instead I rode as far as the Good Dog's farm then made the decision to complete a loop of the valley before heading home.

 

For a fleeting moment I enjoyed myself.  I was in the trees again.  I considered a loop over Stanage, up to Burbage and back via Houndkirk but I soon realised I was a bit tired and fed up so I stuck to the original plan and continued to the top of Wyming brook past a succession of soggy-doggies until I reached the road to the Sportsman.

At least I cheered myself up by blatting down the descent on the big bike with hardly a touch of the brakes to slow me down and no sense of sideways about it.

On the traverse to the next offroad section I wondered if the Apple Shack would be open for flap jack but as I watched to see if they were open, I was momentarily startled to see two adult bucks leap across my path.  One of those days when you know you've seen all that you came out to see.

I rode the final climb with moisture soaking through my gloves and into my fingers all the while enjoying the birdsong.

I've been reading "The Lost of Art of Finding our Way" by John Edward Huth as a book I lucked on in oxfam.  I decided to recall the alternate route home from the trail through the housing estate - hoping to find my way across the cemetery into Crookes village.  It was a fail and instead I crossed to Stephen  Hill and dropped down to home the quickest way possible - across the tarmac - and all in time for lunch.

As days out go it was a short one but everyone's got to start somewhere.  It was one of those days that you feel that its impossible that in 3 months time you'll be riding 110km a day over mountain passes and wonder how the hell you're going to get there.

It might have helped if I hadn't taken the kitchen sink with me but there you go.

Whoosh

Christmas Week.

Monday

Despite the heavy missle going on outside I was extremely motivated to get out for an overnighter. I ambitiously packed my bivi bag, plenty of dehydrated food and two coffees. I checked the weather. My phone was set to look at the weather in Dent as I had been cautiously pondering a YD 300 winter attempt. 

Despite me knowing I wasn't in Dent, I dressed for 3°C cycling and packed my new down klymit mattress.

After all the faffing loading my bike and making lunch it was 11:30 by the time I left the house and I was already a little hungry. At 11:45 I pulled up at my local duck pond, sat under the fir tree and ate all of the lunch that I'd just made, watching a female duck splodge about in the reeds.

Canopy

I spent a considerable time packing up to leave as the lovely mat of pine needles I'd sat on was held together by a glue-like mixture of duck and heron poo along with occasional chunks of (what looked like) small dog poo. Every leaf I picked up to wipe off the poo also had poo on it. I left my lunch spot still with poo on my gloves and rucsac, hoping the mizzle would wash it off.

At my regular faff spot I had to stop again to remove a wool layer. I cursed my weather check as my fleecy leggings started to get damper on the inside than the outside. My legs were getting tested. I've recently changed my bottom gear on my training wheel to make me try harder on the climbs and I forgot to switch it out before heading out on a loaded ride. I was pleasantly surprised that I still managed to ride most of the climb up to Bingley Lane. After a brief interlude with traffic I had the place to myself again. Sheep watched me pass their fields without lifting their heads from chomping the grass.

I cursed and slow-pedalled through the puddles as I realised I forgot the gaiters that stop the splash back heading down between my waterproof trousers and socks.

• • •

I pulled onto the Byway at Rod Side and a man walking a tiny terrier warned me about the "people in four-by-fours". Damn. Assuming he was the last person I'd see up here and I was going to stop for a wee.

Through the gate I could neither see lights nor hear engines. Warning: over-helpful men.

Previous 4x4s had, however, made a complete hash of the track. Not satisfied with the grooves in the landscape they've already crafted they have started to carve new lines, hit rocks, got stuck, made more mess and twated (and upended) my favourite gatepost. Poor farmer.

I considered continuing down the muddy descent beyond the farm as my primary goal of the day was fun and traffic avoidance. I didn't want to see what the idiot 4x4s had done to the descent though so followed my usual line past the lodge.

• • •

Given that both the farm and lodge were shrouded in mist I took the opportunity to dive in between two birch bushes for that wee and to put my wool layer back on for the descent. The over-gearing was already taking its toll and I struggled to stand up again.

At the road junction my big gloves went on for the descent. It was a day for changing layers: Conserving body heat and keeping things dry from sweat or rain.

My main aim was to get to Fairholmes asap but I didn't want to go straight there. In the end I decided to suck up the extra traffic and do Summer Pastures as I hadn't been in ages and it's always quiet. Today it would be especially quiet.

• • •

I had a record number of safe and respectful passes on my way there. The climb up was short-lived until all the excess layers had been removed again and the warm gloves packed away for later. 

These sheep were really used to having people around and sometimes I wondered if they were ever going to move as I slalomed my way slowly through the flock on the 1:6 climb.

The farm dogs did not notice me pass until I changed the gate in the murk... and don't 2 runners show up when you've gone to the effort of carefully closing the latch?

Up on the moors I was alone most of the time. I pondered going to check out the hills for lunch spots in future but the thought of navigating through the fog wasn't appealing and I might be up there for some time.  Reccying anything in fog didn't seem wise so I kept going.

Mentally I was congratulating myself on knowing this track by heart until I realised I was following former quad bike tracks and most of the mtb tracks had disappeared. A slight diversion got me the right side of the dry stone wall. I contemplated returning later for my sleeps as I'd often fancied staying up here and the cloud would be perfect cover.

There's a very attractive looking bomb hole-though it's right by the trail. This time it was occupied by a rotting sheep carcass - erm no thanks.

At the end of the crossing, audacity got the better of me. My body had clearly warmed up to the bike. My brain had come out of its shell and generally, wherever I pointed the bike and pedalled hard enough, I cleared stuff. I set about riding the descent with gusto - hoping for a PB with this new found form - but failed on the big slabs when my bottle went on a drop off and then I realised my downhill endurance is not there yet and I had to go slow so I could sit in the saddle and rest my calves from time to time. An excellent excuse for some more Northerly excursions before May.

• • •

At the bottom of the hill, back on the valley road, I was met by people, so many people. I threaded my way between walking poles, dogs and strollers and ended up taking to the muddy footpath and leaving the road to the people on feet. Finally the cloud turned into actual drops of water falling from the sky so I tucked into the shelter of the dam tower to cram myself into waterproof trousers before the cold, fast descent to the cafe. Still, I beat all the foot-people to the queue at fairholmes. Pie, peas, gravy and tea were demolished. Cake - both eaten and stashed. I was joined in the shelter by one too many people for covid comfort but managed it by shuffling around my rucsac for a little bit of social distance and stuck to watching the chaffinches and cheeky robbins stealing crumbs.

I had to pack up my bag extra slowly to avoid an interested hiker man loitering around my bike, brimming with questions: the answers to which he would inevitably not understand or, worse, would lead him to declare me "brave". Some people relish these conversations. I prefer to avoid them as I have become bored of other peoples opinions on the subject of "my idea of fun". 

As I delayed declaring possession of the object of his desires as long as possible, he could not bring himself to assume that the only cyclist and the only bicycle in the area were an item and once his companion had emerged from the toilets he had to leave but not before I had carefully walked to the bin with every morsel of litter from my lunch - instead of banging it in a pocket until later - like I'd normally do.

Soggy gloves back on, I set off to the other side of the valley. The dam was finally over-topping. At my last visit it had been kinda low. I felt the need to pop over and experience its enormity and of course test out the Panorama mode on the camera. 

The pause gave me time to realise I hadn't yet topped up my water. I had enough to brew up dinner and breakfast but only if I didn't drink anymore. I soft-pedalled back to the cafe's water tap.

One of the volunteers stuck his head out the door and said "looks like you'll be looking for a campsite".  

Good deal for a bath?

Knowing the company I was in and every chance there was a Park ranger in earshot, I stuck to the "just training" line and he seemed unimpressed yet sated that I was actually heading home for a hot bath and some BBC 1. 

I loaded 3 litres of water into my rucsac and wondered if he really believed me.

I rumbled off a second time but didn't get too far before bumping into John Brierley - a friend from triathlon days. Someone I don't mind talking to about bikes and I admitted my night out "under the stars" was looking less and less likely. 

I wasn't 100% sure what to do next. It was too early to camp. I decided to go as far as slippery stones and decide. 

There was Cut Gate or lapping back to Fairholmes and going on somewhere else from there.

Cut gate would, admittedly be in poor condition and I should not: but I'd like to see how last year work is holding up in the winter weather. Naturally my overnighter instincts, against all reasoning, dragged me further and further away from the people and up on onto the moors. The first hurdle being a stream crossing where my trace upstream to find a narrower spot brought me up on a very sweet, flat bivi spot I'd never previously noticed but it was only 5pm and I wasn't too sold on lying down for 12 hours.

The up-push was tough but not terrible. 

At the top I realised my problem: on the rough stuff I just couldn't see very far ahead to pick any kind of line so I pushed on until things improved under wheel.

Soon enough though, came the messy, boggy bit I'd forgotten about. Suddenly my distain for e-mountain bikes was refreshed as this stretch of moorland has been torn up by a hundred motor-propelled tyres that would not have otherwise been there. As I pushed my heavy loaded bike I recognised I was part of the problem - although a much lighter part.

I thought hard about retracing my steps. It was the environmentally conscious thing to do. Did I really want to battle through thickening cloud, side winds and night time temperatures? Was it safe to? I wasn't in a race, I didn't 'have' to do this. But still the "retreat is not an option" message spoke louder than the others. I trudged through the cross-winds on the lookout for a pee-spot where I had the nerve to actually undress. Just below the summit I decided I needed to take the opportunity and found the perfect sheep trod to get out of the wind and away from the main track. It was a pleasant spot but not quite flat enough and still not late enough. 

A few hundred grams lighter, I felt much happier although I still couldn't pick out a line longer than 5ft through the boulders so I carried on hiking for what seemed like an eternity. I imagined my husband looking at the tracker at home and trying to decipher what kind of madness and difficulties had me progressing at only 3 mph.

I contemplated backtracking but that would leave me on the wrong side of the hill I had already climbed 2/3 of the way over. I kept pushing.

At some point a decision was made to go home for the night. Only the apparition of a new and very attractive dry shelter could have swayed me to overnight and I knew there weren't any. I'd risked bringing the bivi without a tarp & it did not pay off. I'd have nowhere to leave my wet kit without it getting much wetter over night.

• • •

The decision gave me a new lease of life. Wet feet were no longer off the cards and I could take the most attractive route home and be back at a reasonable hour for dinner.

Gradually boulders turned into a fast running stream and I took occasional opportunities to ride a few metres at a time. The summit lumps and bumps alternated between firm-and-rideable, loose stones and bog but finally the rideable paving appeared. An occasional drain was overwhelmed by water volumes. I flitted between risking puddles and pushing from one dry tussock to the next to avoid the deepest flow. Where the trail was rideable I rode every available inch. 

As technical problems appeared from the mist faster than I could anticipate them, I committed to them with gusto and, as frequently happens with the Cotic, I came out the other side upright, incredulous and giggling.

Up turned to down. I rumbled past the resurfacing works and cleared more rock drop-off than I care to mention until I finally remembered the abyss that was no longer visible off the edge of the trail.

For a short while I mused over the bridleway to Midhope Stones and a road ride home but the hills were more terrifying than the easy but muddy TPT.

• • •

I dropped down to Langsett. The climb up to the woods was not clearable on these gears and I had a quick chat with a couple disappearing into the darkness with 2 spaniels as I pushed up the slope.

It was a soggy Trep who crossed the Woodhead Road and span quietly past the cottages. I pondered changing my gloves but the next section could be strenuous - even if it is a flat ride through a field. 

I was right not to bother. About half a mile of battling a squirrelling bike to keep the tyres on a 4inch narrow mud slip between the clumps of reeds. One false slide can deposit the rider sideways into a 2ft deep icy drainage ditch. It took me all my effort and concent­ration to stay upright.

I breathed a sigh of relief through the gate at the bottom, styled out the "slip road" on to the TPT and only then, under the cover of the railway bridge, did I dare dig my phone out from the depths of my rucsac to message home that I'd be back for dinner before putting my thick gloves back on to get nice and toasty. I do love having that one pair of gloves that makes your whole body feel like you've just stepped into a warm room.

I really appreciated it because the TPT is not a strenuous ride until the last bit through Wharncliffe. First I had a good 40 minutes of pedalling downhill at 3% gradient.. There was some uncharacteristically vigorous pedalling going on and finally I started to really appreciate the fleece leggings I had sweltered in this morning.  I felt the slightest wetting out on my coat sleeves and my goretex trousers started to fall down, meaning I had to stop a few times to hitch them up and prevent a little rain patch forming on my back.  I'm hoping this will ease off once I've lost weight again.

Just as I thought all the excitement was over, spinning through the junction outside Penistone I caught an edge to the tarmac submerged in mud and tatted my right calf muscle fully square on with my pedal whilst travelling sideways. Four letter words were said.

That left me soft pedalling for a bit until I decided it was safe to shift again.

I'd forgotten how long it takes to get home from the TPT. The Climb from the stables was dreaded but still, I managed to ride it tired and over-geared. I think my legs are actually stronger than I give them credit for.

I missed the junctions in Wharncliffe woods twice!! as I didn't see them coming in the glow of my light rebounding off the fog.

Finally after more than an hour I dropped into Oughtibridge, fought my rear light on (then wiped it so it was actually visible) then wriggled my way through the smudged Christmas lights of Hillsborough to the Rivelin Valley. After fighting my way up so many hills I resigned myself to pushing up the short, sharp slope to home.

I was so tired I wasn't even embarrassed to be caught pushing my bike by Rick who was just moderately impressed or horrified by the state of me - I'm not sure which. 

Given the time it took me to get home, the remainder of the evening was consumed by, bike washing, Kit and boot rinsing  pouring myself into the bath, consuming copious quantities of couscous and falling asleep in front of the TV. I've been somewhat berating myself for starting my training journey "behind" this year, on the wrong foot, late. Investigations show I am 1 month ahead on longest rides and this time last year the next Sunday session I posted was, "Gym before it shuts for lockdown" and a whole 3/4 of my training tools disappeared from my schedule.

I've spent this week watching Emily's return to progress on the festive 500 and yesterday enjoyed this comment,

" ... but in 6 months time it will be warm and dry and the sun will still be high in the sky. The roses will be blooming... and I will be riding uphill... watching the sweat beading on my forearms and feeling the strength blossoming in my legs. It sounds like another universe at the moment but it will be reality soon enough."

12 months ago on my similarly aborted 60km ride into the Peak fully loaded last year, I said

"I still look at the HT as a potentially impossible feat at this time of the year, when 65km knocks everything I have out of me. When the sun has been gone since 3:40pm it's really difficult to contemplate going out again after dinner - especially during these Covid times when that dinner has been carried on your back for 40km and eaten under a hedge in the darkness.

The extra knowledge I have though is that it will come... like, so long as I start now. 

Note to self: stop fucking slacking off!" 

I love that I'm culturing some of that mindset - even if Emily is substantially more positive in outlook.

I guess it's interesting how knowledge of what can happen changes from year to year. Now I know that the HT is possible, that legs will turn and everything will live happily ever after. I just need to foster the positivity for Scottish weather. 

Felicitations. A ride of Peaks and Troughs

Most years I try to take a break for my Birthday or at least a day off. When its just before Christmas its nice to mark the day for yourself and not spend it shopping for other peoples' Christmas presents. 

Usually I fail to have the day off either work or Christmas shopping. 

This year, with my birthday on a Friday, Landslide and R I P decided (inadvertently) to throw me a Christmas ride. We did lateral flow tests and planned to meet at Grindleford at 1:30.

I planned to ride out but mostly got distracted by birthday stuff and packing. Of course I rolled out the door with 2 hours to get me there and decided to mostly take the roads except for crossing the moor. It was my fastest riding of the weekend.

I know I was rushing but it was reasonably warm leaving the city. I was down to wearing 2 baselayers and thin gloves and carrying a bag full of coats.

In a fit of last-minute decision making I routed via Houndkirk then instead of descending to Grindleford direct, I headed towards Longshaw to blag some lunch on the way. The timing was so tight I got sick of fumbling the lock on their crap bike stand and raced off in a huff.

Reality sunk in. There was a wistful temperature inversion with the bottom of the valley filled with fog and our meeting place was in the cold, cold valley below.

I put on my coat and big gloves and took a deep breath and set off down the wrong descent.

• • •

I got half way down before realising my error leaving me to huff across the valley between Froggatt & back up the hill, through Grindleford village then up the other hill to the station.

I was 15 minutes early so locked up, ordered myself a burger and settled down to wait. 10 minutes into their ride I persuaded the boys to take a sit down and a hot drink with me. Reg had driven over & Landslide discovered his train didn't exist and had an equally harrowing sprint over the hill.

We followed various tracks, trails and lanes over to Eyam where Reg was ticking off historic water troughs and stopping intermittently at the tea rooms. He was disappointed to return at 3:45 to find them closed for his third visit that day.

Along the way we picked up misty scenes.

 I rode a combination of new and familiar trails, though honestly it was hard to tell as the fog got thicker and I was perfectly happy just following wheels.

At 4pm Landslide called pub and we locked up our bikes to the petunias at the Barrell inn for 3 well earned pints (well, one each).  We restricted ourselves to one because it was time for this:

Where Reg and I had a middle-aged moment with technology leaving Landslide to get to the end of the trail, get bored and come back looking for us.

We shunned another loop before dinner, riding up to the pub where we'd (other people, not me) booked ourselves a table to make sure we weren't disappointed.  TSK met us there on his road bike as he had stuff to attend to on Saturday and was heading home after dinner.

Two courses, more beer and banter ensued.  A chat with the landlady and more beer.  Yes, delaying tactics were at work.  TSK headed home and it was 10 when we left the pub for our designated sleep spot - brought on by the arrival of the brass band who elected to close the sliding door on the bar to keep the heat in (and out of the stinky bikepackers snug on the other side of the otherwise draughty corridor).  We considered closing our own curtain, dragging the bikes in and setting up camp under the tables.

Our actual camp site was cosy and convivial.  We found shelter from the thick fog that was condensing so heavily, all trees were raining.  The much joked-about full moon made an appearance in the middle of the night, brightening up the scene outside our shelter so going for a pee was easy with nature's sink providing a grassy handwashing facility.

For once I slept reasonably soundly except for about midnight when a gentle sneeze came from outside our camp as both my fellows slept soundly around me.  Deer or ghost? We will never know.

With a low chance of being disturbed, we had a luxury lie in till 7am, brewed up from our beds and sneaked away without detection.  

Time to connect with the Monsal trail which we did using something marked on my map as a "traffic free cycle route" but on the ground as a footpath.  Never mind, no-one was out - or out of bed, for that matter.

There was one squeaky moment crossing a narrow bridge over the flowing river and scrambling up the other side but thankfully we're all sufficiently hardy to make it and I'm now strong enough to actually pick this bike up loaded.

It was so pleasant for me to finally be on the Monsal trail in daylight after a short winter season of getting there after sunset.

More lanes took us down, eventually to Calver past a group of highland cows enjoying their breakfast sleepily.  I relate.

not actually eating, just resting her head.

Reg sneaked off through Calver past the cafe leaving me and Landslide wondering where the hell he was going.  I was overjoyed to find he wasn't taking us to the rubbish coffee shop but the much better one I didn't know existed because it's on a  main road.

Two course breakfast and a bottomless coffee WIN.

Around the corner we dropped Reg off at the road back to his car and Landslide and I set off up the bloodybighill to Calver Gap where we managed to avoid more coffee and ride back along the foggy crag which was all relatively quiet and serene and only gained in gravitas and solitude what it lost in scenery.

 

The walkers were jolly and appeared suddenly from the fog. In Longshaw we reverted for lunch but realised we'd already over-eaten and instead took the opportunity to wash hands, drink tea, warm toes and snooze on the table for a bit longer before braving the ride home.  We were tired out.

Landslide went the quick way home - as did I - but we live in different places so we went different ways.

Of course, as soon as I reached the top of Houndkirk my body announced it was hungry and couldn't go further without a snack but that was OK because I'd been carrying a bag of crisps and cake since Friday lunchtime so I ate my limited lunch and pointed my way home again through the crystals.

After Wyming Brook my interest was momentarily peaked by a bit more offroad riding but not enough to hike up Fox Hagg so I freewheeled down the A57 to Rails Road then rode up the nice easy Byway to drop into the allotments.

The pigs were up for some scritching so I shared my sharon fruit leftovers from last night's picnic and we were all happy.

At home I fell into the bath, made a large puddle on the bathroom floor which I mopped up with towels left heaped in the laundry basket on the toilet then fell into bed and went to sleep until TSK came home from town and I apologised like a snivelling drunk who'd been out all night on their birthday and made a mess. Oh.

Adventures in Pemberley. Of sunsets, beasts and failed bonfires.

 “Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds 

 My adventures in bike packing for the 2021-2022 season were finally ready to begin.  On Saturday I set myself the task of sorting out all my electronics for the weekend and it took me all day to find elements of my set up that had long since fallen into disarray.  

On Sunday the struggle continued and I finally left the house at 1pm.  A bit earlier than last week... baby steps and all.  

By the time I realised I'd left my camp pillow at home I was at the woods already and didn't intend to retrace my steps.  I'd just have to hope it was going to be warm enough tonight to not need my insulated coat as well as my sleeping bag.

The weather gave me no excuses this week.  After messing about in my own valley on the rough-stuff (I was only imagining a short ride), I was pleasantly surprised to find myself at Redmires reservoir in time for the sun starting to dip and the water beautifully still.

People stagger towards the reservoir with cameras and binoculars. Even motorists are polite and calm.  I swing up to the Causeway. I haven't been here for so long.  The final approach to Stanage pole silhouettes a small family group enjoying the sunset but I think they're worth a snap.  I'm just disappointed I didn't catch the outline of his flat cap.  Too Yorkshire?

 Mist floated in the valley and a grouse croaked in the tussocks.  I looked on over my future home (which obviously I will turn into a massive refuge for everyone to use).

I whooshed down Stanage as the sky turned ochre and bounced off the crags and the bracken.  An army of photographers in camo gear were stalking something in the woods but it didn't sound like they'd had much success.  I was finding gold by the trailside.

My bladder was doing it's usual response to the coffee I'd drunk 3 hours ago so I decided to ride up the hill towards the public loo instead of carrying on down to my first stop at the reservoirs (completely forgetting about the toilets at Heatherdene).  Still, the mistake was disguised as achievement as I cycled past this gorgeous holly-bush flushing in the setting sun.

 

Since I was halfway to Burbage edge, I thought I'd give that a go in the sunset too.  Halfway along I pulled up a boulder and positioned myself to consume biscuits and chocolate with the last of the sun's effort whilst boulderers and runners headed back to their vehicles.  I felt smug knowing my day was not over.

Some boulderers stayed around for the moon-rise, hot on the heels of the receding sunshine.

I realised the need to get moving so continued to Longshaw past the closing cafe and onto the estate grounds where it would have be rude to neglect the final blush over Shatton moor with the reflection in the lake before tackling Frogatt and Curbar in the dark.

 I managed not to fall off in front of giggling teenagers on Curbar - which is an achievement only guaranteed by the lack of giggling teenagers on a chilly November evening.  I enjoyed the sparkling lights spattered below.  The luring sight of fairy lights in a gigantic world.

I marvelled what the hell the light pollution was coming out of Calver village then realised it was the beastly Chatsworth estate and was suitably incensed.  I'm sure Mr Darcy would have agreed.

There was nothing left to do but descend to Chatsworth to take a closer look.  I think the lazer light beam might have been turned off by the time I got there.  I certainly didn't notice it.  You can pay £14 to go and look at it if you like but I took it in from the other side of the hill, after slogging my way across the grounds on the sketchy bridlepath.  The fog on my light caused a light display similar to that of travelling at warp speed through the milky way in the Starship Enterprise.  Apologies for the blur - the erm... stone wall kept wobbling. Still, the pic is kind of worth it. No soft focus, that's the fog.

Through the wood then... what to do next?

I made a few navigational errors trying to recall the Peak 200 route - one of which ended in me fully going through a gate - bike and all - before realising there really was no path and re-tracing.  Still, now I found that bit of the route I had misplaced previously under a fug of fatigue.

I didn't want to end up in the Haddon estate at this time of night as I wasn't sure if I could get through and also was going to get me out of the way of where I wanted to be (which was able-to-get-home-in the-morning).  So I intruded upon Mr Darcy a little more and headed for the start of the Monsal trail.  That end of Chatsworth is very much about dodging the cow poo, then avoiding the "private" signs until finally there's a big push up a steep hill to the Monsal trail.  Just as I reached the top, a deep guttural growl emitted from the treeline next to me. 

It was the worst moment, topping out on the push, out of breath, not yet on my bike and ready to sprint.  I'm not nearly flexible enough yet to jump on over my saddle bag and survive without ending up a quivering wreck on the ground so I took to shouting "woah there", making my voice sound as big and scary (whilst quite terrified and incomprehensible) as possible.  I didn't hang around to find out if it was fox or dog but it did not pursue so things seemed safe.  I was also hungry so after finding a cutting which had trapped warm air and kept the fog out so I decided to stop and brew up and hope that the beast of Pemberley did not smell my dinner and come to investigate.

The fuel was to be another experiment.  I bought wood pellets like those which go in this little gadget and make stove along the lines of a nice safe camp fire.  I thought they'd be a cool toy for enjoying on one of my luxury bike rides.

Of course I didn't bother with the gadget and instead tried burning the fuel in my little Ti Stove - firestarter and all. Long story short, having burned 4 of my storm-proof matches and half my lighter fuel, I gave up, put the fuel back in its box and dug out the liquid stuff.  Of course at 8pm in the bottom of a railway cutting I didn't notice that everything was sooted up good and proper.

My other experiment was the 1000 calorie food sachets from Expedition foods.  After last week's lacking experiences of the 450 cal version. The water quantity stated seemed a little low so I used the last of the fuel burn to brew up a little more water to supplement the original dose - figuring there would be nothing bad about chicken rice stew. Unfortunately I also squished about 100ml of the extra water up inside my coat, fidgeting whilst waiting for it to brew.

The last bit of brewing was accompanied by me wiping the soggy mess out of my coat.  Fortunately the instructions were accurate and I'd brewed enough water and I wasn't disappointed with the quantity of food.  The quality of the food was that of a dessicated food sachet approximately as described on the contents.  It didn't taste of potatoes so it was an energy success that's useful to file for future reference.  I got another 3hours riding out of the night and didn't snack too much in bed.

Only when I came to packing up did I realise I'd not put the lid back on my camelbak and my remaining water stash had gradually been seeping out into the leaves.  I did the best thing I could come up with which was riding to Millers dale where the toilets are always open.  I drank the last of my water on the way which was essential having just downed 800g of almost re-hydrated food.  It's quite a long way to Millers dale when you realise your tyres have got a bit flat and your saddle keeps dropping down a bit.

Still, I made it, took a few minutes to enjoy the facilities and plan my route home.

I'll admit I was a bit spent and I couldn't afford to stop nearby because I had to be in work by 11am on Monday - preferably much earlier - so I had to get most of the way home before camping up.  I opted for the road interspersed with some good bridleways.  Then I made some foolish decisions to check out a route I'd done only once before, bailed and ended up in the bottom of Deep Dale.  An exercise not to be repeated... except for the horrible bridleway in and the equally horrible bridleway out through a hoof-trodden field filled with bombhole cow foot prints and a steep slope.  I have no idea how I didn't topple over the bars - even with the dropper down.  I had to hunt for the exit gate in the fog and turning my Exposure light on didn't help because that just illuminated the water particles in the air.  Once I found the 6 inch wide exit gate, I also found the tumbled down wall where other bikers (and presumably the majority of normal-to-only-slightly-obese people) had also entered the bridlepath.

Through a combo of lanes, the Pennine Bridleway and Limestone way and assorted other PROWs I arrived back at Peak forest then whooshed down to Bradfield and tanked back along the Hope valley bottom to a reliable spot I've used before.  A bit of a cheeky one by the trailside but it was 1am and no bugger was likely to discover me.

No photo this year and last time I used it I clearly took a last-minute shot before clearing up.  It is an emergency spot after all! Full disclaimer for my dysfunctional brain.

The bivi went up in record time and I set up everything for the night.  Then I got in and found the large tree branch I'd camped on top of.  I wrapped myself around it and moved my helmet to the other side so I could avoid the conflict.  

Despite my clothes and body being warm to the touch I shivered for (what felt like) about 2 hours, annoyed because I didn't want to wear my coat because my head was on it.  Eventually, whilst fidgeting about trying to spread out my spare fleece and windproof top over my legs, I found my spare wool top which I'd carefully tossed into my sleeping bag earlier.  I put that on then promptly passed out like a light.  The next thing I knew, it was 4:45am and someone was making their way through the gate next to my spot.  They said nor did anything and I fell asleep again.  I was tempted by a lie in but the second alarm at 6 had me awake and hungry for more food - it was 10 hours since my last meal after all.  

I packed up and rode over to the Ladybower Inn to push up the bridlepath that avoids the A57, all the while enjoying the scenery, the misted trees and trying to ignore the sound of rush hour traffic.  Eventually I stopped at the stream where the remoteness from the road and the noise of a small waterfall serve to drown out traffic noise and allow for a peaceful place to brew up.  

I prepared carefully and thankfully, what didn't seem to be enough fuel, was successfully eked out to produce enough boiling water first for porridge (that's serious dedication to prioritisation) and secondly coffee.   I was close to a breakfast of coffee and sweets but held out for the porridge.  I wonder if this is what Stu meant by growing up?

At the top of the trail there was another pleasant surprise.  A fellow overnight camper - on foot this guy - to pass the time of day with as he was heading out and I was reluctantly heading home.

On the final climb I nearly went out of my way to avoid those few extra cars but the drain on my time resource had me stick to the road as far as Moscar Lodge.  Close passes were few and far between for once and I even had a white range rover wait until it was safe to pass at a distance.  I must have been looking fat and wobbly.

The ride in across the moor tracks and Rodside politely delivered the final parting shot with a view through the unfolding fog bank over the shroud that covered the city in a blanket of grey.  Just a few peaks waved up around major heat sources in the city.  It was a freakish display which the camera only partially captured.

I dropped through the fairy glen, unable to commit myself to the road - or the steep road up to the house - I instead diverted through the woods on an easier climb - but reverted to walking anyway.  This was as much about being tired as it was dragging out the last of the weekend.

I got more out of myself by walking in on Monday morning, crusty, coated in soot and sweat and exhausted from 3hours 50minutes sleep than I would have had I spent Saturday night out.  I had my computer on and straight into work and meetings, paused at 11:30 for a shower and second lunch then departed for a micro-kip at 3:30 before working a bit late to catch up the day again for a Tuesday meeting task.  All in all it was one of the best cover-ups for an epic weekend I have ever masterminded.

Pleased with my comeback weekend at 70km in 12 hours with all the faffing that went on. Another 18 on Monday was icing on a very filthy cake.

Next time I'll not forget the pillow - probably just something else.