We had some holiday to take. We couldn't decide what to do with it. We didn't really want to drive so we loaded paniers on to a bike and decided to ride to Blackpool to see the lights. Then my mum advised me that lights probably wouldn't be on so we decided to go anyway. We cycled over to Manchester to visit some friends' new house which involved kittens, beer and a take away, a hot shower and a snuggly bedroom. On Saturday, the Garmin took us some wonderful routes around the major connurbations of Manchester, Preston, Wigan. We rode along rivers, canals and disused railway lines though there were a lot of gates that got in the way and slowed us right down. Not too bad for a 5 mile commute but really annoying for more than 10km.
We rolled into Blackpool as it was turning dark and headed for the Travelodge (full) before resorting (no pun intended) to the Premier Inn where we payed over the odds (though not too bad) for the last room in the house. The desk clerk took pity on us and supported us with two free breakfasts for the morning. Another hot shower and out to Harry Ramsdens after a walk down the sea front and a chilly stroll back along the prom.
On Sunday we headed back homeward. Initially towards Howarth but then later towards Great Howarth (closer to Rochdale) to a second Premier Inn. Since this was an unplanned stop, we rerouted away from Rochdale and followed the Garmin randomly for 6.43kms to Milnrow where a much more reasonable price was quoted for possibly the largest hotel room I've ever seen.
The staff continued to offer to help us carry our bikes upstairs!
Day 4 was tough getting out, partly knowing that we had two major hillclimbs to go - first into Dunford Bridge over Saddleworth Moor and second over Holmfirth to get back to Sheffield. Changes I made to my cleats the night before were just wrong and had to be reverted although all in all, new shoe wedges I had inserted worked a treat in supporting my feet and my legs have been in much better state than I thought they would be.
Four days (and a few hours) after we left, we were back home to hungry cats. Not a single car journey the whole weekend (except a lift to the takeaway with Glyn to buy the food).
We saw the full moon many times and found new routes around towns that I never would have dreamed existed. We saw the tower ball room (from the outside) and got evicted from the Winter Gardens (closed for a private function). We played on the beach on our bikes (or the breakwater anyway) and spotted wildlife along the country lanes. Coffee, tea and cake was consumed by the bucketload - all from local producers - except for Harry Ramsden's because it was too cold (and out of season) for real fish and chips.
We dropped off the transpennine trail and I got a puncture but that was the only downside to an otherwise wonderful weekend.
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Monday, November 26, 2018
Thursday, April 20, 2017
Braunton 150 2017
The history of this ride started on Thursday when we reached the M42 and I realised I had not brought my wallet or phone along with me. Easily fixed, we picked up £100 in cash and popped into Taunton Tesco's to pick up a £12.99 phone and £10 top up - £14 with the discount.
This led me to wonder where I'd left the good Garmin - y'know, the one with the route on it. On the window sill of course, waiting to receive satellite info, which presented the additional challenge of using a spare phone to download the ride data off an email I couldn't remember a password for then transferring to the other Garmin.
Three hours later we were pitched at Little Roadway campsite whilst I pulled together my stuff and TSK stormed data to get me navigated. There was one thing left on my mind - no spare inner tube. I could fix a puncture with patches but if I tore a tube it would be a game-over for the minor cost of an inner-tube. The box of spare kit in the back of the car fixed that. Sorted. Everything else could eff off. I was no longer going to look like a complete beginner! I went to load my saddlebag onto my bike. Nothing. It's no ordinary saddle bag. It's 20 litres of strappy structural genius with massive velcros straps around the seat post and clips to hold it to the saddle in an easily removeable quick way and plastic stiffeners which help keep its shape over all terrains and it was missing. It was all of those things, but it was not in my car.
I slowly recalled the inner debate about which of the two bags in the loft was mine and clearly I set both aside.
Somehow I refused to be beaten and from the genius box of spare things, soon rigged a 15 litre dry bag, my flip flops as structural support and three straps as a temporary kit carrier. Everything essential went in it. The rest either went on my bars, in my rucsac or got left behind. I added a bungee cord to my rucsac.
Final packing list included: water, waterproof coat and bottoms, inflatable pillow, sleep mat and sleeping bag, down coat and booties (yes even in spring), wool baselayer, spare socks, gloves, hat, compass, chargin cables & battery, notebook, spare spokes, lighter, bogroll, leggings and jumper, tent, 1st aid kit, headtorch, red light (+spare), stove, pot, coffee strainer and coffee and a sachet of freeze dried food.
When we arrived on Friday morning I just had to find the hat I had just been wearing (took a good 10 minutes), load up my bags and I was good to go.
TSK was chatting with other riders and I watched a steady stream of very fit men arriving at the departure cafe carrying very little kit. I wracked my brains as to what I could leave behind but I couldn't bring myself to unpack a thing. I casually laid my hefty bike amongst the whippets and went in search of flapjack.
After a chat with Ian Fitz I was soon joined by Javier, somewhat immortalised by TSK at Ian and Lee Craigee's presentation on the HT500 in Sheffield. TSK played Javier without his Spanish accent, partly out of respect and partly through fear that it would, "come out Scottish". I could instantly see how Lee and Ian were drawn to this pocket rocket Spaniard who immediately thrust his hand out to me to introduce himself.
The flapjack went down nervously then Ben, the organiser said some words, and then there he was, picking his bike up next to me. As the only female competitor I didn't need to introduce myself but he introduced himself and we set up up the hill. I soon shot off sideways to let the masses pass by.
We were soon walking Yes, my lungs do work. Thanks.
Javier pulled alongside and wanted to know my goals, "To finish and stay healthy?"
"Yes", I said, "and to come first woman".
He laughed and looked at my bike, gesturing at its load. "I get cold at night" and asked him about his targets. He muttered something about 30 hours, then 26 hours which I just didn't understand. He might have a 20 minute turbo-kip. "Ah, but I have a tent and coffee" I said.
"Where are you staying? Do you have a spot? I come and find you!".
I wasn't sharing my coffee with anyone.
Nearing the top of the climb, Ian caught me up for a chat about pacing and pissing contests and survival. He had been faffing in town and purposefully avoiding the pissing contests. This is what I like about Ian.
We observed a minute's silence for Mike Hall which was spent deeply immersed in meditation on the beautiful singing chirp of the skylarks who chose to ignore the minute's silence in favour of the greater natural world. It was a fitting tribute.
Some people shed layers before setting off and then pretty soon I was off the back and then just as soon I passed a group of three fixing a puncture and I was no longer last. I caught up Andrew S, Rob and Scott and the three of us hopscotched until Rob and I got stuck behind a horserider who moved faster than us uphill but slower on the downhill. It says something that it took us three goes to pass the horse.
A farmers wife came out of her house to cheer us by and then there was only me a and Rob to cheer for.
After the start, the hours of the day rolled by in a brilliant blur - as they tend to do on long rides. All of the testing climbs and long, exhilarating descents morph into one roller coaster of joy. What tends to stick out are the snippets of joy and pain shared with other people, creatures or your own mind. Here are mine from this ride:
Riding past Arlington Court National Trust site. 14 miles in, this was my first potential cafe stop and I didn't need it. The horror on the parking attendants faces as I rode past with all my kit.
Catching Scott and Andrew again in time to stop for lunch. Sitting on the tarmac to eat sausage rolls, crisps and fruit and Ben visiting to see how we were doing.
Arriving at a bridge on a bridleway with a 2 ft high board to climb over and leaving the boys to haul their bikes over whilst I headed upstream to wade across the river barefoot. They were gentlemanly and offered to help but that would break the rules of independence so I enjoyed my paddle instead.
Riding on the moors together before different strengths pushed Andrew out the back. We passed through some frustratingly magical places to stop and bivi but it was too early. Having already sampled the moorland water temperature I was sorely tempted by a swim but chose to refrain.
Scott's encyclopaedic knowledge of the calorie content of almost every known race food and his enthusiasm for the Tour Divide causing him to carry immensely lightweight compact kit which I didn't get to see in action. I was definitely carrying too much stuff. His methodology for riding in the lantern rouge space put him with us. When we happened across two ladies sitting by a river he had a chat with them about our ride. He disclosed his intention to get to Minehead before stopping for the night. Meanwhile I stood alongside, my hand cupped to my face whispering, "Well he is, but I don't have a clue where I'm going tonight".
The reality is, I did have a vague plan of 2 x 10 hour days of around 60 miles plus time to eat leisurely lunch and dinner and 30 miles left to finish the last day between 9am and 5pm. This plan was designed to be A) easy to follow and B) Flexible. I had some idea on sleep spots between mile 45 and 70 and between 100 and 120 miles, right up to sleeping at Little Roadway campsite as I was already booked in there with TSK though this would contravene the rules and wasn't really worth it since it was only 10 miles from the finish.
Sometime after the interactions with the girls, I got dropped by Scott. I don't remember it so there's every chance it was a downhill or I stopped to faff with the straps on by bag. I reacquired Andrew in the midst of a faff with my bags and a quick consult with my cheat sheet cold me we were not too far from a tea shop at 3pm with the afternoon's rain shower threatening to start so we gorged on tea cakes and tea and I bought flapjack to enjoy at a later time. We bid hello to Rob as he stopped at the shop across the road.
With more moorland valleys than you can shake a stick at behind us, dinner was next priority ahead of a rainy forecast night ahead. The pub at Winsford offered a reasonable menu and came with a local's recommendation so we chowed down and took one last opportunity for the day's wash. I set off back into dusk with a red flashy light and soon switched it off for more off-roading. I still felt like I was carrying too much stuff
Before Minehead, my cheatsheet offered brackeny morrland bivis on Exmoor which would have been nice given stary skies without any breeze but on a windy, wet night, I wasn't getting onto Exmoor without some guarantee I'd be off again pretty soon. As the rain finally started to tip down at 9:30, I entered the stillness of one of those fine Devon country lanes which completely shelters you from the wind. Unfortunately it climbed upwards very sharply. After slopping up it for half an hour, to my relief it flattened out and stayed out of the wind. It was 10pm and I was fed up of being rained on so time for bed.
Although I got settled quickly and was pretty tired, I lay awake until 12:45 although I didn't waste it. In between light snoozing I pulled everything into the tent I needed then spent hours recharging Garmins, lights, cameras off my battery pack. I ate scraps of leftover lunch and started outside for a pee during a lull in the weather. In amongst my hastily and haphazardly packed kit I discovered I was carrying too much stuff - to be specific: an extra pillow, food pack and spare set of ear plugs. Dear lord, protect my extra ears!
In the morning the farmer passed on his quad bike before I had time to dream of being awake and I ate snacks and drank coffee. I did a rubbish job of the coffee but at least it was coffee. Once awake, the farmer passed again and wished us good morning.
Andrew had also stopped nearby so we hit Exmoor together and agreed that it would have been really shit in the dark and rain as we bounced along the track hitting boulder after boulder and I thanked my indulgent self for buying sturdy shoes which take on foot-strikes and pedal-strikes without crushing into my feet.
I grabbed a quick pecan slice in Wootton Courteney and listened as elderly posh men mansplained that I need to be careful around Exmoor ponies.. but only after he thought I was a man so I guess we let him off.
Then it was on to Minehead for an overly relaxing veggie breakfast before I realised it had hit 12:00 and breakfast became brunch and a desperation to get out of town. I grabbed some water, fresh fruit and nuts and headed for the seaside.
I turned the opposite way to Butlins and left Andrew behind as I cycled up the woodland trails, my Garmin losing satellites and getting me variously lost. I decided to stop, eat apples and calm down at which point Andrew caught up again. He had been feeling ill but now felt better. I explained I now had all the food with me I needed and didn't expect to stop again except to cook up some dinner. His plan was to stop in Porlock. We rode out the climb and the cliff tops in some kind of synchronicity and then descended to Porlock together.
Inland from Porlock, the route climbs uphill, again, starting with a beast of a climb where I lost my tail. I battled around 2/3 of the way up with a 30 -40kg bike riding is always easier than pushing it when you have skinny arms.
As I walked I must've entered that meditative state again as it suddenly became obvious to me how I could solve a problem I had experienced - my front roll (tent and sleeping bag) kept mashing into my front wheel every time I went over a bump. It had gotten worse and meant I was descending too slowly and carefully.
In a shock of inspiration I realised I could easily rotate my Jones Bars by loosening two bolts and all of my stuff would be lifted over 1 cm - giving me more clearance to enjoy my dances on the downhills.
I found a sheltered spot behind gauze and dug-out my tools. The Allen key turned easily, hinting that the whole assembly had been sliding down for some time. I set the bars position for something I thought I could cope with and sure enough I could ride downhill much faster. Still, Andrew caught me up again and I explained my faff. We soon separated on the next descent and then I consolidated it after I quickly stopped to fill up my camelbak with water from the river then set off onto farm tracks onto the moor.
I had a chat with some walkers who said they had seen another guy carrying the "same sort of stuff on his bike". The man fit the description for Scott and for a second I thought I might catch him until they clarified, "but that was ages ago". Oh.
I mashed on up the hill and onto open farmland. The wind was blowing sideways now and I had to concentrate to keep my feet turning over. As I pushed my bike through a bumpy rut, I nearly trod on the tiny newborn lamb lying in the path of my bike. It bleated and woke me from my reverie.
"Oh no, where's your mummy?" I looked around and couldn't see a lonely or distressed sheep. There were plenty about but they all had lambs with them and were contentedly feeding. The lamb bleated again. I had to do something. She was shivvering and sounded so distressed. The sheep to my left had just given birth and was busy licking her lamb. The chances were, this was the first of her litter and she had walked away from it to birth the second.
I set my bike down, picked up the lamb - which wasn't hard as it couldn't even stand itself - and walked across the field with it. It paddled the air, shivvered and bleated so I cradled it like a baby, hugging the warm yellow afterbirth and muddy wool to my coat. I spoke reassuringly, at the same time thinking, "Why me?" I looked around for Andrew or Scott but they were nowhere to be seen.
The ewe eyed me suspiciously and then ran away from her other newborn baby! No no no! don't go away! That was the worst scenario - two dead lambs. Thankfully, she wasn't prepared to give up on the situation and hovered, torn between keeping her distance from me and charging me with an almighty head butt to stop me stealing her baby. I made a brief attempt to get her to come over but realised I had no chance so I cuddled the two lambs together so that they were at least warmer as one unit and walked away. To my relief, the ewe ran back to them. She resumed licking her own baby, no doubt wondering what the hell she was supposed to do with this yellow, dirty one that I brought her out of the ditch.
I jumped back on my bike and followed Ben's wobbly track to the fence on top of the hill where I had to cross through a gate to the next field. As I turned to close the gate, a land rover pulled up with a trailer on tow and I offered to close the gate but they were going in a different direction.
"Hey", I called out, "I found a lamb in the ditch, I put it over there with that ewe but it's very cold".
"Cheers", he said, laughing, "Do you have some agricultural experience?".
"My parents run a farm in Cheshire" I said.
It was a white lie but seemed more authoritative than saying, "I follow the Yorkshire Shepherdess on twitter and my godmother is a veterinary nurse".
He seemed pleased so I joked about ruining my new coat with ovine after-birth. We chatted about the ride during which he also explained that he had seen Scott hours ago. Offered him a lift apparently which left me wondering if Scott was "looking tired".
After my moorland experience, I bounced back down to more idyllic daylight bivi spots then climbed out again and finally rode over to the campsite at West Porlock - the most tempting-looking campsite yet. People bbq'd, kids played in the river, people were leading normal lives but I knew I had to keep going.
I was only at 48 miles for day 2, leaving me over 50 miles to complete on day 3. If I slept all night by accident or design there was a high risk I would fail to finish since days 1 &2 were 10 hours long already. Day 3 had its flatter sections but I didn't know how much of it was easier as it was difficult to tell from the route profile.
I did need to eat though and for a while I considered cooking by the river but then promptly decided to attempt to ride out of he valley into the sun for some warmth. It was too late though and I started to climb out of the valley in dusk. The wind was coming straight down the hill at me. In a last-ditch attempt to cook in shelter and day light, I opted for a field gateway which offered shelter and 7 heifers who came to offer companionship and help my reasoning when I had no-one else to ask where the bloody hell I had put my lighter at 7am that morning.
Thankfully it wasn't a busy road or I may have had a steady stream of motorists checking on my well-being. I layered up in down coat and waterfproofs, sat in the dirt and cooked water - enough to put 300 ml into instant pasta and leftovers for coffee. The pasta cooked as I drank the coffee and all was well with the world. The pasta filled my belly and the coffee stoked my brain. I packed everything away and as I picked up my bike to leave, I heard the words, "Are you shitting me?"
It was Andrew - back from the dead again. Pushing up hill and scoffing on a Mars Bar. "I've eaten, have you?"
No, he was heading to the pub at the bottom of the next hill, did I want to join him? No I said, I've got enough with me now to keep me going and I rather eat it and ride lighter. I said I wanted to keep going to make up some miles before I stop.
"Do you want to put a number on that mileage?" he said. He already knew my 60-60-30 plan and the fact I was behind. "No, I'm just going to ride till I drop tonight", I said.
I got to the top of the hill. As I'd started cold, he wasn't far behind. We took a slight wrong turn and retraced our steps, just in time to be seen by a Land Rover heading out across the byway.
"Are you lost? Are you OK?" they called out into the darkness.
Yet more lovely Devon people. We convinced them we were fine and they let us set out down the hillside on our own before doing whatever land rovery thing they had come out there to do.
The trail plunged us into trees again and then finally out into a river path. I set about tightening my rear pannier straps again and reinforced my resolve not to go to the pub. I sent Andrew on his way so as not to hold up his refuelling and I faffed enough to be sure everything was secure before streaming through town without even noticing his bike locked up anywhere. EmVee and I were on a mission and we were partly hankering after finding Scott somewhere along the way.
At what point the cutesy seaside town of West Porlock turned into rough forest trails, mud and tracks through the darkness I do not know. I stopped caring. I wouldn't have noticed Hillsford Bridge had it not been for a concerned motorist who just happened to notice a girl alone on her bike and waited just long enough at the junction to make sure I was OK before making his or her turn - or if it hadn't been for the long and very much deserved road descent just after.
Mainly, I just rode and rode and rode through the darkness. My Garmin was being slow at picking up my location due to the tree cover and possibly reduced satelite traffic at night time. I started to use my compass to determine which way the route went from the screen then which way I was *actually* oriented from real life. It saved me retracing my steps. When I finally hit the top coastal paths again I realised that the lights of Bristol were glinting at me across the channel which meant I finally had a good indicator of North without getting the compass out. Sill, there were plenty of moments where I stood still in a field going, That's North so that's South so I need to go south east, no south west and that's south so west is that way, no that's east oh bollocks...
Arriving at Lynton was another world. It was 11:45 on a Saturday night and the streets were dead. Clearly a beautiful shopping boutique village by day, there wasn't a soul at night and I felt pretty privileged to be there traffic free. I sailed through unnoticed and then descended through screeching owls to the South West Coastal path again, alone. No cars, no ice cream vans. I let myself through the gate and started the unrelenting climb back up. At least it was rideable though I took some rests too. At the top I found a gate locked with a padlock and chain. It seemed odd. Obvious busy tourist season, national treasure of a footpath and a locked gate. I tried all three alternative gates and all three led to dead ends - a field, a yard, a driveway. There was nothing else for it but to hooft my fully loaded bike over the gate and climb over after it.
From somewhere I found the mammoth strength to do so without having to release any of my bags. I was still carrying too much stuff but, we were away. Of course I felt guilty like I was trespassing and yet this was the bridlepath and the gate was fitted with all the same signs as the others, "Public bridleway, please close the gate".
In order to avoid disturbing the people whose peace must not be disturbed I continued up the road on foot so that I could turn out my lights. There was hardly any natural light whatsoever so I had to walk, not ride, using the canopy of tree branches as a guide to the direction of the road. Thankfully it was a clear road and there were no branches for me to trip over.
I was shocked to discover that the lockers of the gate were none other than the campsite! I have so much to rant on this subject but it would ruin my post so I move on.
The gate at the top was wide open (obviously so that car drivers can arrive!). So, despite the allure of the campsite, I trudged on and checked my cheat sheet. Lots of clifftop riding (windy and dark) and then Hunters Inn.
I'd checked out Hunters Inn on Google. It wasn't the kind of place you could score a bivi spot in the pub beer garden or the kiddies' play castle or the neighbouring field for that matter. It was the kind of place where people book their wedding. After the Inn, all roads led down steep downhills into woodlands with streams at the bottom and all roads were steep sided roads with strips of grass down the middle.
These streams resulted in cold-traps and the top of the hills were in the breeze so I had to stop on my way down a hill or on my way back up the other side. Also, if I passed Hunters Inn, I'd have to keep going a long way to get away from those lanes and I'd have to stop before I got to the sprawling metropolis of Coombe Martin with all its trailer parks and holiday makers and Easter Sunday stuff.
The mileage tally, on the other hand, was reaching a much more successful 58 miles and so I would only have the 12 mile shortfall from day 1 to claim back on day 3.
As I'd been riding through Lynton earlier I had started to admire the wealth of audax hotels (bus stop shelters) starting to appear along bus routes. What I could really do with at that point, I thought, was a shelter of some sort. Perfect. All I'd need to do was get my sleeping bag out and I wouldn't have to bother with setting up my tent. Unfortunately the little lanes away from Hunters Inn weren't on a bus route and I continued to fight my way along lanes and then muddy byways for another 90 minutes before I eventually rounded a sharp corner to find none other than a three-walled stone building. No roof but at least the forecast was clear and I was protected from the wind on three sides.
A quick check of the ground confirmed it was flat and dry and I set out my sleeping mat, my sleeping bag and finally my coat for added peace of mind if it rained. I might get wet legs on my bag but at least my shoulders would be dry.
I lay down and pulled my coat over my face and nodded off. I felt too exposed without cover on my face but that soon deteriorated into stuffy nightmares so I pulled back my coat and looked at the sky. Tall skinny silver birch leaned over me like concerned doctors in theatre and beyond the stars glistened. So many stars. It was beautiful and I just stared at it for a while - happy in the knowledge that I was both dry and warm... but it wasn't going to lull me to sleep.
Eventually I conceded that I needed to rig some kind of cover to make my brain happy. I dug out my tent and erected the flysheet, poles and pegged out the corners into an approximate tent shape. I then dragged all of my loose belongings under the cover with me and felt much happier. Finally I did the math.
Two days, 10 hours and 13 hours. 48 and 63 miles. I still had 40 miles to go. I knew it got easier but I was convinced it wouldn't be much easier. If it was going to take me another 9 hours to finish and I had to finish by 5pm on Sunday then I pretty much had to be out of there by 8am. But what if I slowed down? I was worried about dog walkers discovering me and giving me a hard time. I was worried about foxes stealing my shit or getting pissed on by passing pooches. I set my alarm for 4:30 am to make sure I was up before the dog walkers Still, I fell asleep at 1:30 and woke up at 3:45am.
Close enough.
There's a theory that by taking a short sharp break, your body doesn't get into that cycle of regeneration that causes muscle soreness the day after (and the day after that). That was how I felt. I considered brewing up but didn't like the idea of setting the woods on fire or standing around waiting for water to boil. I just put layers on and packed up my bike - all but one tent peg which proved impossible to find in the light of a head torch whilst staring at a woodland floor covered in silver birch twigs. Everything looks like a silver peg!
I started walking. At least the stars were gone, cloud cover insulated the trail and as I hiked up away from the trees I started to shed layers.
I focused on my new found role of fastest (only) woman this year. It didn't occur to me that I might be the first woman to ever do the route. I just thought of being the first woman this year. I was more proud that here I was, out there, doing it. Almost competing. Not sleeping through the night. I set my targets and I was exceeding them. It was only when I reached the "bright lights" of Coombe Martin that I realised how tired I was. Tireder than when I had stopped to sleep. Tireder than when I woke up. I thought of texting TSK to let him know where I was but I couldn't remember the name of the town I was in so still I trudged. And boy did I trudge - up the 1 in 4 hill out of Coombe Martin then over minor lanes to Hele Bay and finally into Ilfracombe where the sun finally started to show its colourful glow over the Bristol Channel. I felt no better for it.
It was still before 6 as I left Ilfracombe and nowhere was open so I started to leave up another effing big hill. This time I just needed to stop. For a moment I planted both feet on the ground either side of my bike, folded my arms across my bars and sleeping bag and put my head down. I fell straight off to sleep, only to be woken by a man talking to his dog. I looked up and he checked I was OK.
"Just having a little rest?"
"Yeah, are you alright?" I asked.
"I don't blame you," he said - more referring to the steepness of the hill and probably not realising at all that I'd been asleep. He set off down the hill.
There was a bench at the end of the lane. I locked my bike to it and lay out on the bench with the plants tickling my nose and snoozed until the plants and a passing car woke me again a few minutes later then ate some flapjack. Damn that was good!
Some clifftop paths were coming. They'd be relatively easy so I got myself the enthusiasm to continue and rode on to Lee. In my new-found obsession with benches, I found a tap at the village hall in Lee and set about brewing coffee and whilst I waited for water to boil I consumed the rest of the flapjack and then snoozed solidly into my buff whilst keeping one ear out for boiling noises.
The vicar and his wife wished me a cheery good morning and then I packed up my stuff again and set off up the steep climb (footpath approved for event use) to the very weirdest of bike packing experiences. Let's just say the organiser may have had complaints from plenty of other people but I'm going to leave it to say that at one point I ended up with EmVee's back wheel on my helmet after I jumped feet first off a drop-off. Trail centres do not belong on bike packing events.
I didn't need the cheat sheet though to tell me that at the top of here was Lee Farm Shop. I checked with a couple of holiday makers that there was actually a cafe and not just a shop selling cheese, milk and raw meats and I punched the air without any disguise for my joy when they said, "Of course!"
I ate a tea cake the size of my head, drank a hot chocolate to ease the muscles and slowly sipped at a raspberry juice drink to re-stock sugar supplies. I also got a much-needed hands and face wash since I hadn't done so since Minehead and definitely not since the lamb-rescue experience.
And so I passed through the campsite where my tipi was pitched without any falling-over-and-going-to-sleep incidents. It did however, trigger a long morning of checking with the Garmin just to see how many more frickin' inland loops there were going to be to this hellish nightmare - 2. A run along the coast and then turning in for the final, flat time trial across the sand dunes to the finish.
Some of the diversions were pleasant. Some of the diversions were boggy, ankle deep in mud and unfriendly. There was a stretch of disused railway which led to a vertical wall of mud and all of the time my cranks and chain rings made a continuous grinding and grating noise which I ignored in the hope that it would last me these last 20 miles.
I forged my way through holiday makers, chatting and smiling with them at face value and at the same time cursing everything that went vaguely wrong - Garmins, my feet, the bike, the route, Ben, Andrew, Scott for making me ride so fast on day 1. It was all my fault and I knew it but somehow chuntering and swearing made it all more bearable and the lovely people enjoying their holidays were tolerant of my squeaky bike, dirty legs and exhausted expression and many of them encouraged me up short climbs that I otherwise might have given up and walked through. I valued this because at the end of the day, getting off the bike was almost as uncomfortable as pedalling the damn thing.
Riding around the golf course at Saunton I got particularly caught up in a coughing fit and had to retrace my pedal strokes in shame around the 9th hole. I exited onto the Old American Road where holiday makers on their new bike to work bikes wobbled along on the clear bit of roadway and made me bounce my sore lady-bits over the rocks on the un-worn bit of the road but I still smiled and waved.
Somehow I found it in me to out-run a mini and its entourage down the single track road approaching the beach car park (speed bumps and oncoming traffic held them up in passing places) and brought myself enough speed to actually enjoy the final road miles in to the village of Broughton.
I honestly couldn't believe I had made it and punched the air in joy, much to the delight of my welcoming committee: TSK, Ian Fitz and my friend Helen Elmore who had come out to wish me congrats. Javier showed up too to say goodbye before his commute to London and I ate a lot of pizza whilst Fitz photographed me for finishing proof.
TSK informed me I was the first female to complete ever (like, in two years) and Ian told me then that a few guys had scratched because of the bad weather on Friday night and finally, for the first time all weekend, I actually didn't feel like I had packed too much gear. CORRECTION: I wasn't the first ever female to complete as last year Vickey completed in a much quicker 31 hours... so now I have targetz.
A roadie who had been eating in the cafe asked me if it was too early to ask me if I had enjoyed myself and my straight away answer was yes. It was too soon. Right then I hated it, but right then I also loved it. The pain of getting there, the satisfaction of getting there. The cold, the riding at 5am in shorts and a vest. The nerve damage in my toes flaring up, the dull numbness in my brain where nothing matters but turning pedals, finding dinner and a flat piece of land. The absolute attention to detail and the complete simplicity. Within 2 hours I went from, "Shit that's the hardest thing I've ever done" to "How can I do this better next year".
And that is the note on which I'm ending this post.
This led me to wonder where I'd left the good Garmin - y'know, the one with the route on it. On the window sill of course, waiting to receive satellite info, which presented the additional challenge of using a spare phone to download the ride data off an email I couldn't remember a password for then transferring to the other Garmin.
Three hours later we were pitched at Little Roadway campsite whilst I pulled together my stuff and TSK stormed data to get me navigated. There was one thing left on my mind - no spare inner tube. I could fix a puncture with patches but if I tore a tube it would be a game-over for the minor cost of an inner-tube. The box of spare kit in the back of the car fixed that. Sorted. Everything else could eff off. I was no longer going to look like a complete beginner! I went to load my saddlebag onto my bike. Nothing. It's no ordinary saddle bag. It's 20 litres of strappy structural genius with massive velcros straps around the seat post and clips to hold it to the saddle in an easily removeable quick way and plastic stiffeners which help keep its shape over all terrains and it was missing. It was all of those things, but it was not in my car.
I slowly recalled the inner debate about which of the two bags in the loft was mine and clearly I set both aside.
Somehow I refused to be beaten and from the genius box of spare things, soon rigged a 15 litre dry bag, my flip flops as structural support and three straps as a temporary kit carrier. Everything essential went in it. The rest either went on my bars, in my rucsac or got left behind. I added a bungee cord to my rucsac.
Final packing list included: water, waterproof coat and bottoms, inflatable pillow, sleep mat and sleeping bag, down coat and booties (yes even in spring), wool baselayer, spare socks, gloves, hat, compass, chargin cables & battery, notebook, spare spokes, lighter, bogroll, leggings and jumper, tent, 1st aid kit, headtorch, red light (+spare), stove, pot, coffee strainer and coffee and a sachet of freeze dried food.
When we arrived on Friday morning I just had to find the hat I had just been wearing (took a good 10 minutes), load up my bags and I was good to go.
TSK was chatting with other riders and I watched a steady stream of very fit men arriving at the departure cafe carrying very little kit. I wracked my brains as to what I could leave behind but I couldn't bring myself to unpack a thing. I casually laid my hefty bike amongst the whippets and went in search of flapjack.
After a chat with Ian Fitz I was soon joined by Javier, somewhat immortalised by TSK at Ian and Lee Craigee's presentation on the HT500 in Sheffield. TSK played Javier without his Spanish accent, partly out of respect and partly through fear that it would, "come out Scottish". I could instantly see how Lee and Ian were drawn to this pocket rocket Spaniard who immediately thrust his hand out to me to introduce himself.
The flapjack went down nervously then Ben, the organiser said some words, and then there he was, picking his bike up next to me. As the only female competitor I didn't need to introduce myself but he introduced himself and we set up up the hill. I soon shot off sideways to let the masses pass by.
We were soon walking Yes, my lungs do work. Thanks.
Javier pulled alongside and wanted to know my goals, "To finish and stay healthy?"
"Yes", I said, "and to come first woman".
He laughed and looked at my bike, gesturing at its load. "I get cold at night" and asked him about his targets. He muttered something about 30 hours, then 26 hours which I just didn't understand. He might have a 20 minute turbo-kip. "Ah, but I have a tent and coffee" I said.
"Where are you staying? Do you have a spot? I come and find you!".
I wasn't sharing my coffee with anyone.
Nearing the top of the climb, Ian caught me up for a chat about pacing and pissing contests and survival. He had been faffing in town and purposefully avoiding the pissing contests. This is what I like about Ian.
We observed a minute's silence for Mike Hall which was spent deeply immersed in meditation on the beautiful singing chirp of the skylarks who chose to ignore the minute's silence in favour of the greater natural world. It was a fitting tribute.
Some people shed layers before setting off and then pretty soon I was off the back and then just as soon I passed a group of three fixing a puncture and I was no longer last. I caught up Andrew S, Rob and Scott and the three of us hopscotched until Rob and I got stuck behind a horserider who moved faster than us uphill but slower on the downhill. It says something that it took us three goes to pass the horse.
A farmers wife came out of her house to cheer us by and then there was only me a and Rob to cheer for.
After the start, the hours of the day rolled by in a brilliant blur - as they tend to do on long rides. All of the testing climbs and long, exhilarating descents morph into one roller coaster of joy. What tends to stick out are the snippets of joy and pain shared with other people, creatures or your own mind. Here are mine from this ride:
Riding past Arlington Court National Trust site. 14 miles in, this was my first potential cafe stop and I didn't need it. The horror on the parking attendants faces as I rode past with all my kit.
Catching Scott and Andrew again in time to stop for lunch. Sitting on the tarmac to eat sausage rolls, crisps and fruit and Ben visiting to see how we were doing.
Arriving at a bridge on a bridleway with a 2 ft high board to climb over and leaving the boys to haul their bikes over whilst I headed upstream to wade across the river barefoot. They were gentlemanly and offered to help but that would break the rules of independence so I enjoyed my paddle instead.
Riding on the moors together before different strengths pushed Andrew out the back. We passed through some frustratingly magical places to stop and bivi but it was too early. Having already sampled the moorland water temperature I was sorely tempted by a swim but chose to refrain.
Scott's encyclopaedic knowledge of the calorie content of almost every known race food and his enthusiasm for the Tour Divide causing him to carry immensely lightweight compact kit which I didn't get to see in action. I was definitely carrying too much stuff. His methodology for riding in the lantern rouge space put him with us. When we happened across two ladies sitting by a river he had a chat with them about our ride. He disclosed his intention to get to Minehead before stopping for the night. Meanwhile I stood alongside, my hand cupped to my face whispering, "Well he is, but I don't have a clue where I'm going tonight".
The reality is, I did have a vague plan of 2 x 10 hour days of around 60 miles plus time to eat leisurely lunch and dinner and 30 miles left to finish the last day between 9am and 5pm. This plan was designed to be A) easy to follow and B) Flexible. I had some idea on sleep spots between mile 45 and 70 and between 100 and 120 miles, right up to sleeping at Little Roadway campsite as I was already booked in there with TSK though this would contravene the rules and wasn't really worth it since it was only 10 miles from the finish.
Sometime after the interactions with the girls, I got dropped by Scott. I don't remember it so there's every chance it was a downhill or I stopped to faff with the straps on by bag. I reacquired Andrew in the midst of a faff with my bags and a quick consult with my cheat sheet cold me we were not too far from a tea shop at 3pm with the afternoon's rain shower threatening to start so we gorged on tea cakes and tea and I bought flapjack to enjoy at a later time. We bid hello to Rob as he stopped at the shop across the road.
With more moorland valleys than you can shake a stick at behind us, dinner was next priority ahead of a rainy forecast night ahead. The pub at Winsford offered a reasonable menu and came with a local's recommendation so we chowed down and took one last opportunity for the day's wash. I set off back into dusk with a red flashy light and soon switched it off for more off-roading. I still felt like I was carrying too much stuff
Before Minehead, my cheatsheet offered brackeny morrland bivis on Exmoor which would have been nice given stary skies without any breeze but on a windy, wet night, I wasn't getting onto Exmoor without some guarantee I'd be off again pretty soon. As the rain finally started to tip down at 9:30, I entered the stillness of one of those fine Devon country lanes which completely shelters you from the wind. Unfortunately it climbed upwards very sharply. After slopping up it for half an hour, to my relief it flattened out and stayed out of the wind. It was 10pm and I was fed up of being rained on so time for bed.
Although I got settled quickly and was pretty tired, I lay awake until 12:45 although I didn't waste it. In between light snoozing I pulled everything into the tent I needed then spent hours recharging Garmins, lights, cameras off my battery pack. I ate scraps of leftover lunch and started outside for a pee during a lull in the weather. In amongst my hastily and haphazardly packed kit I discovered I was carrying too much stuff - to be specific: an extra pillow, food pack and spare set of ear plugs. Dear lord, protect my extra ears!
In the morning the farmer passed on his quad bike before I had time to dream of being awake and I ate snacks and drank coffee. I did a rubbish job of the coffee but at least it was coffee. Once awake, the farmer passed again and wished us good morning.
Andrew had also stopped nearby so we hit Exmoor together and agreed that it would have been really shit in the dark and rain as we bounced along the track hitting boulder after boulder and I thanked my indulgent self for buying sturdy shoes which take on foot-strikes and pedal-strikes without crushing into my feet.
I grabbed a quick pecan slice in Wootton Courteney and listened as elderly posh men mansplained that I need to be careful around Exmoor ponies.. but only after he thought I was a man so I guess we let him off.
Then it was on to Minehead for an overly relaxing veggie breakfast before I realised it had hit 12:00 and breakfast became brunch and a desperation to get out of town. I grabbed some water, fresh fruit and nuts and headed for the seaside.
I turned the opposite way to Butlins and left Andrew behind as I cycled up the woodland trails, my Garmin losing satellites and getting me variously lost. I decided to stop, eat apples and calm down at which point Andrew caught up again. He had been feeling ill but now felt better. I explained I now had all the food with me I needed and didn't expect to stop again except to cook up some dinner. His plan was to stop in Porlock. We rode out the climb and the cliff tops in some kind of synchronicity and then descended to Porlock together.
Inland from Porlock, the route climbs uphill, again, starting with a beast of a climb where I lost my tail. I battled around 2/3 of the way up with a 30 -40kg bike riding is always easier than pushing it when you have skinny arms.
As I walked I must've entered that meditative state again as it suddenly became obvious to me how I could solve a problem I had experienced - my front roll (tent and sleeping bag) kept mashing into my front wheel every time I went over a bump. It had gotten worse and meant I was descending too slowly and carefully.
In a shock of inspiration I realised I could easily rotate my Jones Bars by loosening two bolts and all of my stuff would be lifted over 1 cm - giving me more clearance to enjoy my dances on the downhills.
I found a sheltered spot behind gauze and dug-out my tools. The Allen key turned easily, hinting that the whole assembly had been sliding down for some time. I set the bars position for something I thought I could cope with and sure enough I could ride downhill much faster. Still, Andrew caught me up again and I explained my faff. We soon separated on the next descent and then I consolidated it after I quickly stopped to fill up my camelbak with water from the river then set off onto farm tracks onto the moor.
I had a chat with some walkers who said they had seen another guy carrying the "same sort of stuff on his bike". The man fit the description for Scott and for a second I thought I might catch him until they clarified, "but that was ages ago". Oh.
I mashed on up the hill and onto open farmland. The wind was blowing sideways now and I had to concentrate to keep my feet turning over. As I pushed my bike through a bumpy rut, I nearly trod on the tiny newborn lamb lying in the path of my bike. It bleated and woke me from my reverie.
"Oh no, where's your mummy?" I looked around and couldn't see a lonely or distressed sheep. There were plenty about but they all had lambs with them and were contentedly feeding. The lamb bleated again. I had to do something. She was shivvering and sounded so distressed. The sheep to my left had just given birth and was busy licking her lamb. The chances were, this was the first of her litter and she had walked away from it to birth the second.
I set my bike down, picked up the lamb - which wasn't hard as it couldn't even stand itself - and walked across the field with it. It paddled the air, shivvered and bleated so I cradled it like a baby, hugging the warm yellow afterbirth and muddy wool to my coat. I spoke reassuringly, at the same time thinking, "Why me?" I looked around for Andrew or Scott but they were nowhere to be seen.
The ewe eyed me suspiciously and then ran away from her other newborn baby! No no no! don't go away! That was the worst scenario - two dead lambs. Thankfully, she wasn't prepared to give up on the situation and hovered, torn between keeping her distance from me and charging me with an almighty head butt to stop me stealing her baby. I made a brief attempt to get her to come over but realised I had no chance so I cuddled the two lambs together so that they were at least warmer as one unit and walked away. To my relief, the ewe ran back to them. She resumed licking her own baby, no doubt wondering what the hell she was supposed to do with this yellow, dirty one that I brought her out of the ditch.
I jumped back on my bike and followed Ben's wobbly track to the fence on top of the hill where I had to cross through a gate to the next field. As I turned to close the gate, a land rover pulled up with a trailer on tow and I offered to close the gate but they were going in a different direction.
"Hey", I called out, "I found a lamb in the ditch, I put it over there with that ewe but it's very cold".
"Cheers", he said, laughing, "Do you have some agricultural experience?".
"My parents run a farm in Cheshire" I said.
It was a white lie but seemed more authoritative than saying, "I follow the Yorkshire Shepherdess on twitter and my godmother is a veterinary nurse".
He seemed pleased so I joked about ruining my new coat with ovine after-birth. We chatted about the ride during which he also explained that he had seen Scott hours ago. Offered him a lift apparently which left me wondering if Scott was "looking tired".
After my moorland experience, I bounced back down to more idyllic daylight bivi spots then climbed out again and finally rode over to the campsite at West Porlock - the most tempting-looking campsite yet. People bbq'd, kids played in the river, people were leading normal lives but I knew I had to keep going.
I was only at 48 miles for day 2, leaving me over 50 miles to complete on day 3. If I slept all night by accident or design there was a high risk I would fail to finish since days 1 &2 were 10 hours long already. Day 3 had its flatter sections but I didn't know how much of it was easier as it was difficult to tell from the route profile.
I did need to eat though and for a while I considered cooking by the river but then promptly decided to attempt to ride out of he valley into the sun for some warmth. It was too late though and I started to climb out of the valley in dusk. The wind was coming straight down the hill at me. In a last-ditch attempt to cook in shelter and day light, I opted for a field gateway which offered shelter and 7 heifers who came to offer companionship and help my reasoning when I had no-one else to ask where the bloody hell I had put my lighter at 7am that morning.
Thankfully it wasn't a busy road or I may have had a steady stream of motorists checking on my well-being. I layered up in down coat and waterfproofs, sat in the dirt and cooked water - enough to put 300 ml into instant pasta and leftovers for coffee. The pasta cooked as I drank the coffee and all was well with the world. The pasta filled my belly and the coffee stoked my brain. I packed everything away and as I picked up my bike to leave, I heard the words, "Are you shitting me?"
It was Andrew - back from the dead again. Pushing up hill and scoffing on a Mars Bar. "I've eaten, have you?"
No, he was heading to the pub at the bottom of the next hill, did I want to join him? No I said, I've got enough with me now to keep me going and I rather eat it and ride lighter. I said I wanted to keep going to make up some miles before I stop.
"Do you want to put a number on that mileage?" he said. He already knew my 60-60-30 plan and the fact I was behind. "No, I'm just going to ride till I drop tonight", I said.
I got to the top of the hill. As I'd started cold, he wasn't far behind. We took a slight wrong turn and retraced our steps, just in time to be seen by a Land Rover heading out across the byway.
"Are you lost? Are you OK?" they called out into the darkness.
Yet more lovely Devon people. We convinced them we were fine and they let us set out down the hillside on our own before doing whatever land rovery thing they had come out there to do.
The trail plunged us into trees again and then finally out into a river path. I set about tightening my rear pannier straps again and reinforced my resolve not to go to the pub. I sent Andrew on his way so as not to hold up his refuelling and I faffed enough to be sure everything was secure before streaming through town without even noticing his bike locked up anywhere. EmVee and I were on a mission and we were partly hankering after finding Scott somewhere along the way.
At what point the cutesy seaside town of West Porlock turned into rough forest trails, mud and tracks through the darkness I do not know. I stopped caring. I wouldn't have noticed Hillsford Bridge had it not been for a concerned motorist who just happened to notice a girl alone on her bike and waited just long enough at the junction to make sure I was OK before making his or her turn - or if it hadn't been for the long and very much deserved road descent just after.
Mainly, I just rode and rode and rode through the darkness. My Garmin was being slow at picking up my location due to the tree cover and possibly reduced satelite traffic at night time. I started to use my compass to determine which way the route went from the screen then which way I was *actually* oriented from real life. It saved me retracing my steps. When I finally hit the top coastal paths again I realised that the lights of Bristol were glinting at me across the channel which meant I finally had a good indicator of North without getting the compass out. Sill, there were plenty of moments where I stood still in a field going, That's North so that's South so I need to go south east, no south west and that's south so west is that way, no that's east oh bollocks...
Arriving at Lynton was another world. It was 11:45 on a Saturday night and the streets were dead. Clearly a beautiful shopping boutique village by day, there wasn't a soul at night and I felt pretty privileged to be there traffic free. I sailed through unnoticed and then descended through screeching owls to the South West Coastal path again, alone. No cars, no ice cream vans. I let myself through the gate and started the unrelenting climb back up. At least it was rideable though I took some rests too. At the top I found a gate locked with a padlock and chain. It seemed odd. Obvious busy tourist season, national treasure of a footpath and a locked gate. I tried all three alternative gates and all three led to dead ends - a field, a yard, a driveway. There was nothing else for it but to hooft my fully loaded bike over the gate and climb over after it.
From somewhere I found the mammoth strength to do so without having to release any of my bags. I was still carrying too much stuff but, we were away. Of course I felt guilty like I was trespassing and yet this was the bridlepath and the gate was fitted with all the same signs as the others, "Public bridleway, please close the gate".
In order to avoid disturbing the people whose peace must not be disturbed I continued up the road on foot so that I could turn out my lights. There was hardly any natural light whatsoever so I had to walk, not ride, using the canopy of tree branches as a guide to the direction of the road. Thankfully it was a clear road and there were no branches for me to trip over.
I was shocked to discover that the lockers of the gate were none other than the campsite! I have so much to rant on this subject but it would ruin my post so I move on.
The gate at the top was wide open (obviously so that car drivers can arrive!). So, despite the allure of the campsite, I trudged on and checked my cheat sheet. Lots of clifftop riding (windy and dark) and then Hunters Inn.
I'd checked out Hunters Inn on Google. It wasn't the kind of place you could score a bivi spot in the pub beer garden or the kiddies' play castle or the neighbouring field for that matter. It was the kind of place where people book their wedding. After the Inn, all roads led down steep downhills into woodlands with streams at the bottom and all roads were steep sided roads with strips of grass down the middle.
These streams resulted in cold-traps and the top of the hills were in the breeze so I had to stop on my way down a hill or on my way back up the other side. Also, if I passed Hunters Inn, I'd have to keep going a long way to get away from those lanes and I'd have to stop before I got to the sprawling metropolis of Coombe Martin with all its trailer parks and holiday makers and Easter Sunday stuff.
The mileage tally, on the other hand, was reaching a much more successful 58 miles and so I would only have the 12 mile shortfall from day 1 to claim back on day 3.
As I'd been riding through Lynton earlier I had started to admire the wealth of audax hotels (bus stop shelters) starting to appear along bus routes. What I could really do with at that point, I thought, was a shelter of some sort. Perfect. All I'd need to do was get my sleeping bag out and I wouldn't have to bother with setting up my tent. Unfortunately the little lanes away from Hunters Inn weren't on a bus route and I continued to fight my way along lanes and then muddy byways for another 90 minutes before I eventually rounded a sharp corner to find none other than a three-walled stone building. No roof but at least the forecast was clear and I was protected from the wind on three sides.
A quick check of the ground confirmed it was flat and dry and I set out my sleeping mat, my sleeping bag and finally my coat for added peace of mind if it rained. I might get wet legs on my bag but at least my shoulders would be dry.
I lay down and pulled my coat over my face and nodded off. I felt too exposed without cover on my face but that soon deteriorated into stuffy nightmares so I pulled back my coat and looked at the sky. Tall skinny silver birch leaned over me like concerned doctors in theatre and beyond the stars glistened. So many stars. It was beautiful and I just stared at it for a while - happy in the knowledge that I was both dry and warm... but it wasn't going to lull me to sleep.
Eventually I conceded that I needed to rig some kind of cover to make my brain happy. I dug out my tent and erected the flysheet, poles and pegged out the corners into an approximate tent shape. I then dragged all of my loose belongings under the cover with me and felt much happier. Finally I did the math.
Two days, 10 hours and 13 hours. 48 and 63 miles. I still had 40 miles to go. I knew it got easier but I was convinced it wouldn't be much easier. If it was going to take me another 9 hours to finish and I had to finish by 5pm on Sunday then I pretty much had to be out of there by 8am. But what if I slowed down? I was worried about dog walkers discovering me and giving me a hard time. I was worried about foxes stealing my shit or getting pissed on by passing pooches. I set my alarm for 4:30 am to make sure I was up before the dog walkers Still, I fell asleep at 1:30 and woke up at 3:45am.
Close enough.
There's a theory that by taking a short sharp break, your body doesn't get into that cycle of regeneration that causes muscle soreness the day after (and the day after that). That was how I felt. I considered brewing up but didn't like the idea of setting the woods on fire or standing around waiting for water to boil. I just put layers on and packed up my bike - all but one tent peg which proved impossible to find in the light of a head torch whilst staring at a woodland floor covered in silver birch twigs. Everything looks like a silver peg!
I started walking. At least the stars were gone, cloud cover insulated the trail and as I hiked up away from the trees I started to shed layers.
I focused on my new found role of fastest (only) woman this year. It didn't occur to me that I might be the first woman to ever do the route. I just thought of being the first woman this year. I was more proud that here I was, out there, doing it. Almost competing. Not sleeping through the night. I set my targets and I was exceeding them. It was only when I reached the "bright lights" of Coombe Martin that I realised how tired I was. Tireder than when I had stopped to sleep. Tireder than when I woke up. I thought of texting TSK to let him know where I was but I couldn't remember the name of the town I was in so still I trudged. And boy did I trudge - up the 1 in 4 hill out of Coombe Martin then over minor lanes to Hele Bay and finally into Ilfracombe where the sun finally started to show its colourful glow over the Bristol Channel. I felt no better for it.
It was still before 6 as I left Ilfracombe and nowhere was open so I started to leave up another effing big hill. This time I just needed to stop. For a moment I planted both feet on the ground either side of my bike, folded my arms across my bars and sleeping bag and put my head down. I fell straight off to sleep, only to be woken by a man talking to his dog. I looked up and he checked I was OK.
"Just having a little rest?"
"Yeah, are you alright?" I asked.
"I don't blame you," he said - more referring to the steepness of the hill and probably not realising at all that I'd been asleep. He set off down the hill.
There was a bench at the end of the lane. I locked my bike to it and lay out on the bench with the plants tickling my nose and snoozed until the plants and a passing car woke me again a few minutes later then ate some flapjack. Damn that was good!
Some clifftop paths were coming. They'd be relatively easy so I got myself the enthusiasm to continue and rode on to Lee. In my new-found obsession with benches, I found a tap at the village hall in Lee and set about brewing coffee and whilst I waited for water to boil I consumed the rest of the flapjack and then snoozed solidly into my buff whilst keeping one ear out for boiling noises.
The vicar and his wife wished me a cheery good morning and then I packed up my stuff again and set off up the steep climb (footpath approved for event use) to the very weirdest of bike packing experiences. Let's just say the organiser may have had complaints from plenty of other people but I'm going to leave it to say that at one point I ended up with EmVee's back wheel on my helmet after I jumped feet first off a drop-off. Trail centres do not belong on bike packing events.
I didn't need the cheat sheet though to tell me that at the top of here was Lee Farm Shop. I checked with a couple of holiday makers that there was actually a cafe and not just a shop selling cheese, milk and raw meats and I punched the air without any disguise for my joy when they said, "Of course!"
I ate a tea cake the size of my head, drank a hot chocolate to ease the muscles and slowly sipped at a raspberry juice drink to re-stock sugar supplies. I also got a much-needed hands and face wash since I hadn't done so since Minehead and definitely not since the lamb-rescue experience.
And so I passed through the campsite where my tipi was pitched without any falling-over-and-going-to-sleep incidents. It did however, trigger a long morning of checking with the Garmin just to see how many more frickin' inland loops there were going to be to this hellish nightmare - 2. A run along the coast and then turning in for the final, flat time trial across the sand dunes to the finish.
Some of the diversions were pleasant. Some of the diversions were boggy, ankle deep in mud and unfriendly. There was a stretch of disused railway which led to a vertical wall of mud and all of the time my cranks and chain rings made a continuous grinding and grating noise which I ignored in the hope that it would last me these last 20 miles.
I forged my way through holiday makers, chatting and smiling with them at face value and at the same time cursing everything that went vaguely wrong - Garmins, my feet, the bike, the route, Ben, Andrew, Scott for making me ride so fast on day 1. It was all my fault and I knew it but somehow chuntering and swearing made it all more bearable and the lovely people enjoying their holidays were tolerant of my squeaky bike, dirty legs and exhausted expression and many of them encouraged me up short climbs that I otherwise might have given up and walked through. I valued this because at the end of the day, getting off the bike was almost as uncomfortable as pedalling the damn thing.
Riding around the golf course at Saunton I got particularly caught up in a coughing fit and had to retrace my pedal strokes in shame around the 9th hole. I exited onto the Old American Road where holiday makers on their new bike to work bikes wobbled along on the clear bit of roadway and made me bounce my sore lady-bits over the rocks on the un-worn bit of the road but I still smiled and waved.
Somehow I found it in me to out-run a mini and its entourage down the single track road approaching the beach car park (speed bumps and oncoming traffic held them up in passing places) and brought myself enough speed to actually enjoy the final road miles in to the village of Broughton.
I honestly couldn't believe I had made it and punched the air in joy, much to the delight of my welcoming committee: TSK, Ian Fitz and my friend Helen Elmore who had come out to wish me congrats. Javier showed up too to say goodbye before his commute to London and I ate a lot of pizza whilst Fitz photographed me for finishing proof.
TSK informed me I was the first female to complete ever (like, in two years) and Ian told me then that a few guys had scratched because of the bad weather on Friday night and finally, for the first time all weekend, I actually didn't feel like I had packed too much gear. CORRECTION: I wasn't the first ever female to complete as last year Vickey completed in a much quicker 31 hours... so now I have targetz.
A roadie who had been eating in the cafe asked me if it was too early to ask me if I had enjoyed myself and my straight away answer was yes. It was too soon. Right then I hated it, but right then I also loved it. The pain of getting there, the satisfaction of getting there. The cold, the riding at 5am in shorts and a vest. The nerve damage in my toes flaring up, the dull numbness in my brain where nothing matters but turning pedals, finding dinner and a flat piece of land. The absolute attention to detail and the complete simplicity. Within 2 hours I went from, "Shit that's the hardest thing I've ever done" to "How can I do this better next year".
And that is the note on which I'm ending this post.
Sunday, February 19, 2017
Luxury in small doses - Necessities in large doses
Saturday - travel plus run 5km
We booked a fairly budget ski holiday this year. OK OK, last year we lucked out where Neilsen were "testing out" a new luxury spa hotel and had upgraded all guests for free to extra large balcony rooms. This year we were in a "standard basic" hotel for the same money. But this year we booked the airport hotel and valet parking for our 4:30am start and bloody hell did we enjoy it. Drop the car off for strangers to manage, big comfy bed, posh meal, saunter through the airport. The downside? By the time we arrived at our resort we had been in climatically controlled environments for 24 hours - hotel, airport, plane, bus. Ugh. So we went for a run.Just as we were going out the hotelier advised us of a pedestrian walkway that routes all through town. Perfect! Traffic free running, past a castle then a turnaround and retrace our steps to the hotel. Snowy, crisp, beautiful and kudos from our rep who couldn't believe we'd been out for a run after our 24 hours (including 6 hours sleep) of travelling.
Sunday - St Christina - 23 miles downhill skiing.
Everyone walks to the lift on the first day right? Chiampioni cable car and skiing. Getting the leggies back, remembering to do my boots up, stuff like that... oh, and looking for some tree runs. There may have been a little wading! We started to hanker after walk routes.
We moved upto Col Raiser to knock off all the runs in the area, played on a slalom route and had coffee and cake in the sun where we decided to call it quits after a lot of staring into the distance and wondering if we could hike it to Alpe de Susi, which we could just see over in the next valley.
We moved upto Col Raiser to knock off all the runs in the area, played on a slalom route and had coffee and cake in the sun where we decided to call it quits after a lot of staring into the distance and wondering if we could hike it to Alpe de Susi, which we could just see over in the next valley.
Typical that our boots were the muddiest in the boot room.
Chicken with chips last night improved into the best tasting Carpaccio since the vineyards in Penticton. The aroma of horseraddish. It was AMAZING.
Unfortuately it was a promising start and I didn't really get that mouth-watering excitement about any other dish all week.
Monday - Ortisei and Mt de Susi 32 miles including a bunch of cross country
Took the bus back to Ortisei then the cablecar to Alpe de Susi. On the first lift we saw a 'cross country map as we sidled overhead on the chair lift so we skied to it and skinned off across the plateau to Saltira hut for a coffee then on to the main cross country area.
As a ticket man was checking passes (you need a different ticket for cross country which we weren't about to buy on top of the 500 Euro's we'd just spent on downhill lift tickets) we continued by on the walking path, figuring they can't stop you walking on a national park footpath for free. We debated whether to stop at the mountain restaurant for early lunch at 11 but it felt too early so we continued.
As a ticket man was checking passes (you need a different ticket for cross country which we weren't about to buy on top of the 500 Euro's we'd just spent on downhill lift tickets) we continued by on the walking path, figuring they can't stop you walking on a national park footpath for free. We debated whether to stop at the mountain restaurant for early lunch at 11 but it felt too early so we continued.
Like an oasis in the desert, after 30 minutes we crested a hill to find one of those perfect hiker cafés lurking just out of sight. Delicious food for less than 20 Euro.
Back on the trail we lurched towards impressive looking towers with the intention of skiing around and beyond if we could but there was no way! As my toes started to burn from an injury I picked up in the (now lost in time) snowy UK winter of 2015, I began to dread the return journey to lifts, downhill and afternoon respite. Just as TSK started to complain about his back, we crested a hill and again, like an oasis, found a lift and downhill routes all back to civilisation... well, the rest of the Alpe de Susi area.
We returned via lift to Ortisei and bus back to the hotel where we slept all afternoon... me with my foot in the air.
Tuesday - Sella Ronde downhill 27 miles including lifts.
Sella Ronde was on TSK's repeat list. I must've been really tired from the previous day's effort because I followed him around like a lost puppy and, TBH, a lot of the scenery was lost on me.
There was a lot of queuing, it being half term, and a lot of shoving so I didn't enjoy the lifts at all. A lot of people we talked to said they were going to attempt the whole Ronde route on Thursday when their kids were in ski school. We immediately vowed not to do anything touristy on Thursday which was a bugger since I had my eye on the hidden valley route again.
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| ...I don't know why |
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| Castles in the snow. |
I guess in retrospect it's sweet that I spent Valentine's day paying more attention to my husband than the view.
Our neighbours in the hotel dining room took the time to leave little chocolate hearts at everyone's place.
Sweet touch!
Wednesday - Vallongia cross country ski 13.4 miles
Someone let me get on the bus before suggesting that we walk back the way we've just come and buy lunch. Someone (me) ignored that person and continued regardless. Still, we had a bag of sweetened pineapple, a few nuts and a bit of chocolate - what could go wrong?
Set out on our "easy" walk up the Vallongia - after a few downhill routes to get there. Avoided ticket man by following the path again. We were so much more confident this year on the skins and the snow was hard packed, meaning we didn't have to break trail and half walked / half glided across the open fields, into woodland and beyond the places we recognised from last year.
We skied out on to the open plateau, far from any other nordic skiers and finally, around 12:00 approached a small patch of sunshine which was finally braking the frozen valley sides. A Norwegian stopped for a brief, pidgin English chat and said, "This weather is just for us". Little did we know that outside our valhallah, the rest of the resort was basking in +6 deg C temperatures.
The Norwegian warned us that "beyond there is a point where you have to return". He skied away and we sat under a tree, in a small circle of dry pine needles and ate our pineapple chunks and nuts.
We continued into the steep ascent that lay beyond the plateau. Further than we went last year for sure. The path narrowed and I wondered about the ski down. No room for turns or snowplough through the trees and not enough snow to support a good tree-run ski. It was getting a bit sketchy.
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| TSK spotting the view |
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| Frozen |
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| Me, rekindling the relationship with my mountaineering rucksac of the 90's. |
Once back on the flat, we slid and glided back to the parking area of the cross-country ski area. We will have to return another year to develop this route further.
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| in the meantime, we enjoyed ice crystals as fine as moth wings. |
We nodded reverently at the driver of the pow-machine as we slid the remaining distance down to our hotel.
Thursday - Val di Fassa 50mile ski downhill
Val di Fassa is a tiny ski area off the main Selle Ronde with a few hotels at its extreme. I agreed to go ski there on the basis that we wouldn't have to ever stay there in the future. If it turned out to be amazing I could always reconsider. It seemed like a good easy day.
As anticipated, the Thursday rush on the Selle Ronde was in full force and the two final lifts to get into Val di Fassa were excruciating. Lifts that seem to be made for the elderly - cable cars that dock at the speed of a cross-channel ferry and slide away on their travel even slower to avoid disquieting those less steady on their feet..
However, once beyond these natural cattle grids, the Valley was dreamily quiet and it really was very beautiful.
Amongst the beauty we found a mountain restaurant offering healthy veggie pasta and demolished fig and beetroot pasta dishes before going on to ski the entire area in two hours. We must've been shifting some though as we covered a total of 50 miles (including lifts) which is my furthest ever travelled on (or with) a pair of skis by 12 miles.
The great thing about short days is they end in bars, with hot chocolate, with rum in.
Friday - last day blow out ski mountaineering to pic de Comica
Andrew agreed it would be a nice idea to finally ski from our door so we hiked around the corner and joined the path 30B. We skinned for some time around the suburbs of St Christina until we emerged at the Valentine's day castle and spent a good 30 minutes trying to get off the path onto the piste and then off the piste onto a path.
More uphill hiking - now at least on some kind of trail until we finally emerged at the Monte Pana lift area for lunch. As a location for bunny slopes and cross country, there was just a snack bar but we were already pretty tired and wanted to get going so we stomached short espressos, microwave pizzas dolled up with fresh rocket and cherry tomatoes and french fries with a peach iced tea for sugar.
More uphill hiking - now at least on some kind of trail until we finally emerged at the Monte Pana lift area for lunch. As a location for bunny slopes and cross country, there was just a snack bar but we were already pretty tired and wanted to get going so we stomached short espressos, microwave pizzas dolled up with fresh rocket and cherry tomatoes and french fries with a peach iced tea for sugar.
We walked around a path I'd skied down earlier in the week - mainly to take a look at goats that were bleating and dancing around in the snow. We then acquired the 'cross country ski trails which led us to following route 30. Sadly, this followed a road so we used cross country skiing and touristy paths to try and keep the best track of the road.
When we popped out of the trees, I was still adamant on heading for Monte Susi to claim that we'd skied from our door to the most remote end of the resort. TSK had other ideas and headed off towards Mont de Sura. I was pretty annoyed but realising how tired he was, I followed and eventually conceded (once we rose above the scenery) that it was the smart move. Monte Susi was on the other side of a steep valley and still some un-tracked distance away. Neither of us would have been fit for anything if we'd attempted it and we would have been pushing the boundaries of sensible skiing, potentially descending the closed runs late in the evening when we were tired and the piste bashers are trying to do their job.
The consolation prize was that we would achieve a Col and I was pretty sure that on this day, no-one else had got this close to the towering cliffs that make up the skyline of the Dolomites.
The consolation prize was that we would achieve a Col and I was pretty sure that on this day, no-one else had got this close to the towering cliffs that make up the skyline of the Dolomites.
We gained the ridge and walked on up to a wall of rock, mud, ice and a little snow. It was pretty tenuous. The route around it would have involved us skiing around a boulder field which neither of us was really up for. I offered to go ahead and see if there was anything over the top for us to exit onto rather than lead him up something awful only to have to retrace our steps.
He nodded enthusiastically, I left my skis and took a run at the slope ahead whilst he caught me up. The slither of icy snow narrowed to 6 inches so I used rocks and poles to scrabble through a few heart-stopping moments when my rubber-soled ski mountaineering boot toes refused to hold and my life dangled on the grip of a ski pole tip.
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| Pic de Comica |
Then there was the shin deep snow that my boots now punched through and finally I stood on the summit of Pic de Comica, not feeling at all amused. There was no time to celebrate now, as I ran over the top to be absolutely sure there was no cliff face between us and the sweetly humming chair lift at the top of Mont de Sura. Hurragh! A clean run-out. A short, non too technical off piste descent onto a lovely rolling blue piste.
I ran back from whence I came, this time shortening my poles to minimum length thinking that, should I plummet down the rocky ice slope, I could at least attempt to use them like an ice axe. The side effect was, they put my body into the perfect position for down-hilling and I managed every step in control. As I reached TSK I noticed two people bringing themselves up behind us.
TSK was persuaded that my description of the route ahead was easier than retracing our steps so far through poorly conditioned snow and coming away without the prize of the col - though I'm sure that wasn't at the fore of his mind. I also mentioned the couple behind us in a hope that this would reassure him we had assistance available if we needed to seek help.
We strapped the skis to our rucksacs again and kicked and swore our way up the rocky slope, across the shin deep snow and finally up to the Pic.
The two behind us had obviously decided better of our alpine trek and entirely disappeared from sight. Perhaps I imagined them. The sense of satisfaction was immense for me. I believe it probably came later for Andrew.
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| Looking over towards Monte Susi, TSK prepares for the descent. |
We dressed in downhill clothing and rocked up at our favourite hot chocolate spot to order more rum. It was a day for being inside and eating strudel.
I can absolutely say that we totally nailed the last day.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
The Great and First Torino-Nice Rally Day 6 - Refugio Priet to Limone Piemonte via Priet, Colletto and St Roinas 43 miles, 2360m ascent
The ying yang of starting in a refugio. You're half way up the hill already. You've got yesterday's hill in your legs already.
Breakfast isn't quite as spectacular as dinner - mostly because the coffee is instant. The boys have had a bit of a lie in so we set off piecemeal but mostly within an hour of eachother. We half expect to see runners coming up the road but we seem to miss the different waves whilst we're on their route although we see plenty of marshalls on turns. We leave Cyrille drying his tent. My damp clothes are on the front of my bike as it was cold overnight - not good drying cold either. I lose a pair of socks as I forget to change into riding socks and set about getting my "clean" socks sweaty on the first climb of the day.
Near the top of the climb someone almost drives into my handlebars as they overtake and I call them a very nasty word.
They stop a little further up and it's two women. I feel slightly bad for swearing at them but it is justified and I soon snap at their yappy little dog too who seems to be intent on ruining the peace and quiet. I'm not sure what they do to / with it but it soon stops yapping. When they're walking below me later they seem to have left the poor bugger in the car.
It seems odd that we're so far above civilisation and yet there is this constant stream of traffic passing us - all heading for the carpark where the road stops and we are going to continue riding out across the landscape, all boulders and gravel.
There's the occasional runner (must be back markers) and the occasional support family member and some hill walkers. One Europen lady is a big fan of Nicky Spinks and Fell running and is planning to come to the UK next summer to, "Learn how to run". Odd. A lot of people are stopping for a chat. At one point we meet up with the checkpoint for the runners who are about to de-camp and offer us as much food and drink as we'd like to save them carrying it off the hill.
Let's just say that in future long running events I will be carrying a small piece of parmesan in my rucsac.
Two mountain bikers are impressed by Andrew being the only person on a fully loaded bike to ride the short climb to the checkpoint (anything for free cheese) and they ride with us for a short time before disappearing off up a ridgeway path. We start our descent to Demonte, after a little more rambling across the hillside.
When we hit tarmac it's time for lunch. We avoid a few motorbikes on the hairpin bends then roll into the much anticipated Rifugio Carbonetto. I order something off the specials that I don't understand and am rewarded by a delicious veal steak and deep green salad. Perfect Iron-boosting food. Those who opted for the more comprehensible ravioli are similarly happy.
Demonte is a lovely place but we ride through it because Verdante is our chosen destination for the night. JJ stopped to stock up. We leave the town on a flat road heading through big open fields of wheat and some dark green produce. It's a verdant landscape that's difficult to leave but after starting at 1700m elevation, we've only done 700m climbing today and feel we have to earn our dinner.
We're soon at Festina which is summarily free of icecream... or people, but we fill up our water from the source in town and leave another couple searching, in desperation for an open source of ice cream. Travelling by bike we have no option but to keep going up the Colletto for 1300m and over to Valderi which yields on the ice cream front, for all its high-rise buildings and big major road.
Then follows the tortuous ride up the SP108 for 5 miles through areas of quarry workings. We get the distinct impression that most people here work in the quarry and it's Sunday so everyone is out enjoying their day out. As I start to think about stopping for the night, the parks and rec areas are filled with families playing and teenagers making out and drinking and it becomes clear that stopping here is not an option. We climb up through the Tettos - each "village" establishment looking like the next 1980's horror movie of development mantle-holding, services-lacking surburbia I have paid to avoid on this trip. There's one campsite but it's right by the main road and the signs at the gate clearly indicate that there's no tenting facilities so we continue on.
Finally back into the forest and roads where you can see where you're going to be in 400m because it's 50 m above you up the cliff. We make it to the top of the Roinas after another 600m of up and a bit worse for wear but it's too early for us to think about wild camping and we have no food, despite a few tempting-looking car parks / churches / picnic tables.
We persevere onto Vernante and back into ski-resort-ville. TSK cooks his brakes on the downhill and sends me ahead to forage the town for fresh food whilst he waits for the breeze to cool down the bike. It's a pretty place despite its high-rise flats and the first place we've been to which seems to be alive and well at 5pm on a Sunday. There's a market going on and I go into a greengrocers to buy fresh vegetables for our evening meal. The shopkeeper is amused by the excitement I am displaying at buying fresh plums, green beans and tomatoes. TSK turns up just as I'm walking out of the store and we wind our way through the market-goers and some street artists. It would've been nice to take in the atmosphere but time was against us although the little park on the edge of town would have made a lovely camp spot.
There was clearly no legal site so I set off down the road at a clip for Limon Piemonte which TSK considered to be a good bet for a legal campsite. I was desperate to stop and so enraged at his decision that I both time-trialled the 3.5 miles along the road and failed to notice that we were travelling in the opposite direction to the river (ie. it was uphill). I spent my time noseying at ski resort apartments and retreats and TSK did his best to sit on my wheel. We were vaguely concerned that batches of vehicles were passing in the opposite direction and worried that we were going to get caught up in some sort of convoy going the other way. However, our fears were unfounded and we rolled into the Limon Piemonte campsite / ski lodge next to the bus stop and the river at about 6:30pm.
A lovely Italian couple on the adjacent spot shared their garden tomatoes with us (yay! more fresh tomatoes) and we finally resorted to eating the emergency food because we had no desperate need to find out if Limon Piemonte had any restaurants (open or otherwise) by the time we'd set up camp at 8pm. What we did have was an enclosed marquee tent complete with stove and electricity on which to brew dinner, green tea and charge some Garmin batteries / phones and sit on an *actual* chair.
As I was walking back from the shower and TSK had already snuggled into his sleeping bag, the thunder started. We busied ourselves with battening down straps on luggage and moving our laundry (now hanging on a proper maiden) into the marquee tent then snuggled in to enjoy the storm and hoped that the boys were OK and had made it somewhere safe for the night.
Breakfast isn't quite as spectacular as dinner - mostly because the coffee is instant. The boys have had a bit of a lie in so we set off piecemeal but mostly within an hour of eachother. We half expect to see runners coming up the road but we seem to miss the different waves whilst we're on their route although we see plenty of marshalls on turns. We leave Cyrille drying his tent. My damp clothes are on the front of my bike as it was cold overnight - not good drying cold either. I lose a pair of socks as I forget to change into riding socks and set about getting my "clean" socks sweaty on the first climb of the day.
Near the top of the climb someone almost drives into my handlebars as they overtake and I call them a very nasty word.
They stop a little further up and it's two women. I feel slightly bad for swearing at them but it is justified and I soon snap at their yappy little dog too who seems to be intent on ruining the peace and quiet. I'm not sure what they do to / with it but it soon stops yapping. When they're walking below me later they seem to have left the poor bugger in the car.It seems odd that we're so far above civilisation and yet there is this constant stream of traffic passing us - all heading for the carpark where the road stops and we are going to continue riding out across the landscape, all boulders and gravel.
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| A rare moment of me in the lead. |
The peaks at the top of the Priet rise like prehistoric creatures from the plateau and the plateau road is littered with boulders and short challenging climbs. These little kickers are immensely entertaining - as are the rambling downhills.
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| Prehistoric rock |
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| Leaving the spine of the mountains behind. |
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| "As if it's not hard enough you have to put all that crap on your bike too!" Justin makes friends with the locals. |
Demonte is a lovely place but we ride through it because Verdante is our chosen destination for the night. JJ stopped to stock up. We leave the town on a flat road heading through big open fields of wheat and some dark green produce. It's a verdant landscape that's difficult to leave but after starting at 1700m elevation, we've only done 700m climbing today and feel we have to earn our dinner.
We're soon at Festina which is summarily free of icecream... or people, but we fill up our water from the source in town and leave another couple searching, in desperation for an open source of ice cream. Travelling by bike we have no option but to keep going up the Colletto for 1300m and over to Valderi which yields on the ice cream front, for all its high-rise buildings and big major road.
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| Valderi - Beautiful, and later will yield some really amazing icecream |
Finally back into the forest and roads where you can see where you're going to be in 400m because it's 50 m above you up the cliff. We make it to the top of the Roinas after another 600m of up and a bit worse for wear but it's too early for us to think about wild camping and we have no food, despite a few tempting-looking car parks / churches / picnic tables.
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| More like it |
There was clearly no legal site so I set off down the road at a clip for Limon Piemonte which TSK considered to be a good bet for a legal campsite. I was desperate to stop and so enraged at his decision that I both time-trialled the 3.5 miles along the road and failed to notice that we were travelling in the opposite direction to the river (ie. it was uphill). I spent my time noseying at ski resort apartments and retreats and TSK did his best to sit on my wheel. We were vaguely concerned that batches of vehicles were passing in the opposite direction and worried that we were going to get caught up in some sort of convoy going the other way. However, our fears were unfounded and we rolled into the Limon Piemonte campsite / ski lodge next to the bus stop and the river at about 6:30pm.
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| Two of these bikes are ours. |
As I was walking back from the shower and TSK had already snuggled into his sleeping bag, the thunder started. We busied ourselves with battening down straps on luggage and moving our laundry (now hanging on a proper maiden) into the marquee tent then snuggled in to enjoy the storm and hoped that the boys were OK and had made it somewhere safe for the night.
Saturday, September 10, 2016
The Great and First Torino-Nice Rally Day 5 - Sampeyre to Refugio Pont Mannore via Col Sant 'Anna & Preit 25 miles, 1849m ascent
I am woken by the sounds of a tiger going out to forage for food but quickly go back to sleep until I am woken by an empty belly and a wonder where the tiger has gone. I soon remember he left an hour ago but am not sure where he's got to. It doesn't look good for breakfast. I go to the loo but then my tiger reappears dragging what looks like John behind him.
"Look what I found", he says with some pride.
John backs away nervously as I enquire to the whereabouts of breakfast. They've been drinking coffee. I eat the pain au chocolat provided and brew up more coffee as we catch up with John. The other half of JJ arrives soon. He spent the night in a refuge on the mountain, John at the campsite I first saw coming off the col. There's a story to this. The refugio expected the four men that were staying to cram onto a small table together to eat (so two strangers). Two women were given their own table. For sleeping accommodation, JJ were offered the top bunk of a double-bunk-bed with the other Italians on the bottom bunk. John's words were, apparently, "Fuck that shit" so he descended away from what would be termed, "the gayest refugio in Italy" for the rest of the trip. Still, everyone enjoyed their evening in the long run.
As packing is complete, there's a small row about the route. Lawrence wishes to do the whole thing. TSK and I are pretty much decided that, if cutting the route short means we will enjoy it more and return home in one piece and in time for the 3 peaks, we'll cut it short. JJ are thinking that they'd also like to cut the route short to make it in time for their plane and they're only holding Lawrence back. Lawrence doesn't like this idea as he has been very kindly waiting for people all the way so far. It's a muted group who leave the campsite. Still, there's not much that sheltered forest climbs can't solve. We progress steadily, thankful of the tree cover for some time but I'm feeling lethargic. Nothing hurts, there's just a gradual feeling of drag and sluggishness.
We pop out of the tree cover and for the first time in days I actually need a pee in the open. I have to hunt out a suitable place in a small thicket without a view from the road - or above - or below. It's not easy to lay your bike down and discretely disappear into the bushes when there's so many switchbacks but somehow I manage it. I'm feeling better and actually, I finally realise that my back tyre is low which goes someway to explaining the sluggishness.
Thankfully, it's just a condition of the altitude or something and they stay rock hard for the rest of the week.
The rest of my sluggishness is explained by fatigue. I stop for another break. My brain is telling me to do something with my batteries. I'm running my dynamo though probably not generating much power so I'm switching to solar and then I'm realising I'm about to go downhill so I'm trying to find cables and undo cables and I can't. Looking back, I don't have a clue what I was trying to achieve. I can hear JJ up the hill shouting down to me. I only hear my name and I'm swearing and shouting, "I'm coming!" back. They're probably asking me to look up for a photo but I'm feeling a pressure that I've been left behind and I feel shit so I'm snapping back at them... and now I feel bad for snapping.
They continue up. I continue up. I watch a pea-green fiat panda struggling up the climb ahead. It looks steep, emphasised by the angle and grunting engine of the little car ahead.
We climb up and up further and finally, ahead of me Andrew stops. I take a photo of a spider in the road which is fascinating me and then join him.
Andrew is with JJ but Lawrence is nowhere to be seen. He has headed off on the long loop and JJ have decided to stay with us for the day. Fair 'nuff. We're glad because he deserves to do the whole ride if he is capable of it.
Our descent joy is intensified by a left hand turn which looks like this on Google Maps...
We set off down the road on our new path, eager to see this short-cut described as epic and promoted as an excellent out-and-back distraction for anyone daft enough to be doing the whole route and fancy a bit of a down-and-up detour to make things more interesting.
Indeed the "real road" runs out again at some precariously constructed road blocks. This time they're serious - no cars allowed. You couldn't drive much more than a dirt bike (or push bike) around these. We set off at a no-traffic whoop, flipping around corners, avoiding potholes and being astonished when we're suddenly plunged into a pitch dark tunnel. I'm on the front shouting "DARK!!" "SHITTY SURFACE" hoping the boys on road bikes have enough time to shed some speed and not run into the back of me. I fumble for my light - taking a risk in letting go of the handlebars but it pays off and the next tunnel isn't a problem.
The valley is epic - steeply sided like you wouldn't believe. There are boulders in the road. Some have fallen from the roofs of tunnels where landslides have rolled over the top and plummeted into the valley below. Barriers at the edge of the road are scattered, pushed around by the landslides and some balance precariously on the edge of the precipice, ready to topple in at the first impact.
Eventually we pour out into the bottom of the valley at Ponte Marmora and as we're waiting for our heads to settle, Cyrille rides past, on his way back from the extended route. He's glad of some company and not being the last man on the road so we all head to the nearest restaurant for a coffee and to ponder our next move. It's about 2:30 so too early to stop and anyway, there isn't anywhere.
Someone knows that there's a campsite up the hill at Marmora so that seems like a sensible place to aim for.
There's no food at the Ponte so we get on with it. I've perked up for the day so for a while I manage to ride with the group and have an in-depth discussion with Cyrille about brake pads and we all laugh as Justin runs all over the place taking photos because he's had a beer at the restaurant and is a little giddy. Andrew and I ponder how long it will be before he has a beer-crash and it pretty much comes as we reach Marmora only to find that it is the venue for the largely popular Sky ultra-run and that the campsite is forming the start/finish area. There's no point in even enquiring if it is open as the dance music is putting everyone off staying here for the night - even if all the runners are in bed by 10pm, it's likely we'll all want to be asleep by 9.
We attempt to get a pizza but the restaurant is expecting 70 people in the next half hour so can't feed us for another 2 hours. On cue, a bus-load arrives and we depart in the opposite direction. Cyrille is intent on stopping at Priet Refugio for dinner because this is where Sergio is staying and, "Sergio knows *all* the best places to stay" so we go for that instead, accepting that we'll stop sooner if we see another option.
There's a bit of faffing about and at one point I think a sneeze nearly puts me into a crash scenario as I breeze off the road but my cyclo-cross training means I hold it, even if I have to stop and push the beast back on to the road in an ungainly fashion. My new friends are impressed. John and I are talking about the arrival of his new baby and Justin's beer crash is starting to kick in. We can see Cyrille and Andrew chatting to a lady ahead and get our hopes up but I have to break the news to Justin that we're not there yet (we're only at Pian Preit) and the larger Preit is further uphill. There is swearing.
Thankfully not too much further.
We have a few minutes of debate with the owner over fees and food and room occupancy. Every variation has to be checked with her boss and then we *have* to see the room first so we can make an informed decision. They boys are pondering eating with us then continuing up but when they find out they have to wait 2 hours for dinner and we've negotiated a special shared room rate where they can do some laundry, we manage to sway them and I prepare to drink more than I ever would normally consider on a tour (turns out Genepey doesn't give me a hangover) and share a room with 2 complete almost-strangers. They tell me they don't snore - I warn them that TSK does. They do laundry. I stick with what I know and rinse everything in the sink in the bathroom and hang my socks out the window.
Dinner turns out to be exquisite: parma ham, bread and olives; spinach omlette; gnochi or linguine with tomato or meat sauce, rabbit stew and potatoes then pear/chocolate tartufle, beer and Genepey. Photo from Sergio now found. We speak English, French and Italian and laugh - a lot. Cyrille heads out to bivi beneath the stars in the lee of the ultramarathon marshalling tent and we get a pretty damn good night's sleep for a room filled with strangers. At least the boys had a bunk bed each.
"Look what I found", he says with some pride.
John backs away nervously as I enquire to the whereabouts of breakfast. They've been drinking coffee. I eat the pain au chocolat provided and brew up more coffee as we catch up with John. The other half of JJ arrives soon. He spent the night in a refuge on the mountain, John at the campsite I first saw coming off the col. There's a story to this. The refugio expected the four men that were staying to cram onto a small table together to eat (so two strangers). Two women were given their own table. For sleeping accommodation, JJ were offered the top bunk of a double-bunk-bed with the other Italians on the bottom bunk. John's words were, apparently, "Fuck that shit" so he descended away from what would be termed, "the gayest refugio in Italy" for the rest of the trip. Still, everyone enjoyed their evening in the long run.
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| Drying out camp... and tigers. |
We pop out of the tree cover and for the first time in days I actually need a pee in the open. I have to hunt out a suitable place in a small thicket without a view from the road - or above - or below. It's not easy to lay your bike down and discretely disappear into the bushes when there's so many switchbacks but somehow I manage it. I'm feeling better and actually, I finally realise that my back tyre is low which goes someway to explaining the sluggishness.
Thankfully, it's just a condition of the altitude or something and they stay rock hard for the rest of the week.
The rest of my sluggishness is explained by fatigue. I stop for another break. My brain is telling me to do something with my batteries. I'm running my dynamo though probably not generating much power so I'm switching to solar and then I'm realising I'm about to go downhill so I'm trying to find cables and undo cables and I can't. Looking back, I don't have a clue what I was trying to achieve. I can hear JJ up the hill shouting down to me. I only hear my name and I'm swearing and shouting, "I'm coming!" back. They're probably asking me to look up for a photo but I'm feeling a pressure that I've been left behind and I feel shit so I'm snapping back at them... and now I feel bad for snapping.
They continue up. I continue up. I watch a pea-green fiat panda struggling up the climb ahead. It looks steep, emphasised by the angle and grunting engine of the little car ahead.
We climb up and up further and finally, ahead of me Andrew stops. I take a photo of a spider in the road which is fascinating me and then join him.
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| Ladybird spider (incredibly rare and protected species)... and my size 8s for a sense of scale. |
Our descent joy is intensified by a left hand turn which looks like this on Google Maps...
and led to a solid 32 minutes of descending whoops
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| Yep, that's the road on the left. |
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| Some tunnels better than others. |
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| Looking back up the hill |
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| Boys disappearing into the distance as the road surface improves. |
Someone knows that there's a campsite up the hill at Marmora so that seems like a sensible place to aim for.
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| I stopped to photo this in the off-chance someone would think it a suitable place to stop for the night. The sun is already starting to disappear. |
We attempt to get a pizza but the restaurant is expecting 70 people in the next half hour so can't feed us for another 2 hours. On cue, a bus-load arrives and we depart in the opposite direction. Cyrille is intent on stopping at Priet Refugio for dinner because this is where Sergio is staying and, "Sergio knows *all* the best places to stay" so we go for that instead, accepting that we'll stop sooner if we see another option.
There's a bit of faffing about and at one point I think a sneeze nearly puts me into a crash scenario as I breeze off the road but my cyclo-cross training means I hold it, even if I have to stop and push the beast back on to the road in an ungainly fashion. My new friends are impressed. John and I are talking about the arrival of his new baby and Justin's beer crash is starting to kick in. We can see Cyrille and Andrew chatting to a lady ahead and get our hopes up but I have to break the news to Justin that we're not there yet (we're only at Pian Preit) and the larger Preit is further uphill. There is swearing.
Thankfully not too much further.
We have a few minutes of debate with the owner over fees and food and room occupancy. Every variation has to be checked with her boss and then we *have* to see the room first so we can make an informed decision. They boys are pondering eating with us then continuing up but when they find out they have to wait 2 hours for dinner and we've negotiated a special shared room rate where they can do some laundry, we manage to sway them and I prepare to drink more than I ever would normally consider on a tour (turns out Genepey doesn't give me a hangover) and share a room with 2 complete almost-strangers. They tell me they don't snore - I warn them that TSK does. They do laundry. I stick with what I know and rinse everything in the sink in the bathroom and hang my socks out the window.
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| Left to right: Sergio, Cyrille, John, Trep, TSK, Justin |
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