Ice Crystals.

The last 6 weeks have been a bit of a write off for my long riding exploits. I have focussed on improving my strength and speed as part of a larger plan and also have been both busy and focussed on a short, difficult training course. The exam was on Monday this week. After one week of targeted sanity training as a break from studying and revising, I came out of the exam to 4 days of frantically catching up with the day job. I promised myself my November bivi this weekend as a reward for finishing the course. 

I've been reading "Under the stars" by Matt Gaw, my anticipation for a release from the four brick walls of my house, growing with every page turn.  

A father of two, Gaw's book describes his observations of UK dark skies areas in stark contrast to the light polluted conurbations of UK cities - Bury St Edmunds where he lives and London. He travels to Galloway and to the Isle of Coll, bivis with the stars, walks in the woods without lights, cries, laughs (mostly at himself) and finally manages to persuade his kids and wife out for a night but falls at the final hurdle when the children refuse to lie down in the goose poo at the RNIB reserve.

His descriptions of constellations and the smear of the milky way across a blackened sky bring inspiration but with Lockdown, my chances are limited to a limp into the Peak to be sandwiched between the orange glows of Manchester, Sheffield and Barnsley. It is also due to be a 98% moon.

I still hadn't seen my lockdown bike buddy Landslide since our mad rush over to Wales for the BB200 so our plans hatched to get November done together. Without any real weather incentive last weekend, he seemed happy to wait for me to surface from my training course. My only demand was that we go out Friday night.

I knew I didn't have the patience to wait out Saturday morning to get out for a Saturday night bivi. Chances wavered between me doing a long ride and failing to make it to night or going out for a day ride and getting too tired and not going out again.  It would be slim based on some reduced leg muscle right now. I thought it more likely I'd slink home and put off bivying all together. So I insisted on a late departure after dinner on Friday with a decent ride to finish off on Saturday. 

 For the first time in weeks I cut work short, loaded the bike and perfectly timed myself to get out the door (except for some mad hunting for my spot tracker). I wanted  the Spot in case I had some riding to do on my own on Saturday and once I'd realised it was 'lost' I wanted to find it again but eventually I left without it. Although I'd remembered all my gear, I realised that aside from my breakfast porridge I was relying on a selection of accumulated snacks from previous rides to sustain me through Saturday. 

My earlier intentions to go to the shops had been quashed by management tasks and Microsoft outlook and by the time I did make it to Asda with Landslide in tow to mind the bikes, my focus was on the beer I'd been promising myself all week.

Chores completed we rattled along the allotments trail, lights blazing, then hiked our bikes up the rock garden.

I'd finally warmed up and had to stop to lose my gloves and layers, finally realising my Spot Tracker was still dangling from my handlebars from its last outing though it was now invisible amongst all the bags. I noticed the leaves glistening like jewels in my lights and realised it was going to be an interesting night.

We hiked bikes up through the quarry to cross the A57 then descend its byway to the base of the Rivelin valley. We climbed back up, finding a small white bhudda meditating in the stream below the golf course. While Landslide snapped his pic, I stretched out my hamstrings now tight and complaining about 2 rides in one day interspersed with a lot of sitting down.

The descent from the Buddha is rocky and exciting and I meant to take it carefully given the glass beer bottle that was now sharing my rucsac with my dry fleece top, hat, spare gloves and electronics. However, Landslide took a different line to me and we found ourselves rolling down it side by side, almost in sync and running a dual slalom all the way to the bottom where I got so excited I nearly stacked several times trying to get my weighted dropper post to spring back up again.

We cruised along Wyming Brook, puffing up the climbs now. I criticised myself for hitting the bottom gear before remembering I'm on my heavy bike with older (higher)gear ratios packing a LOT of stuff for a November bivi.

At the A57 Landslide suggested that as it was 9:30 we should hotfoot it down the road to our destination, the Ladybower. I was having none of it and sternly turned us towards Sheffield then straight up Onkersley Lane, past the Good Dog (Lockdown or no Lockdown he was in bed) and up to Rod side.

• • •

I'd refused the A57 option because it's always longer than I think to cross the moor at Hollow Meadows but Rod Side is also long. Quiet though. Not a single car passed and then we were onto the Byway, passing cows lowing noisily in the farm shed when we went through the gates. Who needs Security alarms when you have nervous cattle?

Finally I allowed us both a break and through the cold air we cut down to the reservoirs on the A57. I battened down all the hatches - hood up, zips all fastened - but still spun my legs furiously to keep warm. A couple of cars passed. They were loud but muted by the hood over my ears. Each time I thought it was Landslide passing, "wow! He's tanking it" turned to alarm and caution as I realised it was a tonne of metal instead.

The first gravel climbs alongside the Ladybower reservoir were bittersweet.  Our legs and brains were crying out for bed but our hands were freezing. Every little rise brought us new levels of warmth and comfort and our brains were engaged by chatter as we were finally able to ride side by side, reminiscing about the bizarre abundances of wildlife that gathered here during the" Summer" Lockdown when nature took over from humans.

Eventually - thankfully in time - I realised I needed to look out for our spot. When I found it, it was not great so we continued on up. I was nervous about climbing higher as I knew it was going to be colder at elevation and more exposed on the moors.

Still, Landslide seemed to be on for an outdoor bivi and, well, I couldn't be arsed to think of anything better. I read the landscape ahead - clearly visible as shapes in the moonlight - against the OS maps - and concluded there was a probable flat spot ahead.

Sure enough, as we reached the shoulder of the climb, the hillside opened out. I was coveting a sheep dugout for shelter but better than that, amongst the tussocks, a sphagnum moss bed emerged, glistening in the moon.

 

There was just enough space for two pitches in between the grassy tussocks The surface moisture was frozen into crunchy broccoli florets and the ground beneath seemed sufficiently drained and/or frozen to remain dry for the night ahead. We both pitched just right. Our spaces forming a tiny human head to toe chain up the very gentle upward slope that was only perceptible lying down. I proudly unearthed the little pouch of goodies I keep for my pitch - a freebie plastic "waterproof" bag with a zip lok closure. In the freezing temperatures its elastic properties were overcome and as I opened it, it split into small fragments of plastic paper. My pegs, toothbrush and paste, handed warmers, zip ties, antihistamines, lip balm and earplugs were held together by broken folio-remnants of "what was".

• • •

Landslide got a hot feed off some packaged concoction while I dined out on faffing with my flat tarp then drinking the beer I had so lovingly transported. It had cooled to the right drinking temperature after 3 hours on my back.. It took a fair effort to get into though. Once I found my penknife, getting the bottle opener unleashed was a task at a higher level which Landslide managed for me as I sat by, ready to tackle it with my house keys.

Once "settled" the head torches went off and we admired the moonscape. Light colours were discernable, the yellow grass for the most part. The dark greens of pine and holly and ocre of bracken melded into dark grey. The reservoir was only visible as blackness, occasionally highlighted by a brief passage of a motor vehicle far below.

• • •

The silence was incredible. The cars were inaudible, engine noise filtered out by the narrow valley walls. From time to time an aeroplane passed overhead but there were no other sounds. We picked out the Plough, Orion and Cassiopeia, Landslide's wife's constellation.

I released myself from the entrapment of bibs to go for a wee and in doing so exposed all but a sleeveless vested body to the raw elements of minus 2°C. Re-dressing into my wool top then my synthetic down then my Paramor jacket, the layers piled back on, each one blissfully warmer than the one before.

That and 1 litre less of water to keep heated left me feeling super toasty. White landslide danced in the moonlight to stay warm, I felt quietly confident about the night ahead, though I was still a little dubious about my bag's -7C rating, I'd survived-5 in it last year.

He disappeared into his lovely new hexamid shaped tarp thingy whilst I faffed a bit more - to no real result. I still don't like the big Tarp. It is both too big (to support well) and too small to form a decent tunnel that I can sit in.

Eventually I got into my bivi bag.The initial warming coming from the sheer level of effort it took me to wriggle into the thing

I was a bit hyper. I'd been looking forwards to this for weeks and now I was here the brain didn't want to sleep and the moon wasn't helping matters. I didn't really mind. I was happy to lie still and appreciate the scenery and the few stars that were visible in the moonlight.

The wakefulness became an issue when the shivers started again. I recognised them as another call for a loo break so staggered back out across the tussocks to my dedicated reed bed. More star gazing.

I came back to my bivi disappointed to see it looking quite saggy and crestfallen. In my attempt to get the best views, there wasn't much central support and the whole thing looked like a saggy blanket.

It was beautifully encrusted with fallen mist, iced into crystalline patterns with a central welt of melted moisture where it hung down and touched my nice warm body. The worst thing is, I couldn't be arsed to do anything about it. I was like that neighbour in the street whose lack of loft insulation is blindingly obvious between November and March.

• • •

Back in my bag, all was well again except for one of my good gloves had strayed out of the bag with me. I dragged it back in. That would have been an unpleasant start to the day.

The shaking started again a little later but this time I realised I really did just need more layers for my legs. My fleece leggings weren't enough. I emptied my rucsac looking for my buff or waterproof trousers but only found my fleece Jersey and some soggy biscuits. I tried laying the fleece over me for a while and eating the biscuits but it didn't work for long. Finally I remembered my saddlebag and pulled the last few items of clothing out of there. The trousers went on over my down booties and my buff added a much-needed barrier between the cold air on my face where I needed to breathe and the warmth inside my sleeping bag. Also, one last glance over to Manchester left me convinced the cloud bank that had been loitering there all evening had finally acquired the momentum to start making progress in our direction.

In a final slap in the face I wondered if I could hear a pack of dogs barking and the brain momentarily worried we'd be mauled by an errant group of hounds that mistook us for Badgers.

It wasn't enough though and at 3am I finally fell asleep.

• • •

Once I was gone, I was out. The next thing to wake me up was a flapping noise. I was mortified. This would be me again! I looked at the watch. 7. 50 am. The sun was rising somewhere but our view was just soggy tussocks and a dirty grey duvet snuggling the higher slopes across the valley. I'll give it credit, it was swathing us in relative warmth.  I had been sleeping face forward on my front with one arm out of the bag and was perfectly toasty, bordering on too hot.  I was relieved to find it wasn't my tarp that was flapping but Landslide's. Completely accidentally, I had pitched mine perfectly. Low end into the breeze. It was so low, the wind flattened everything to the ground. It was perfectly tensioned, and flap-free but it acted like a pathetic wet plastic blanket. Landslide congratulated me on my no-holds-barred romanticism of wild bivi camping.

 

We lay in bed to make our plans as our tarps flapped (his) and pressed me into the ground. There was no chance I could brew up here from my bed. Our plans to continue up onto the moor would lead us to remaining at elevation for quite some time a potentially we would disappear like Gorillas in the mist. Any sheltered spots would still be bloody cold. The plan developed into a descent back to the valley floor and a ride home "on the other side" with breakfast en route.

We packed up swiftly once the decision was made. My wool gloves had sprung a leak in one digit, my finger tip poking out the end and meaning I had to double it up with a random pair of smelly gloves from another ride. The exposed fingertip still lost all feeling until it was safely ensconced in the big crab claw gloves along with its mate.

I looked forlornly at my bivi bag - Stu's old one. I both love it and hate it. I'd been cold in it and felt like I had no room to move. I'd breathed into it to get warm and it had laid limp and damp against my face, dripping breath moisture on to me, sometimes ice crystals and yet I had slept. Though the surface that had been on the damp ground (no longer frozen) was wet, my sleeping bag and mattress were both, dry as a bone inside the bivi.  This is reliably predictable now, yet always surprises me. It's light, it's stealthy it's incredibly waterproof and breathable. If only it had a little more space for my feet.

• • •

We didn't need to ride far to drop down below the windshield of the hillside and find ourselves nestled by a stream with plenty of big flat rocks to sit on and perch stoves on. A small bird flitted past bursting song into the air and we gleefully brewed porridge and coffee. The last of the Glen Nevis honey being shared out. As we collected our water it started to patter with rain but it didn't really matter, we were both already dressed for it. I just needed to add my gaiters to stop it running down into my boots from my trousers.

Landslide beamed with happiness.

 

On our way back to civilisation we planned our response to the inevitable question, "did you cramp out"? 

"Nope just practising."

Practising is a superior response to "training"

"Training" opens up further lines of enquiry. The nicest people want to be in awe of what you are training for. There are other people who want to know what you're training for so they can do it to or so they can be sure that they have done something similar or better or harder. 

Practising implies a more generic repetition, relative new-ness and a non-specific skill rather than an event. Practice is difficult to question.

It's also far more legal than the actual process of camping out.

We agreed that if a man in a green (ranger's) jacket asked if we'd been camping out, the default answer was "Nope, we're just practising".

• • •

Back down at the reservoir, the public appeared. Lots of runners, serious walkers, families with kids in wellies, proper mountain bikers on full sussers, the kind who know bikepacking exist but whose friendly banter dries up at "By eck tha's carryin' a-lot-of-shit (one word) on that" if they acknowledge you at all.

We pulled into the carpark and mingled with runners in between toilet trips and disposing of our beery spoils from the night before. There was no way I was walking up the hill with a bottle in my backpack, never mind riding the downhill on the other side. Yes I made Landslide walk up the downhill though in retrospect, letting him guide me up the fire road would have both been easier and opened my eyes to a track I've not used in 20 years and I really can't remember why I don't like it. 

As we approached the sleep hill I realised I was already warm and should have adjusted my layers when I'd stopped at the toilets.

I decided to be brave and try out my new water "proof" leggings in this rain to see how good they are. If you can't test your kit less than 20 miles from home, where can you test it? Besides, I didn't fancy sweating up the slog in Goretex trousers, getting just as sweaty on the inside as wet on the outside.

• • •

Up at the "Climb up the downhill", landslide ploughed on ahead while I faffed with layers and gloves and smiled for downhillers ripping by on over-expensive full sussers, with all the skill of dancing monkeys.

L waited for me by a new bivi spot and we carried on together as the trail became more rideable.

Faced with the choice of summer meadows without the sunshine or descending the burms to Hagg Farm, L opted for burns and I let him go first with no intention of catching him, then he held the gate for me so I put a rush on and kept going to get to the next gate to return the favour, L chomping at my wheel all the way down.  

Eventually the rush got the better of me and I went sideways on loose stones, dropping myself and the bike into the bank in a slo-mo flop. My buddy checked I was Ok then streamed post to get the bottom gate. Despite crashing it was a PB.

 

We paused at the bottom to admire the wet then in a fit of enthusiasm I powered up the other side on a hill called "try not to walk this bit". I didn't walk it but the consequent loss of oxygen to the brain meant I struggled to get through the gate at the top.

It was back into the public domain for the flatter ride around the reservoir. Back to looking forward to short climbs that gradually forced the blood back into my fingers where the thin gloves I'd worn for the climb were challenged to keep anything warm on descents and the flat roll along the Lake shore.

Finally at the last bend two mountain bikers called out, "have you camped out?" As I climbed up the other side of the stream bed I heard Landslide call out, "Nope, just practicing!".

• • •

I was targeting the next bus stop for a refuelling break to shelter from the rain and change into dry, thick gloves. It didn't disappoint, although the Yorkshire Bridge Inn would have been preferable outside of Lockdown.

The climb up New Road had felt like an insurmountable slog before but with full bellies and warmer gloves I got into a rhythm and enjoyed it. I rode on through places where, in previous years, I have needed to stop and" admire the view" whilst travelling fully loaded. The road climb was survived, the Causeway was enjoyed. It wasn't too busy but those that were out were jolly and friendly.

As the rain became ever heavier my new leggings wetted out although I noticed that, despite the tonnes of water rolling off my coat into my lap, the pad under my bum was still bone dry - something practically unheard of underneath waterproof shorts where the sweat coming down from the body inevitably collides with the water being blown in from the knees to mash into one wholly chafing wet mess.

• • •

After the friendly walkers, Stanage Pole looked friendly too. Shrouded in mist, rain and swirling clouds it was familiar, a million moons away from the summer Lockdown rides that had it glistening with the setting or rising sun.

 

My new "waterproof" leggings were definitely being challenged now. My knees were soaked as the first point of contact with the rain. My shins were so wet, the water was penetra­ting the overlap with my gaiters and leaking into my boots and socks. I guess we found their limit but I wasn't ready to stop and put on my waterproof trousers. I was nearly home and it wasn't really worth the faff. As we dropped down the hill from the last reservoirs though, I turned soft on myself.  I was done playing in the mud and the trees and it was time for lunch.

L and I pulled along side by side on a perilous descent towards a white BMW that saw fit to overtake us before pulling up indicating to turn right. We fist bumped (ish) our goodbyes whilst L joined the BMW queue and I hightailed my way through the chaotic junction towards my home. My final blood- pumping climb of the day was insufficient to cover the long breezy descent to the house. As much as I wanted to go straight inside I had a good coating of wet mud to wash off the bike. My ex army neighbour was smoking outside his house. He Loves my adventure stories of star-filled nights so was captivated by our transition from "absolutely fabulous" on Friday night to the drowned rat he saw before him.

My leggings came off inside the back door, the heating went on and I went straight to the bathroom to get in the shower, pausing only to laugh at my mud spattered face in the mirror. My legs turned into itchy, pink lobsters under the hot water.

The vegetarian Lentil stew that was in the fridge was far too healthy to eat as-is so I added large chunks of saucisson to the mix to add protein bulk before heading back to bed for my other 3 hours sleep.  My brain really needs to be beautiful again for Monday morning.

In retrospect this really has been my wildest camp yet. I've had more desperate ones, nestled on the edge of feasibility on the edge of a mountain trail in the Alps or falling, exhausted into a bus stop at 3am. I've had colder bivis - on the BB Winter ride when we failed to make the bothy and instead headed for a cowshed that was ankle deep in shit so we pitched the 2-man tent under a nearby Oak instead. That was in the days when I used to carry a 5- season bag (trust me, I thought about it). There was last January in -5 degrees when I carried the tent and sought out the cosseting comfort of Paddy Gorge, still slept badly and later, simply rolled out my sleeping bag and mat on a wall next to the A57 and had another 30 minutes kip to get me home.

This time I survived -3 degrees and did so at 350m elevation in a sphagnum bog. Given the freedom we felt, I 100% would do it again.  Grassy moorland, it seems, is my spiritual happy-place.

Lock down 2.0 Struggle.

It's been just 4 weeks since the BB200. Since then I can count the number of rides I have done outside on one finger. I stumbled in to work on the Monday whilst TSK Stumbled headlong into job hunting then a nightshift.

I have - inadvertently - followed. When he goes to work I have tended to keep working then grab a few hours sleep. The problem is, when he gets home, he goes to sleep.  I get up and go back to work.

That's only sustainable for so long Not only is it exhausting, it's counterproductive as I focus on the unimportant because it's easy work I can manage. The important tasks wake me up in the night, niggling and my teeth ache from clamping my jaw shut in anxiety and frustration. Tonight I was finally tired and I fell up the stairs easily, exhausted from the week's gym sessions and 2 days hard long work hours.

As I got ready for bed I found myself asking, "who could possibly be sanding doors at 10:45 on a Friday night?".

I tried not to let it stress me and lowered myself into bed with my earplugs in. The noise had ceased. At 11pm it re-started. Now there were headlights not far from my house and an engine was revving outside.

• • •

I staggered outside in my PJs with the rest of the street, joining '6 guys and 3 women to help push the car and its smoking clutch up the hill. I live on a 16% hill.  Mostly we were all there so we could get back to a peaceful nights sleep but secretly we were enjoying the team effort and camaraderie.

Unfortunately it didn't last long. It was an insight into another world. While I felt like 8 steps pushing a ton of metal was pretty good going and repeatable often enough to get the car out of its position as a road-block, no-one else agreed and someone in a long parking space eventually vacated a spot she could just roll the car into.

• • •

We had our peace back. I went to bed again at 1145, exhilarated and wide awake and stared at the dark walls.

An age later I was awake again and hungry and exhausted. I considered taking my bike and bivi gear out instead but the fatigue, prospect of cold and discomfort prevented me from doing so. I didn't feel any urge to push any limits I felt like I need a break from them so I turned the light on. It was only 12:28. I had slept less than 30 minutes.

The thing is, I really want a bike ride - an enjoyable one. Bivi or no bivi, I just don't want it to be an unmitigated disaster.

Eventually I realised I was hungry. My night shift has led to some dodgy eating patterns too so I got up again and ate cereal with my painful teeth and wrote this blog in an effort to stay sane and make sense of it all.

The street is quiet again. My brain is quiet again. My hot water bottle is bringing me comfort, not making me feel like its a lead chain confining me to my bed. The thought crossed my mind: I can't go out it will be a waste of hot water. The truth is, I want to plan to go out - do it in an organised fashion and let it breathe life into me, not dread.

I might not make it up for dawn but tomorrow is definitely a new dawn.

• • •

Follow up. The dawn came as late as I would allow it and through the ongoing fatigue, somehow I ended up spending hours window-shopping online.

I was the shopkeepers worst nightmare I filled a couple of baskets then left the store, my purchases forever hanging in the ether - a gateway  to somewhere They will haunt my social media cookies for the rest of the winter. There weren't any items I genuinely need and I suddenly questioned my reasons for even wanting them except for justifying the three hours I'd just spent looking choosing and sizing My credit card went away and I made the best of a bad selection of clothes I'd laid out on the sofa so I didn't disturb TSK's sleep.

The fleecy leggings weren't the Rapha ones I expected but some old Endura ones where the pile fabric had turned lumpy and the pad had seen better days. I found better socks in the bottom of my gym bag. No bra, but there was one on the radiator that had dried out last night. Then I wandered around the house assembling various baselayers until I was wearing enough to stay warm.

I set out looking like a roadie but determined to ride the Cotic who hasn't been out since September.

I floated up the hill. Literally floated. It's been a while without decent suspension. My legs are stronger and were gasping for a ride and my low low gears made the hill we tried to shove a car up last night feel like a breeze, even compared to riding it on my road bike last weekend.

• • •

With relief my legs still turn pedals and gone are the searing shocks of saddle pain that followed the BB200.  Infact the slightly harsher C17  Brooks saddle felt like nothing when switched onto the steel frame of the Cotic so there's another £ton not wasted. I burned along the road in the cool November misty sunshine on cloud 9.

As soon as I got off the lane I realised this first beautiful crisp November day of lockdown was going to be busy.

After giving way 4 times in 400m, I headed to the bottom of the valley and up the other side where it would be quieter.

• • •

The first steep climb that Mr Landslide named "Fairy Dell" warmed me up and I shed my layers like a lizard. Another mile along the lane I used my regular stop-and-faff trail to eat some M&Ms (Lunch 1.0) and adjust the floppy strap on the bag I'd just attached to the bike.

 

Something had been niggling me. The thought that the undergrowth was dying back. I've done a few rides this summer where I've noticed the undergrowth closing in on the path - but it didn't seem like many.  Now it was all dying back. What did I do all summer?  

The Adventure syndicate are doing Match the Miles this weekend. I thought back to "last years". How had I been so fit back then? I must have really slacked off this September!  It took me a few minutes to realise match the miles was in May!. This year! As in 2020! It was but yesterday and decades ago, all at the same time.

It was safe to get back on the bike once I'd got that one sorted out.

• • •

I don't really remember struggling on the green lane although I had expected to. At least it was empty. As I turned the corner which heads straight up the contours I thought, "this is nice, nothing special". A roar of a fast car with a big exhaust startled me and then he was gone. Silence prevailed once more except for the patter and trickle of the stream next to me and my wheezy breathing and I realised that this ride... was everything special. 

This was exactly the ride I needed and it gave me exactly the feelings I wanted.  That life was breathing back in.

It far outstripped the anticipation of new kit and being a few hundred quid worse off.

• • •

At the top of the climb more unwelcome traffic buzzed left and right. I breathed again when I turned onto Bingley Lane past the veg garden where the gardener in her best yellow hi-vis coat and Nordic knitted hat weeded between root veg. My next off-road turn passed a couple of lads. One on a cheap MTB, the other a moped. An illicit, un-distanced rendez-vous? I said hello, they both said "Reyt" in unison. 

I beamed.  The young people spoke to me.

The Good Dog wasn't out today. He avoids petting during Lockdown. Lockdown is the only time I have passed the farm and not seen The Good Dog

• • •

Down the hill to the A57 full of motorists going to, or returning from, the Peak, for their daily exercise

It's fine though, I'm soon away from it and rumble along the Wyming brook trail, my cowbell jingling. A little dog that looks like an arctic fox seems right at home in the November air.

The only decision to be made out here is this: short direct single-track with steep hike-a-bike or top road with nice sweeping descent along the cliff. Whichever I choose I can do the other later.

I pick the easy option for now as I'm getting hungry. A couple of 1990s road bikes are locked up at the top carpark - sensible. Along the road people are queueing in cars to park and exercise up to Stanage Edge. Cyclists and runners jog and wheel smugly by.

When I arrive at the single track along the cliff top, my favourite spot is taken up by pic-nic-ers and just as I'm about to compliment them on their choice of spot, I notice they're also making their way through a bottle of Bollinger.

The whoopy descent is very satisfying. Sunshine, the Carbon bike and lightweight summer tyres always slip on the off-camber rubble leaving me praying for the sideways slide to fizzle out before momentum takes me off the edge of the path. The steel bike and winter tyres I successfully fitted last weekend stay planted right where I need them to be.

In the woods at the bottom of the hill my ride gains purpose as I cram 2 cans, a plastic bottle, crisp packet and a spent firework into my camelbak.

Jet pack?

Further down I'm stopped in my tracks by a pop up "Apple stall" offering Rouge beauties 2 for £1 and tasty-looking flapjack.

Waiting for mother and son to pass, I considered splurging out.  It's the kind of thing I would have done on a desperate day out.  "Never look a gift horse in the mouth" is one of my bikepacking mantras.  I realise I have missed the Gift Horse. Maybe tomorrow.

Up the final climb towards home. Everyone stops to one side to let me pass and I ride the whole thing smoothly. This is all the bike, not me. I'm puffing like Ivor the engine when I reach the road and in retrospect I'm 1 minute 18 slower than my fastest time. I zigzag back across the A57 into the quarry which is a hike a bike on the way up and on a bad day too, if you ride down it.

I use the excuse of two student goths up-coming to get off and walk the steepest of drop offs but midnight doesn't flinch at the rest of the descent, despite me failing to clip in one foot and having a completely disengaged moment going over a significant rock (that was a PB!). Crossing Hagg Hill, I cheer on a couple of student roadies travelling at 90 degrees to me. Then they turn left at the top and we're all heading the same way. Them on the road above, me on my trail through the allotments.

I'm pleased to exit the gates at the other end as they ride past above me. Big bike, fat tyres, still got it

I dropped into my road and the soft comforting womb of my own home ready for a 3pm salad lunch but even more ready for a change into tracky bottoms. 

 All kinds of things have drifted through my head today, none of them work related. This goes a long way to explaining how exercise helps the brain to rest even when the body is becoming fatigued. When things are difficult in life, pure rest can allow the worries in, during the day as well as at 2am. Whereas physical activity gives the brain chance to breathe literally and metaphorically.

 I had every intention of going out again yesterday evening for my November bivi but it didn't happen.  The luxury of my daytime ride was I found all the things that have been a little bit off with my ride - the dropper post cable that I couldn't quite fix on my way to the BB WRT, charging my lights for the first time since Scotland. After bike maintenance, the comfort of home took over and instead I watched the Vuelta on the tele and fell into bed with TSK - our last nightshift weekend before he gets to become a human again next week.

Everyone is looking forward to that.

Aprili Bivi

Easter's gonna be gorgeous they said.  It's gonna rain on Sunday they said.

I panicked.

I packed my bike up on Thursday evening after work... a work day that meant to finish early but lasted out till 5pm.

I had some dinner and went outside to sing with my neighbours, I mean the clapping's a bit lame but you've got me on a sing song... before going back in to finish packing.


I left the house at 10pm, fretted the dynamo wasn't running the light then realised I'd brought the wrong wheel out - so running on battery then.  I've got tired of battering myself on the tough stuff near home and developed a knee injury that niggles so I set off up the easy trails to Holyrod farm where the friendly sheepdog came out to give me a woof as I passed in darkness.  It was perfectly tranquil.

In the valley bottom I sat on one of my favourite benches and drank down a little whisky and scoffed a cereal bar that's been in my bag just a little bit too long.

For the easiest descent I rode all the way up to Lodge Moor before dropping down to the Byway and then riding the footpath down the Rivelin valley which has now been legalised to open up "safe" cycling access in the valley.  I managed not to fall in the holly bush this time, so it must be working.

When I got out of the allotments it felt really warm in town, and peaceful - so peaceful.  If I could photograph silence it would look like this.

TSK scurried off to bed when I got home at 11:45.  So I had a few minutes of bathroom light to pitch my tarp by.  I set up to avoid the Light of 100 suns and to put my back to Mark next door so I could get undressed to my heart's content and sleep in comfort.  Before I shut down the Garmin, it told me the temperature was +5 degrees so I emptied my bags out, popped inside with the bike and raided the fridge for some cheese and an apple to stave off the hunger that was occurring.

It took me a long time to pitch the big tarp - the offcut of the ugly tarp.  I had insufficient pegs with me so resorted to using a couple of spokes that were stored in my frame bag.  I changed into comfy clothing and wriggled into Stu's old bivi, concluding there's much more space for feet in this one and my mat could stay in it tonight.

My one and only feline encounter occurred as Newt passed in disgust at me camped out on the cat path again.  A view of the other side of the valley was accompanied by the sweaty feet smell of the cheese and the sweet apple.  Near perfect, except the other neighbour's outside light was on and set to stay on all night shining straight in my view.  I couldn't be arsed to re-pitch the tarp so resolved to roll over on my side and ignore it.

I returned the remaining cheese to the fridge, hid all my other food away in case of fox incursion and settled down to sleep at 1am.

At 3:45 I woke up (or was woken up) and adjusted my position slightly in my bed.  Cue the sound of barking and growling and something running away.  I can't be clear whether I was dreaming it or it really happened.  I sat bolt upright in the bed and looked right and left.  I couldn't see anything - anything at all.  My hat was pulled down firmly over my eyes and my arms trapped in my sleeping bag.

After struggling to free my arms and push my hat back, whatever wildlife had been there before was well gone but my face and all my kit seemed to be in tact so I settled back down to recover my breath and anticipate the remainder of the night lying, staring at the wall of the bivi after the adrenaline rush.

After a moment's consideration of getting up and going out for a dawn raid ride, my eyes got heavy again, the workload from the week had clearly caught up with me.

Just as I fell back to sleep I heard the neighbour softly saying, "c'mon then" into the inky lightening of the sky.  Either he was calling his cat in or feeding the foxes - I will never know.

I slept through the dawn chorus and chose not to get up to shiver at first light to go for another ride. I've got years of that to come.  Instead I snoozed till 10am, when I finally had to get up because I was too hot.

Newt made attempts to assess the bivi for comfort

I had the best cereal and coffee breakfast on the bench - none of it made from my stove but the excellent cafe at the bottom of the garden.  

Rueful I'd missed the experience for a hike bivi, I decided to see how much of my kit I could fit into my lightweight rucsac - it turns out, just my racing kit - the luxuries of stove, extra food, fuel would need to be left behind.  I was tempted by a second bivi on the moors so packed my big rucsac with all the aforementioned items.

Then TSK decided he wanted to come too so it turned into a day hike... after the laundry was done and the bread was baked and lunch had been eaten.  So I helped a bit but mostly spent a half hour taking pictures in the garden.

 

My rucsac was heavy but not ridiculously so.  I did marvel that I manage to fit it all on the bike.  The rucsac was bought in 2007 when we first returned from Canada and has never really been worn in anger.  Still, it brought back memories from my climbing days when I'd spend most bank holiday weekends hiking into a munro access with ropes, harness, boots and gear, to climb a stupidly long route.  The weight sat OK (thank you gym) and the pack was more comfortable than I expected.  As temperatures rose I changed my outfit several times and picked trail shoes over hiking boots before finally getting out the door.

We walked paths at the extremities of the main walking area near us so only saw a few other couples or small families out walking - the message seems to have gotten out.

Gradually the numbers of folk dwindled and we had the whole moor to ourselves for quite some time - except for the lapwings, skylarks and occasional kestrel.

Trig point achieved, we nosed back into the valley for a final hike home down a combination of new paths, yesterday's bike bits and the valley paths that I've really missed using since I gave up distance running 2 years ago.

Actually it was a great reminder of what resides on our doorstep - within walking distance - or just about...

By the time we reached the reservoirs, we were both minced.  Our feet were hot and swollen and blisters were starting to develop.  Legs were tired and shoulders aching.  I'd developed significant bruises where my rucsac dug into my pelvis - whether I had the waist strap around my waist or my hips.  I'm not used to carrying a heavy bag but still, I was pretty pleased with what we did achieve.  Whilst I could have stopped and cooked up a pasta meal to share on the meths stove, the one thing I did forget to pack was my spoon.  Whilst I'd have happily shovelled the pasta in with the lid of the stove pot, I didn't fancy taking it in turns so we continued stomping our way home.

It was 8pm by the time we reached the garden again.  Mark, standing on the back step smoking his ciggy asked where we'd been.  He may be ex-army but no longer possesses any impression of how hard it is to walk 25k over to Rod trig when you've not carried a heavy pack for 10 years - at least he doesn't let on.

We prepped dinner and fed the cats still standing up, nervous that any show of weakness like sitting down would mean we wouldn't get back up again.  My last desperate act was to have a shower and I fell into bed with wet hair and slept. HARD.

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.

Peak 200 - a First Attempt

I was going to attempt the Peak 200 last weekend but my heart just wasn't in it after a long, hard week at work including a return trip to Derry following a weekend in Guildford the week before.

With boiling weather in the week, I wasn't deterred - in fact the heat would enable me to travel super-light (by my standards).

On Thursday night I checked the forecast to pack the bike.  Bivi, thermartex blanket only.  Took the pegs out.  At the last minute on Friday morning, I threw in my Oh shit coat and a pair of leggings, more as a monument to filling my saddle pack than thinking I'd need them but the light rain forecast made me think that I might take a change of clothes to wear in bed.  The stove, fuel and matches stayed at home.  I took a few snacks and packed my lightest waterproof coat.  No need for trousers.

The Peak 200 is a route of 2 loops, starting from Edale but you can join the route from anywhere.

My plan was to cycle to work on Friday on my loaded bike and, to be honest, most of the way home, except for the big hill at the end.  I'd then continue up from Hillsborough and join the route on the A57.  If the weather was hot, I was going to ride through the night in the cool air and stop when I ran out of steam or when the warmth of day arrived, continuing later to complete the course.  I set off on Friday because I wanted the whole weekend to make a go of it if I did end up travelling slowly in the heat.

The week was no more hectic than any other so my Thursday night packing had been somewhat hasty on the back of a Wednesday night hangover (a one-pint athlete hangover).  On my way to the office I realised I was wearing the wrong shoes.  I have a pair for the gravel bike and a pair for the mountain bike (for some reason, one bike is much wider than the other).  Mixing the cleat positions doesn't work and by the time I'd ridden 7 miles on the mountain bike I'd had foot cramp twice.  I also realised I'd forgotten my asthma inhaler which in dry, dusty conditions makes a huge difference.

In the office I realised I'd forgotten my phone so I made arrangements with TSK for him to meet me at the bottom of the hill and hand over the forgotten items and change my shoes.

The days work dragged on until 6 so I stopped in Hillsborough MacDonalds to get a massive stash of calories.  I knew if I cycled up the hill to home I'd not make it out again and besides which, there'd be nothing to eat there.  MacDonalds had the reassurance that I could sit outside and watch the bike as I had only a flimsy travelling lock.

At the designated meeting point, I duly changed my shoes and raised the saddle on the bike which had somehow loosened off since the last time I rode it.  TSK informed me that I needed my lights on as he couldn't see me riding in the trees, even though it was still "daylight". A reminder that I still hadn't tested my Revo light which was fitted about 3 weeks before the longest day back in June

I was on the course by 8pm and happy to be started on something big.  Even my new light worked well.  The first few miles are on the road but with views across the moors.  Grouse flitted as I passed and martens hunted flies in the hedgerows.  Lapwings cried and I watched a kestrel diving into the grass.  I stopped to put a waterproof (only windproof layer) on before descending into the valley.

On my lightweight bike I rode a few of the rock steps up from Devil's bridge before reverting to walking the steepest.  A minor mistaken detour towards the Ladybower pub off-route left me swearing over my own failure to check the directions that are in my own back yard.   

As I rode to the top of the moor, I relished the thought of the view from the top, looking down the valley, yet it was not so spectacular.  There was more of a general fading to grey than a sunset.  I was not alone though - a few hikers or climbers were making the most of the last good weather at the Derwent edges and their voices drifted across the heather.

I plunged into the Derwent valley, damp heather pulling at my socks.  I wondered if a summer attempt was, perhaps, a bit foolish and I'd be slowed by the undergrowth.  I arrived at the barn above the reservoir, a place I've always wanted to pull a bivi camp but never been there at the right time.  I looked at my watch.  It was only 9:40pm.  I carried on down to the "road".

Not knowing my route led to a feeling of riding a course in a different county.  I'd expected to be heading for Cut Gate but instead the route turned left towards the A57 again.  It was time for my lap of Ladybower and Win Hill.  That's OK, I know of plenty of spaces I've been wanting to camp up there too.  I passed the traffic paraphernalia closing the A57 for resurfacing and a few angry motorists on diversion but they didn't concern me as I turned onto the bike lane and crossed the Dam to start the track alongside Ladybower reservoir.  A remembered an advantage to night riding in summer - avoiding the crowds as I took descents at speeds I'd never dare in daylight for fear of small-children-crossing.

I cycled by the place I'd been dreaming of camping for a long time - it was a little too early and the air was very still, it would be midge-hell by the lake.  

Finally I turned up into the forest again and my dynamo light dimmed to nothing on the push.  I turned on the backup light and realised I'd forgotten my helmet bracket and my new helmet.  Oh well.  Scoping for a sleep spot, I identified a flat bit of forest mattress under some pine but a squawking ground-nesting bird prevented me from making camp and I trudged on up to another place I'd always eyed for a sleep spot but had forgotten about until I walked straight past it in the darkening sky.  As the drizzle started, I locked up my bike for the night.

Mattress inflated to iron out the tree roots, bivi out, quick change of clothes, sweaty stuff in bag for pillow, electronics inside.  The rain ceased long enough for me to eat an apple in the dark then I pulled the bivi hood over and curled up.  It was about midnight.  A passing creature woke me once and I lay still, listening to chomping and breathing, ready to pounce if it interfered with my snacks.  Otherwise I was briefly disturbed by maniac motorists on the A57, including one who stopped in the carpark on the other side of the valley with music blaring.  It was too far away to be loud though and they soon left.

Morning!

My watch alarmed at 4:30am but I didn't feel like getting up so snuggled down for a while.  At 5:15 the light was sufficient to drive me out of my cocoon.  I ate leftover cake from my work lunch on Friday then actually enjoyed getting dressed - it was warm enough to make it a relief to take my coat off and my shorts had dried out over night.

I had Win Hill to myself until I met a group of eager mountain bikers riding up at 7:15.  Then I met Ian, the Race Organiser's dark side as he sent me up the side of Win Hill to the summit to join the top Bridleway.  I mean, Ian is currently in Scotland but this route was like having him along.  Occasionally I'd look over and nod in appreciation at his decisions and sometimes I'd ask, "really?" and sometimes I'd say, "I've not been here before! Cheers!".

So now I have a Bronze trophy for being the third woman to carry a (presumably loaded) mountain bike up this bit of moorland.  I also have a hole in my left ankle where I stood on it with my right foot because it was the only tenable thing left, attached to the mountain.  My shoes slid in the heather (but they are comfy though!).

Time to descend into the valley.  Would I get some breakfast?  I thought I was heading into the Hope valley but again, that route threw me a curve ball and we turned left towards Hathersage instead.  Down a lane I didn't know existed and then UP Shatton Moor.  Well, that was a climb and a half on a part-empty stomach.  I'd never ridden the Bradwell descent either which led to a short off-route and I started to think about all the little improvements I can make to my ride next time.

At least in Bradwell I knew about the Co-op.  Suitably fuelled for both breakfast and lunch, butties packed into the unreasonably baggy saddle-pack.

The final ascent of the morning was Pindale then the broken road to Mam Tor, descending to Edale.  It's so long since I've ridden Mam Tor.  Another nod to Ian. Thanks for taking me places I'd forgotten about.  It was still so quiet.  Only a handful of Japanese tourists braving the grey and no-one on the descent except an e-biker coming up.  

At the road junction I turned left to visit the Edale caf.  Coffee was needed.  It was only here I thought I'd read something that I didn't have to go to Edale if I started the route elsewhere but I wasn't sure and by the time I might have stopped to check, I would have been there so I sucked up the extra 2 miles road riding, enjoyed a scone and coffee in the presence of 2 e-bikers from Doncaster.  This was where I first heard tell of the "heavy rain" forecast that had, apparently, changed this morning.  I was resolute not to be talked out of a finish by some middle-aged men and set off again full of determination, the tail wind back onto the route improving any misgivings about the sense of my detour.  

The floral coffee before the storm

My Garmin indicated 145 miles to go, I had to remember to keep subtracting the 45 I'd done already.

It was back up Win Hill side next, the Heavy Rain starting just as I went into the covered bridleway and I thought, "maybe it will be over by the time I get out of this thicket".  Not so, and on it rained. 

I seem to have ridden to Wales

I trudged further up the hill for me to cross over with my earlier self, 3 hours since I'd last passed that way first thing in the morning.  I always love this route West, the whole of the Snake valley exposed.  The descent is lose and on "Potato alley" I skooted too far up the bank and toppled back in, rolling sideways onto my hip.  At least it was the other side this time.  With no other riders around, I sat in the middle of the trail, recovering my Ow and staring at EmVee - who got a bit of the blame for this despite it being my own stupid fault.  At least, I thought, I didn't crash on my new helmet.

We seemed OK and still rolled out the bottom then I dropped down to the river crossing and A57 and clawed my way up to Rowley Farm, the rain coming down more heavy now which made the Lockerbrook descent a little slower.  I was tempted by pie n peas in the cafe but decided to press on for fear that I wouldn't get going again. Sitting about outside in the rain didn't appeal.

There were still a few people about at Derwent, starting with the normals, hiding under brollies, smelling good, like town.  The further up the valley I rode, the hardier the visitors got.  Finally, a long-distance trail runner and a mountain biker were the last people I saw, then two old-man hikers who warned me about the mud on Cut Gate then felt the need to comment on the size of my saddle bag.  Strangely I wasn't in the mood to chat so resisted the urge to say, "you haven't seen it full made" as I rode away, my cheese sandwich still slopping about in there.

I suspected I wasn't going to get to eat my cheese sandwich until I got to Langsett barn but the hunger was more persistent than the weather.  Well, the weather was pretty persistent so I found myself a sheep scoop with a rock in the bottom of it and sat, soaking wet, to eat my well-preserved, only slightly squished, cheese ploughmans.  The chocolate bar and marmite cashews didn't make it into my gob, I was too cold but I wasn't doing the descent on an empty stomach.

A few pushes and leaps and the Bog of Doom was done.  The descent of Cut Gate always seems shorter than I expect since I ran it in the Mickelden Straddle fell race.  I was still very happy to see the reservoir looming out of the fog though.  

A sixth sense told me to check my Spot was still on.  TSK likes to follow it when I'm out and worries if it doesn't update.  Not excessively but it's usually so reliable... The spot was off.  I suspected the batteries were done but started it and tried to send an OK signal.  At the bottom of the descent, the spot was off again so I got my phone out to text.

Sure enough, I had a message asking if I was OK and another, acknowledging the spot I'd sent from the top.  I tried to text about the flat battery but the phone screen wouldn't work as it couldn't distinguish fingers from rain drops and there was no escaping the rain drops.  What didn't come out of the sky or off the trees, fell off my helmet.  Whilst I'm sure there's shelter at Langsett Barn, I also thought there was a bus stop further up the route so I carried on.  

The bus stop didn't materialise but I thought there was a bridge on the Trans-pennine trail.  I continued through the field, the trail now riddled with reeds that soaked my socks and shoes through where they somehow hadn't got wet yet.  I paused to talk to some runners, suffering the same.  It was a relief to get on the Trans Pennine trail in all its tarmacced glory.  At this point I was still positive about continuing.  It was easy riding from here to Glossop and out again.  Then there would just be the last bit to do - on home territory. It didn't matter that I didn't know it all, I'd recognise it when I got there.

I rode up to Dunford bridge - there was no shelter on the way so the first opportunity I got to shelter was in the bus stop at Dunford.  My hands weren't really working so I opened my saddle bag and pulled out my dry teeshirt and Oh Shit coat then I found a dry tissue and cleaned the phone and sent a reassuring message home.  The warm dry tops felt wonderful.  I changed the batteries on the spot and whilst I was doing so, the phone miraculously connected to the internet despite it's one-bar H+ reception.  The weather report came through just as the rain tried its hardest to look ominous and lashy and the wind swirled the trees.

Heavy rain streamed across the phone screen from now through tomorrow and into Monday morning, with intermittent improvements to lighter rain.  Dark skies scrolled across.  The temperatures, previously forecast as 17s and 18s, even over night, now dipped to 12 or 13. 

My visions of finding some shelter to lay down my bivi faded into a few dry stone walls without cover or bus stops by roads in random villages on the edge of Glossop.  It was not an attractive thought.  I couldn't think of the route beyond Kinder.  At the rate I was going, I wouldn't get much further before dark.  I was already looking at late dinner in Glossop and the thought of walking into a pub in my present bedraggled state was not one I relished.

I unfurled the hem on my coat to stick my hands in the pocket and the sodden edges from where it had sat on my shorts brought home the sogginess of the situation - oh if only I'd packed water proof trousers or even just my shorts.  How dense!

The chocolate bar eaten did not affect my resolve to quit.  It wasn't that I couldn't manage any more it's just that I didn't want to bother.  The Peak 200 will be there, on my back doorstep forever.  I can pick any other weekend I want.

My bivi was wonderful.  My Friday night was amazing.  My Saturday had, until that point, been really enjoyable.  What point in ruining it to the advantage of mild hypothermia and the possibility that I would get a shit time on the basis of me electing to start the ride at 8pm on day 1.  My fatigue and speed meant that I'd need another sleep out, whether I wanted one or not.

So there ended my first attempt at an ITT, the advantage being that I had a wonderful time and I'll enjoy doing it all again.  Until the next try.