HT Ride 2

I went to bed late last night because I was working through my planning for the HT.  Still, I woke at 7am this morning, eager to go out for a ride.  I fed the cats and ate my own breakfast but made the mistake of sitting down with the computer, the HT route and resting a hamstring that's been giving me pain and stress.  Before I know it I was hungry and it was 11:30.  We walked for lunch on my suggestion and I though my hamstring was going OK so I decided to go for a ride.

If nothing else, I'd test my bike out and keep moving.  By the time I was ready to go I was enthursed for a long ride.  It started raining but I smiled up and set off into the valley.

The first few ups and down were fine.  I rode with confidence.  Then I started to feel my back wwheel skitting about - shortly before the whole bike went sideways across the road.  I headed for the right hand side away from the most oary cold wind and set my square section tyres flat on the road.  I managed to ride square to th ground for 30m to the top of the hill then, rather than the tempting longer route I decided the most sensible thing to do with this day was my own thing - keep it short, enjoyable but mostly safe.

I turned off onto the trail to take the same route I rode last week.  It became obvious where the ice came from, despite it raining not snowing.  A vicious Northerly / Westerly.

On the descent from the Farm a woodpecker rewarded my intention to continue on.

Within 2 minutes of setting off up Wyming Brook I had to stop and put the air back in my tyres.  Suddenly in the shade of the trees I got some momentum back and every rock I bounced off punched at my rear wheel  and threatened a pinch puncture.

I finally realised why my pump is leaking – it’s amazing what a bit of jeopardy will do for the logical reasoning.

A few moments of believing I was the only person to be out there on my own, I came across a couple and few dog walkers, mostly oblivious to my existence until I was past them.

Despite my tyre-stop waving goodbye to any hillclimb records, I pushed on over the rocks and leaves to the carpark, distinctly quieter than last time I was out.  I climbed the wet bike over the styal.

Back on the road over Lodge Moor, a bloke coming out of the pub asked, “How have you not crashed your bike?” I assured him I had tried.  I braked between the rivulets of water and the half-frozen slush and got off and into the field to join the bridleway along the top of the Rivelin Ridge.  It was enjoyable, except for the occasional slide. 

The worst part is the descent down to the road – around half way up the valley side.  I’m not sure I’m going to be able to ride it today but I’m damned if I’m going to walk it.  The bike humms royally, the brakes full on and the back wheel skids away as the front wheel thankfully holds us upright. 

At the end of the trail, the rain falling and running off the road had been scoured into an ice slick.  Now I was all for walking.  I hoped the council had been out and gritted the road that I had to descend around 100m to the next bridlepath.  So long as I was on rocks and leaves, I was happy.

There were no cars thankfully and I sketchily made my way across the road.  I walked over the steps then rocketed down the leaf-filled rock gully that I accidentally descended too fast last week. 

Better this week – not surprisingly – I was more gingerly.  The final drop offs were still worked.  There’s only so much I can do with skinny tyres.  I pushed onto the up-path that avoids the final climb of the A57 into Sheffield and pitied the freezing ponies

I saw my final climb and my final dog walker ahead.  By now I’d been riding for around and hour and 45 minutes.  “Mind the ice out there”.  I couldn’t find anything else to say except, “I KNOW!”.  It wasn't the ice on the hill I was worried about, more the road beyond.  Thankfully it was still raining hard, not snowing.  The worry was the salt would be washed off the road as I realised it had stealthily started lashing it down.  On the main road I went to turn my light on but really struggled.  The light was frozen so solid into a block of ice that I couldn't get the soft button to press under the hard caisson of ice around it.  The light flickered into life, the Garmin screen in a similar state.  I held my breath and hoped that the freezing rain wouldn't bring me down before I got home.  

The ride back was a mixture of local main roads until I realised there was no grit left, back roads - still covered in snow, and parkland.  I couldn't resist taking the park.  It drops me out by my house and is a nice traverse, even if I do have to walk it on the skinny tyres.

It took 10 desperate minutes at home to rewarm the hands.  As a training ride it was character-building. I don't think it was particularly muscle-building though.  Some more HT training may happen on the turbo going forward.

Goalsetter

I woke up to TSK's alarm this morning. He went to the bathroom then two minutes later my own alarm went off. I waited my turn with my eyes shut. Somehow I resisted the urge to go back to sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed. Rain lashed against the window.
What was the point again? It really felt like there wasn't one except I was up in time to go to yoga. But what was the point in that? It was clearly time to enter another event.

I kissed my husband good morning and blearily remembered my Highland trail entry.  Not much chance of that with all the road rides I have been doing.

I  ate my breakfast reading Twitter. The world is turning into a useless place apart from all the brilliant people there - all ruthlessly selected by me.

I  was strict with myself. While I still didn't feel like riding to work in the rain after this weekend, I did feel like a new start and a return to yoga after a long break seemed like just the thing to justify my underused gym membership. I made it just in time in the van.

Helena's class was perfect. Enough effort to wake me up and make me feel strong and enough relaxation and stretching to re-balance my body and love of exercise for exercise sake.  I left feeling much much healthier than a 1 hour session would normally suggest.
I arrived at work only slightly worse off for dealing with idiot motorists whilst being kind to all the cyclists I encountered on my commute.

My day went well. My morning meeting was useful, pointed  it jolted a thought from last night's back-of-my-mind and I took action and people listened.

Before I left to meet a boiler man about a valve I decided to enter that race on the random off-chance I got in with the "Pretender" going around and around in my head. I did think, "wel, that'll never fly" but I booked EmVee in for an all-important service at Bike Rehab (wondering if it is the bike that needs rehab, not me). Then I went home, cleaned my bike, got stood up, called into my evening meeting and continued the day's zen until 8.30 when I started to drift off to sleep

To drag the day out ahead and cut myself some slack I thought I would just check that email before I see what other events I can enter.

Much to my joy, Alan had emailed me with my entry confirmation. I had not realised how much I wanted this until I got it. Since oooh, 2014 when I first heard of it on my way back from a Scotland holiday reccying Celtman.

So now I have it. This year's dream. Thiz year's goal. This year's thing to make me scared and I am over the moon. I will sleep well tonight.

A minibreak

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.

Eureka! 200k

(c) all pics by Ella Wredenfors

It was two nights before the Eureka ride that I remembered I had a twitter friend in the event.  I was briefly excited and then forgot all about it in quick succession, in a mixture of work life and late night work life.

Still, I tried to look after myself the week leading up to the event, getting more and more early nights and working a little less and then going in late if I'd been up all the night thinking about work.

I finally called a stop to it, said something had to be done then gleefully set out for my parents house on Saturday afternoon, having done little prep my bike, for ride 12 of (more than) 12.

I had dinner with the parents - not the best pre-race prep of pizza and potato cakes but it seemed to do the job.  In the evening I sat in bed to try and keep warm in the draughty old farmhouse that is my family's ancestral home.  My dad stuck his head around the door to say good night and that mum would be up to let me out at 7am.  They were heading out to the pub, just as I was getting near the end of a rather depressing book that I'd been reading.  They were going out to the pub and there was me, exhausted, alone and reading a depressing book.  They left and I started to cry.  I went downstairs to be with the dog and lay on the dog-scented floor and cried and cried.  I bawled hard and the dog, despite being stroked, just stared at me like a tiny man faced with a crying woman.

Eventually I collected my thoughts, went back to bed and slept.

I was awake at 3am but went downstairs, got a glass for water and went back to bed with biscuits.  I'd put on several layers, added a blanket and turned on an electric radiator (my parents would have been horrified if they'd realised I was sleeping with the radiator on).  I'd got quite warm and sweaty and I'd actually gotten quite dehydrated, what with the crying and all.

6am came too soon of course but it was OK cos I was going out riding and I'd probably not got that far back into sleep anyway.  I realised I'd left my porridge in the car then had a momentary panic as I thought I was locked into the house.  As well as being as cold as a prison, the Farmhouse is locked up like one at night.  There was no mother to release me.  Thankfully, they had seen fit to leave the door accessible and I was able to get my porridge and nutella to see me through the morning.  Sadly I'd forgotten my coffee and had to cope with instant.

Just as I was finishing up, dad came to wish me a good ride in his PJs... awakened by the call.  It's rare I see him so early.

I was careful to make sure I had everything with me in case they weren't in when I returned home and so I didn't have to wake anyone to fetch any stuff from inside.  I tossed my keys in the back of the car and started to lift my bike up.  Toss, it was locked and my keys were in the house.  Panic set in as I realised I'd have to wake the parents up.  WHATEVER YOU DO DON'T WAKE THE PARENTS UP!!!

Memories of stealing home from night clubs at 3am came flooding back.

It didn't take me long to realise the keys were in the car but my heart was already racing.

I took my time over getting everything else ready to go, carefully removing tracky bottoms to put on cycling shoes, jersey on before helmet.  Finally I was ready to go.  Quick squirt of oil on the chain and away to ride through Whythenshawe and over to Cheadle.

I replaced my original plan to ride to the airport then follow the route backwards to the start in favour of the most direct line.  It did put me thorough Whythenshawe but there was little traffic at 7am on a Sunday morning.  Even the drunks were in bed by then.  Soon Whythenshawe morphed into Gatley then Cheadle village where cyclists started to converge on the village hall.

I immediately recognised Ella from her photos although her hair was less pink than I was expecting.  Instead of saying hi straight away, I went to get my brevet card to avoid the embarrassment of forgetting it then went to say hi with a hug and a chat.

We were interrupted by one of the Halifax riders from the Clwydian who wanted to congratulate me on finishing and give me kudos for getting over the moor.  By chance we were also standing next to the other rider (Brum) who empathised with the effort involved.  Again we were to see him on and off throughout the course of the day as well as one of the guys who  had been on Yorkshire via Essex.  It was a pack of familiar faces.

Ella and I set off together, chatting away, having already established that we both had a reasonable idea of what we were doing.  I hovered uncomfortably between the setting off too fast pace and sitting in behind slower riders.  They weren't actually slower, it's just I'm not used to milking the benefits of drafting so I suddenly got pulled back into the pack on the first short climb.

Us girls inevitably peeled off on our own and waved furiously at the photographer as we passed.  We talked about *everything*.  I don't usually do Audax talking but for once it was brilliant just to have a really good natter.  My initial pace boiled off but Ella pedalled light, waited on hills and occasionally rode on ahead, only to wait at the next junction.  We arrived at the Eureka cafe and both checked in then decided that, on account of her hacking cough and a tiny, sweaty space filled with other riders and a big queue, we'd take advantage of the buffer of time and push on for Bangor to get our lunch.  It was, after all, only 11am.

We did shifts at the shitter then set back out on our bikes, snacking our way over into Wales to cover the distance effectively.  I particularly enjoyed sharing the ginger flavoured oatcakes which Ella had brought.  I hmmm'd about the prospect of going all the way to Bangor, "it's probably about two hours" then we did some maths and concluded that it was a bit hit and miss but we went for it.

It was a little miserable climbing over the hills of Frodsham on account of it being quite main roadsy but once we were off and back onto lanes, turning into Welsh lanes, we rode side by side again on and off.

In Bangor, we tried the pub but they were quoting 45 hours wait for food (yes you heard), particularly it seems to anyone wearing a cycling helmet and offering to sit outside.  So we went back to the info control (the shop) to grab sandwiches, I bought fudge and a drink then sat on the doorstep of the neighbouring florist as a shower moved over us.  Somewhere there was a rainbow as the sun glinted off the opposite building.  Derby Mercury arrived and I was pretty chuffed to be going well, ahead of "The Mercury" as they referred to themselves.  Let's skim over the fact that they'd already had a cafe stop.

We continued on our way into the flood of rainbow, bright, vibrant and complete.  From there the weather only improved and I found myself removing hat and buff and changing into thinner gloves for the rest of the day.

Another two hours on from Bangor was the ice cream cafe.  I hadn't planned to stop there but then I had planned to stop near Eureka and not scoff a sandwich in a doorway.  Still, I was enjoying the avid conversation, even if I did need to up my pace a bit to always hear what Ella was saying.  Her hacking cough made her talk softly so I had to ride a close pace to hear.  Sometimes I just had to give up and drop back a bit.  I got my own back on a climb by saying I was having "a wee stop to fix something" and found her crashing through the undergrowth a few metres ahead, having stopped for a wee, thinking I was doing the same.

At the icecream cafe neither or us knew where we were going, locked our bikes to the first bit of railing opposite people sitting on sofas inside then headed into the building / compound.

Ella has never done an audax here.  I have just never been in because the place is a children's play park and too many little people make me nervous.

Small persons squealed and stumbled and crawled all over things and we rushed into the nearest building to warm our thighs and start the cafe hunt.  Just as I thought we'd made it back to our bikes (but on the other side of the glass this time), we were cordoned off with rope so I booked a table (with a helmet and sweaty coat) and Ella went to order soup and coffee / tea whilst I went outside to move the bikes into view at the *actual* bike racks next to the *actual* cyclists's entrance.

I happily wheeled one big and one not-so-big happy bikes around the corner and locked them back up.  By the time I was back at the table, coffee was placed and soup was arriving.  Abject bliss.

My thoughts of cake were diverted to the fact that I had a lot of junk food to get through on the bike on the way back.  I'd only consumed one piece of fudge and had Haribo and the leftover zombie chocolate left over from Halloween to get through yet.  Somewhere in my handlebar bag, a Frankenstein was having a fight with a gummy-bear and I might be called upon to invigilate.

"How are you doing?" my pal asked me.  "OK, bit tired", I confessed.  Off the lanes, she towed me along a straight carriageway.  I was grateful for the wheel to get me out of a headwind and away from traffic as soon as possible.  Wjilst she describes herself as "Manchester's premier fat female cyclist", on twitter, she really isn't and is fucking strong to drag me around like a rag doll like that.

Back on the lanes we rode side by side and continued our conversation.  Occasionally, when I had to let a car past, I had to sprint back on because I was enjoying the story of how she met Spandelles so much.  As night caught us up and the lights went on, the conversations calmed down and each of us did turns on the front, if only because we both like leading.  I probably got a bit annoying but it's only that I'm used to tri training so much, putting myself on the front when I'm out with TSK, getting used to being face to the wind.

Finally, as we entered back into Cheshire known-territory around Minshull Vernon, disaster struck and I experienced the familiar flaccid feeling of a snapped gear cable in a lever-housing.  Absolutely zero response from my derailleur whatsoever, I was stuck in a big gear.

We took to a driveway and I threaded the new cable through but couldn't find the end of the old cable somewhere inside the lever.  Looking under the lever, there was a hatch that I had never investigated before.  Although every single screw and adjuster nut on the dura-ace groupset has a hex-wrench head for Allen keys, this one that I needed had a cross screwdriver head.  I could've screamed!

Finally, after about 45 minutes of dicking-about, chatting, laughing, talking to the homeowner whose driveway we were using, I conceded to ride single speed to the next bit of civilisation.

At first it was a challenge, then a chore, then I started doing the maths on how long I had to keep going for and really concluded I couldn't keep it up for 3 more hours.  It was already dark and I was just sore.

A fellow audaxer passed and I managed to catch him up and ask if he had a screwdriver.  He didn't but he recommended I talk to his dad, a little further back who would definitely have one.  I realised I had seen his dad riding in the hills around Sheffield before..  What a pleasure.

We carried on, knowing the next info control was a garage.  Eventually I had the bright idea to adjust my temporary cable arrangement to a different gear since I wasn't using my big ring at all on the flat and I was getting sick of getting off to walk up any hill steeper than 7%.

I cranked the derailleur across and re-tightened the screw.  Much better.  I could definitely consider riding another 3 hours like *that*.  For some time I span out on the flats at 18-21 kph before dropping into the little ring and getting as far up all the hills as I could - actually I was making most of them but after my earlier exertions, the spinning out on the flat was really starting to grate and average speed was suffering as a result.  At the petrol station I resolved to try and fix the lever but failing that, to stick myself in a slightly higher gear.

The petrol station attendee was great.  She found me the only screwdriver they had and let me exchange cans of coke when I actually (horror of horrors) bought low sugar coke.  I don't drink the stuff often enough so had no idea what I was doing.  That Ella girl was a bad (great) influence.  It was exactly what I needed.  The crisps I bought were also exactly what we both needed so I repayed the ginger oatcake favour from the morning whilst working on my rear derailleur.

We hauled out of the petrol station and onto what felt like some of the biggest climbs in Cheshire.  Well, they were on single speed anyway.  On the third one I felt the cable slip in its housing and crunch crunch I jumped up two gears.  Time for another little walk.

Finally we spilled back into Alderley Edge and a team effort started to get us back to the finish in one piece.  Through Wilmslow we were passed unceremoniously by an Asda delivery vehicle who insisted on passing us then slowed down for every junction thereafter, including the one at the bottom of a big descent.  I swore at him, I swore at my legs, I let out a primal scream to get me up the hill then instantly felt guilty about waking up half of Wilmslow - before realising it was only 8pm... no, my point stands.  I woke up Wilmslow from its post-Sunday lunch snooze

As we neared Handforth, I desperately hoped they weren't going to make me ride Stanleylands but it wasn't in the right direction so I was relieved to just roll through Handforth at which point Ella, on sniffing Spandelles arrival in Cheadle after his long ride, left me as she said she would. I ode into Cheadle and the arrivee toute seule.  Quite frankly, I was astonished she hung around that long but I admit it was great to have a sista for company for the day.

Back at base they came out to welcome me in and I settled down to text everyone I was safe and share stories of the road, the organisers now having figured out who I was without my usual trusty sidekick in tow.  A steady stream of riders kept filtering through so there were about 12 still on the road behind me - a strong indicator of the fast pace I had gone around in, particularly having been forced to rock a big gear to the finish instead of breezing it in.

So that was it, 12 of 12.  I challenged Ella, of course, to keep going and deliver 11 more.  She sounded moderately tempted.

I can't decide if I'm excited to have December off or if I want to join in with another ride and keep my tally ticking.  I didn't think hard about work for a whole day - although I did my share of defending how exciting I find it.  What I did think about was how much I had missed riding my bike.  I made myself promises.  Ones I intend to keep on keeping.

I dwelled long enough to eat soup and some biscuits and drink a cup of hot squash.  Then packed up my stuff and headed back into the night to ride back to the Farmhouse.  Mum was back in bed and dad was mooching around in the garden when I got back.  I got changed and drank tea and told tales of a great day before hastily rushing back to Sheffield in the van.  It was all I could do to keep myself awake - though the snake pass helped my alertness.  I guess my reluctance to finish the tale is testament to my reluctance to stop riding these events.

I'll (not) end this here.

Finding it on a sparkly, misty night

I ran today. 8.6 fairly insignificant kms yet they felt the most profound of my life.  I wish I were being over-dramatic.

For the last couple of months my life has been a traumatic joke.  For a while I managed to balance my work life on a knife edge with remaining sane.  Constantly challenging myself to keep looking after myself at the same time as delivering more and more work with less and less help.  Gradually my own life ebbed away, leaving a worn out, flustered, annoyed, angry, exhausted shell of a woman I did not understand or recognise.  It was allowed to happen.  Help was offered but it was the wrong kind of help.  And so I struggled on.

Then last week I accidentally booked into the wrong hotel.

I thought I’d upgrade to a hotel in town but discovered that living in the middle of a shopping arcade and a housing estate doesn’t give me any motivation to leave on a bicycle.  Then, tragedy, I forgot my running shoes.  The easiest device to use to navigate yourself out of a ford-focus-and-2.4-children hellhole and I left them at home. 

Getting in from work at 6 to 7pm, eating then working some more then falling over on the bed only to wake at 2am, get up, do more work and then go back to bed for an hour-or-so before getting up and doing it all again.  My brain was exhausted but my body was not.

I drove to the station to pick up managers.  I drove to Worksop for a massage.  Apart from the lack of time to ride, the inclination wasn’t there.  I’ve had problems with the bike getting into its gears.  On Thursday night, in place of riding my bike, I lay on the floor next to it and stared at the ceiling then stared at the bike.  At least if I couldn’t ride it, I could fix it. 

Funnily enough, in a moment of calm I at least figured out what the problem was and fixed it… at least I think I got it.  I didn’t get to find out for on Friday, I drove home.  Still no bicycling.

I stopped in a side road to dial into the 4:30 meeting – I at least gave myself that much of the afternoon off.  Apparently it was most inconvenient of me to dial into the meeting from my motor car. I guess it meant a man had to take minutes. 

I updated my colleagues and promised to finish a piece of work either this weekend or on Monday.  It wasn’t going to get done on Monday. 

I stopped off at the bike shop to buy a bit for my other bike and tried to make conversation but all I could think was how little I had ridden my bike and how little time I would have to fix this part to my bike. 

By the time I got home I wanted to cry.  I ate my dinner and fell into bed exhausted.  At 2am I was wide awake.

I got up and made the first changes to the document.  I worked for 2 hours before going back to bed at 4:30 and sleeping until 7:30.  I got up more exhausted than when I’d gone to bed but I had to eat.  I got the laptop out again and finished the document and sent it out.  I worked on the bike for the shortest amount of time possible.  I didn’t even test ride it.  I was supposed to be going out but I really couldn’t face it.  On the other hand I knew that friends were exactly what I needed right now so I went out.  I was exactly right. 

The walk to my friends’ house was tough though.  I enjoyed every moment of it.  Finally one foot was falling in front of the other; the breeze made me put my gloves on.  The freakishly warm air made me regret wearing my down coat.  Bonfires were on the air.  Happy families passed us by with children ensconced in waterproof fleecy onesies with welly boots on their feet.  It was the weekend before bonfire night.

I love bonfire night.  I love bonfire night more than Christmas.  Normally I know exactly when the free firework display is on in town.  Normally I have all the plans set out.  This year, I haven’t had time to think of it.  This year Christmas is likely to be ruined the same way.

My friends fed me.  I’d eaten nothing but a pot noodle and some cereal and toast all day.  I stared at a fire, chatted, wandered around the corner to get the best look at the fireworks and spent 15 minutes sitting on the pavement leaning on a wall and watching the sparkles glide through the air, enjoying the booms, banks and crackles. 

Then I returned to the party for sparklers.

A lovely lady called Rita shared her stories with me and said sweet things like, “women like you are forging the future, you’re what will make it better for women who follow” and I nearly cried.  Not because she made me feel special (she did and she’s right) but because I am sad that when I was her age, 25 years ago, I thought that women like my boss were forging the future, that she would make it better for women who follow”.  Current status: Things feel a whole lot worse right now.

I didn’t drink a lot – despite buying enough to sink me, I drank one bottle of beer and a bottle of some lowly alcoholic level.  I daren’t drink anymore, it just makes the sleepless nights worse.  So we walked home, early enough to go racing tomorrow, early enough to be thankful that I didn’t get shit faced and make a fool of myself / cry / spend the weekend cursing the waste of time being hungover.  Early enough that we weren’t so tired we got a taxi.  Instead we walked our way home through the glorious winter evening, yawning our way up the hill and fell into bed as soon as we got in.

This morning I woke up thankful for a full nights’ sleep.  From midnight till 7:30 am.  Abject bliss.  Clearly exhaustion is the key.  Clearly I cannot live this life without exercise.  Still, the bike looked at me and I knew I needed to work.  Here is my balance at the moment – I do what makes me feel least guilty.

My hair and body smelled of smoke.  Despite the light weighted night, I felt like I’d been clubbing pissed and smoked 20 fags.  Exhaustion from the week sat on me heavy and as soon as TSK asked if I wanted to go out racing, the answer was honest: No.

Last week I forced myself but I was worried that if I forced myself this week I would never actually survive another week at work.  Starting tired and sore, no.  I needed to start this week rested but ahead of the game.  I got my laptop out but I did promise myself I wouldn’t do too much.

TSK did the right thing and gave me advance warning of lunch so at 11:45 I negotiated myself one last action and then extracted myself from work by 12:30.  We walked up the hill at which point my body crashed.  Yesterday’s starvation combined with a small breakfast and all that exercise last night did not bode well.  I was teary again in the café but thankfully I recognised it as low sugar.  A burger and chips sorted me out.

We walked for miles around and into town.  We walked along Frog Walk which follows a riverside path and I listened to the stream.  A little bird blew through my brain with its song like fresh air and again I felt alive.  I didn’t for one moment regret my decision for the day.  A nice bit of gentle exercise.  I felt I was giving my body permission to move again.  Nothing that was going to do any damage – physically or mentally – but just enough.   I did some shopping which made me happy.  A simple pair of everyday earrings to replace and odd pair.  £20 on a fountain pen since I’m sick of losing expensive good ones.

Then we walked home.  Still I enjoyed every step.  The temperature got warmer and my coat came off and by the time we got home I was determined to find myself another space in this day – to earn myself the time to go for a run.  I got changed almost immediately and went back out.

I ran up first, through the edge of the woods where I could still just make out enough under-foot to see where I was going without falling over.  The thought of someone trying to attack me was laughable; they wouldn’t be able to keep their footing.  I knew this like the back of my hand. 

Up through the allotments where the children streamed down the hill screaming, “I can smell the bonfire!”  Through the horse yard where I walked carefully to avoid making anyone jump.  Dropping down the bridle path the light really had gone as I stepped off a stile and snicked my foot between a rock and the dry stone wall.  The head torch went on.  Onto the clifftop run around the quarry then a short jog along the A57.  For once my immediate surroundings were not the distraction.  Up and down the valley I watched the fireworks cast out into the fog, blotting in the wet sky like psychiatrist’s patterns in the mist.  Were they telling me I was crazy?

I descended, finally feeling a little cold in the dark air and without any load on my legs.  The gloves went back on and I rolled my sleeves back down but I was too happy now to be upset with the cold.  I was ecstatic to have my shoes careering through the crisp leaves as their white backs glistened back at my headtorch.  Suddenly I felt abject joy.

I stopped to capture my joy in case it fleeted away.  It was a challenge. 

Along the bottom of the valley, with kids and families again.  Dogs’ wild eyes reflecting off my torch light turning the happiest and softest of family Labradors into the Hound of the Baskervilles, the lumens reflecting off teeth in the smiling, panting mouths of pups.  They all had a fuss off me.

When I reached the mill pond my legs were beginning to tire.  I realised I wasn’t on the 7k loop but on the 8-9km loop.  My ankles and knees were aching and I was starting to run with sloppy form.  I was worn out.  Rather than keep plodding away at the same bad form, I put in a stint of perfect running.  It was fast but it was “easy”.  I’d been plodding so long that consciously “running well” was introducing all kinds of new muscle groups and giving my worn bumbling muscles a rest.  It didn’t last long.  It really didn’t last long but it brought me to a new state of mind. 

I could feel the tangled mess of my brain straightening itself out into tangible strands.  I didn’t solve any mind blowing problems but suddenly I found peace.  My project no longer mattered. I matter. 

My deadline is irrelevant compared to my lifeline.

I have done my best.  I have asked for help (and it was denied).  I have learned a lot (it has done nothing for my trust issues!).

By the time I reached the Rivelin Park the free firework display had begun.  Whizz bang.  I took the opportunity to do some stretching, ease my tired legs whilst I watched the fireworks go off somewhere good.  Usually the golf club have a “do”… or the posh people on the park at Crookes.  Down at the bottom of the valley by the allotments, some others were just having a bonfire of garden stuff.  It was tempting to go and join them but probably not advised in shorts.

My final run was through the park where dog walkers still streamed out.  I remembered how much I missed going to Scotland, running and walking in the real hills.  I made myself some promises to do more fell races this year.  They were good promises.  Ones I will keep.  Most importantly I felt like I had rescued myself from the brink.  Abject exhaustion is an after-effect of my run today.  With a brain already fatigued beyond belief, my body does now actually match – which is a relief.  I will sleep tonight – potentially for the second time in a row… but even if I do not, I have learned something massive this week.  I have learned just how broken I can be and still survive and I have learned just how unacceptable it is to be there… and I have promised myself, more than anything else, I will never, ever, ever, go there again.

I am still alive.

The Clwydian

I had no great record hopes for the Clwydian.  Finally after stretching the limits of my tolerance for distance, endurance and sleep deprivation and making it all work around an increasingly incredibly busy job, I finally felt the weight lifted this month.

All I had to do was get around.  It's just that "around" had 3000m of up and down in too.

I'd done no specific training for a while except the 3 Peaks cyclocross and some short 'cross races and one 100km day out to Curborough where a friend had commented on my flat shoes.  As I was explaining to her how much I liked them because they were comfy, I suddenly started to wonder if they had anything to do with my increasingly stiff calves and hamstrings so with only 2 weeks since the 3 Peaks I hoped I was adequately rested and I took a risk and bought some new shoes whilst working away in Scunthorpe.

In the run up to Saturday I did a few short evening rides to keep moving before the big little day.  Then disaster struck and my customer needed me to write them a document in 24 hours and so on Thursday night I worked until midnight and on Friday I left Scunthorpe at 6pm and drove to North Wales.  One Travelodge was unrecognisable from the other and when they put me in the same room it started to feel like a home from home.  After dinner in a Chinese restaurant I bedded down to listen to the torrential rain, howling winds and lashing branches and wondered what on earth I was doing there.  The short answer: By the time I thought about cancelling, it was too late at the hotel.

There were only 3 riders in the carpark in the morning.  They directed me to another building which was the control and as I realised I had parked in the pay and display carpark, I hopped back in the van and drove around to the free one off the main road.  They were so close they could have been the same space but this carpark was almost full - on account of being totally free.  I mean if I was going to be unsure about finishing, I sure as hell wasn't spending £3.50 on the parking space.

I bought a flapjack and then got ready as slowly as possible.  With a promise of the rain clearing late morning, I decided the longer I put it off the better.  Despite prevarication, I led out the final group of 6 riders, a few choosing to do the shorter route instead.  Within a few miles, another Lauf forked rider passed as well as the lead pair.  That left me, "Brum" from the midlands and a couple of guys from Halifax.

After about 10 minutes we started to climb.  Brum came past me and then we all rolled downhill towards Bala.  I had a momentary feeling that my rear tyre was running a little low and a minor coronary when I realised I didn't know if I had my pump or not.  I resolved to stop near Bala to check.  We were to ride around the whole lake but if I didn't have a pump, I'd probably pop into Bala to get one first before continuing my day - just in case.

As I descended the hill climb we'd just come over, spray from my tyres soaked my overshoes.  I was pretty pleased though that the water didn't seem to penetrate and chuffed with my new waterproof trousers which were getting a testing and seemed to be doing a remarkable job of keeping the water out.

As soon as I stopped I realised it was all an illusion as my feet squelched around in my wet shoes.  I should have known better.  I plunged my soaking hands into the bottom of my saddlebag and after some rooting around, finally laid my hands on my pump.  The contents of my bag were now damp but at least I knew I had security.

On the minor road side of Bala lake the rain streamed down, the stream ran across the road in rivers where it should have gone underneath it and eventually the inevitable flood happened.  I was into it before I realised and the water sprayed off my wheel and hit me square in the knees as my feet pedalled on regardless under the water.    Freakish gusts of warm breeze dropped down from the hills though and kept me relatively warm - in fact too warm at times.

Climbing out the other side I felt grotesquely sick as the water cascaded past me at the same speed as I was moving, giving the optical illusion that - despite my effort - I was stationary on the bike.  I had to stare at a gate post to make sure I was making progress and stop my stomach turning.

Once settled, I ate a banana, pocketed the skin and Halifax passed me a few moments later and we chatted until we reached the first control at 30km.  I took a quick snapshot of the answer to the info control whilst they had a faff.  Now on a nice straight road, I started raiding the bar bags for food and demolished an apple.  I had a chat with Halifax about the lack of food on this ride with the conclusion that you "gotta get it while you can" which nearly had me stopped in Bala.  Many of the rides I'd done this year seemed a little sparse on food - or the feeds didn't come when I wanted them.  Perhaps it was my weird metabolism.

Still, I pushed on - like everyone else - in Bala as I had plenty of food on board.  Then I peeled off back into the lovely valleys.  I'd ridden my 'cross bike here in glorious sunshine a few years ago but now it was just wet and wild.  By the time I reached the Crafty Cook Cafe I melted at the invitation to get the pancakes on and demolished two with bacon and maple syrup at 11:30.  The pancakes were bubbly and light but I'm not sure how ride-enhancing that sugar rush was but it made me feel better in between stripping off sodden waterproofs and wringing out my socks and gloves into the toilet bowl in the washrooms.

Americano polished off, I set away towards Ruthin in anticipation of lunch.  Halifax were faffing when I turned the wrong way then retraced my steps to find everyone back together for a brief moment before the weather started again.  Halifax went ahead and Brum and I started swapping places with him passing me on long hills and me getting my own back on steeper ones and not using my brakes on descents.  He had a faff whilst I rolled past in Ruthin.  The wind had been behind us and now I was battling harder into it to dispense of it sooner and I cruised past the control as I knew the answer.

Loggerheads was the next eat control but at 88km it was well after "lunchtime" when we arrived.  Halifax was eating apple pie and Brum joined them.  I went for a more filling-looking vegan shepherd's pie and started to wonder if I'd be able to leave my waterproof trousers off finally.

A lanky boy took my order, managed to concentrate just long enough to take my money then promptly forgot all about me.

After a lot of chatting Brum left me to waiting for my pie - or chasing up my pie.

Lanky boy's chubby mate told me, "it was just coming" then ran into the kitchen obviously to put the pie in the microwave.  I carved pieces off mash that tasted like smash without butter that had been microwaved.  At least the quorn mince and red wine sauce tasted nice with the beetroot but the delay left a bitter taste  in my mouth.

I wanted to set off at a sprint to get my time back but it was still raining so I had layers to put on, wrung my socks out again and chased down Brum who had said he hoped he'd see me again.

There were 3 info controls ahead and I was heading into familiar territory from some time working in North Wales.

In spite of trying to make back some time with spirited effort, I still found myself climbing over fences into a field to rescue a toppled sheep.  I tried to ride past without paying attention but couldn't leave a stupid animal to its fate of getting eaten alive because the stupid bastard couldn't right itself.  Thankfully, the sight of a lumbering woman in orange approaching across the field helped the sheep find the incentive to right itself and I only had three fences to climb back over to get away.

I was a bit frustrated and a bit peckish so I raided the bags for something to eat.  A packet of haribo sours presented themselves and I can't tell you how much my taste buds appreciated that.

I got a move on finally, collecting the name of a pub in Rosemor and a random street name in the middle of nowhere.

Next was 146km and a phone number to collect from a box.  Although I had been watching out for it for some time, the phone box was at the bottom of a descent and on the exit of a bend so I didn't notice it as I passed and crossed the narrow hump-back bridge (are you getting how difficult it was to spot?)

A lovely old couple on the hill climb cheered me up the other side and I basked in the glory until I realised what I'd done.

Thoughts crossed my mind of just continuing and getting the answer off the others but then I might not see them again - so behind was I.  That would leave me bargaining with the organisers to validate my 11th ride of 12 or worse still, waving goodbye to the month of rest I had planned before number 12, trying to get another boring, flat ride done.

My diligence got the better of me and I retraced my route to the phone box, spent a moment explaining to the old couple why I'd walked into a phone box with a smartphone then walked straight back out again.  Photo record of the info control, the lady understood immediately, "Oh, you're recording the number to prove you've been here".

At Tremeirchen it had finally stopped raining.  At 4pm (so much for clearing from 10am).  I lent my bike against a wall and took my waterproof legs off.  Within seconds a small car full to the brim of bearded farmers pulled alongside slowly giving me the smiling thumbs-up to make sure I was OK.  I smiled and waved back, despite the sit down on the wall being uncomfortably welcome.

30 minutes later I was at the seafront in Abergele, tired and had been dreaming of a slice of lemon drizzle cake for about 45 minutes.  As I went over the cobbled bridge that crosses the railway, my back tyre snicked in between cobblestones and felt uncomfortably deflated.  I locked up my bike, dropped my brevet card in the hurricane winds, swore a lot, realised the door was locked then swore some more until a sweet girl approached asking me if I needed my brevet card signed.  After nearly begging to be let in the cafe then realising she was not the owner but the organiser's daughter, I took myself down the road to another seafront greasy spoon / chip shop for the cup of tea and invested in a bag of skittles.  If Haribo could make me ride fast, I hoped Skittles would get me back over the hill.

I sat and drank my tea whilst the arcade clinked and whirred and chattered behind me. Whispy old men with flat caps drank instant coffee with ladies who washed their drinks down with fag smoke, blue rinse catching the breeze.  I enjoyed 20 minutes out of the rain before hauling myself back into it.

I retraced my route to a turnoff in town, my tyre feeling even worse bumping over those cobbles again.  It was a big road with a fair amount of traffic on it and I wasn't enjoying myself at all.  I decided to get the pump out and try inflating the tyre a bit more.  One squeeze of it left me feeling a little ill again, it was really low.  I had flash-backs to the 600 and battling with constant punctures to get back.  The tyre was old-ish.  Worn a bit but not worn through although it did have some serious holes in it.  It was suffering the same symptoms as during the 600.  Slow deflation such that any sudden trauma caused a puncture.

I connected the pump but every time I put something in, the needle dropped back down to practically nothing.  I had only had 20 psi in.  As I was inflating it, Halifax rode past and stopped to check I was OK.  I was a bit frazzled and asked if they had a decent pump though (understandably) they were worried about getting back in time and obviously eager to continue on.  We all concluded that it would probably be fine and sure enough the pressure was starting to build.  They had had a puncture themselves but more substantially, had spent an hour in the MacDonalds in town enjoying hot food and decent coffee.  I had just ridden up the hill on a packet of mini Cheddars.  I was a bit jealous but not too worried as I knew I still had plenty of food on board.

On the way back I got to watch the sun set from underneath the cloud over the Mersey Estuary, the Liver Building prominent on the skyline of the 'Pool.  Both rear lights went on to make me noticeable to sun-blinded drivers and not much later the front light joined it as I sketched my way across the moor in the very blustery wind.  Despite all the healthy choices I had on board, either partially eaten or unopened, the arrival of 8pm saw me reaching for the Skittles.  Pangs of delight coursed through my mouth.  So tasty!  It didn't help that I'd run out of water but my mouth watered and it seemed as good as a drink of water.  I gobbled them down.

When I reached the tops, great gusts of wind blew me and the bike sideways and I had to time glances at the Garmin to make sure I didn't get hit with a gust that would take me into the ditch.  I got one wrong and had to slam my brakes on as the front wheel careered towards a drop off next to a tussock of grass.

The rain started again but I couldn't feel any cold.  In fact, my legs felt exactly the same as they had when I was wearing my waterproofs.  It was still warm but bloody hell, it was hard.  Steep climbs had me stomping on the pedals, out of the saddle yet down the drops to minimise the effect of the wind on my body.  Growling helped blast through the stalemate between a stalled rider and the wind, wrenching myself over the top of the 30% grade.

Allegedly it was 20km downhill to the finish.  I mean, I knew that was probably a fib but still, I'd been thinking about it since 30km to go - 10k up, 20k down.  The 5k up, 20k down.

All the down hill did not come at once.  I was still disappointed, even though I knew it wouldn't all come at once.  Some false flats got in the way, a few rises and then I was down in the valley, looking at the light glow of Corwen and I hauled myself over the bridge, the river now twice as wide as it was when I left and I felt glad I had left my van in the top car park.

After a quick stop to figure out which of the pubs in the tiny Welsh town was the control, I rolled up, locked my bike to the elegant two-seater Iron smoking shelter complete with Cleamtis.  Brum was walking out as I was arriving and called back into the pub, "She's here, she's made it!"  Much commotion ensued as Halifax had reported they didn't think I would make it so the organiser was rushing out in his van to see if I wanted a lift to the finish.

I ignored the slightly cheeky under-estimation of my ability, giving the benefit of doubt.  The last time they saw me I was swearing at my pump, hearing jealously of their feed, knowing nothing of the feast I had on board.

Inside the pub, ale and crisps were on offer.  I passed on the ale, stuck with the crisps and a box of pineapple juice that had been there since the 80's plus a pint of water.  I'd not drunk anything since 8:30pm and now it was 9:38.  30 minutes to spare.

Still warm but noticeably damp and smelly, I left the bartender to his banter and walked my bike over to the Mercu.  The easy bit was over.  Getting changed out of wet kit in a van before driving home was going to be a challenge.  I pretty much left everything I had on the tops of the Welsh hills.  I stopped at 11pm at Chester services and slept for 2 hours before rejoining the motorway and listening to the Asian Network very loud for the next 2 hours back to Sheffield.  It was 3:30 am when I got to bed.

Still, October, done.  11/12.

SO many Audaxes I need to squeeze them all into one post.

My last two rides before 'cross really takes over have been like chalk and cheese and have lifted me up and then broken me down.

After my DNF in Scotland on the 600 I entered a 200 DIY the week after to get my August ride in and then entered another 600 one month later.

In the meantime I decided I didn't trust myself to finish the 600 so I bunged another 200 in the week before in North Wales - a notoriously hilly one - to offset the flat 600 and the flat 200 I did on bank holiday weekend.  Both passed too close to Scunthorpe - a place where I am actively spending my working week too.  So the Welsh 200 went ahead. 

The forecast was unbelievable for 1st September..  Around 50 of us set off from Old Ma's tea room at 0800 for Pistyll Rhayader, stopping at Chirk on the way.  Whilst guys rushed for the shop, I sat and drank coffee and ate cake.  Chirk is too nice to rush.  My ride plan was to cruise the time limits and enjoy myself, saving my legs for next weekend.

The first hills started and I really enjoyed them.  Sure they were taxing but not stupidly steep and gloriously gloriously remote.  I chatted to Steve Ogden who was out to try and improve his hill climbing and Shaun Hargreaves, nursing a calf injury but sporting his fixie regardless because "a 200 on gears aggravated it last weekend so it clearly doesn't matter".  Both regulars on the Audax scene, it was a pleasure to spend time with them and it did my ego good to keep dropping Shaun on the descents.

I stopped in a shop before lake Vyrnwy which was a relief as the tourist facing service was shockingly slow.

I got my coffee and ate my pre-bought sausage roll in full view as the staff were too busy to care. 

Some sportive riders on our ride chided me for my saddlebag but then I caught them at the top of the hill suffering Di2 issues.  They soon passed me back. 

In Bala I headed straight to the Eco cafe for more coffee and cake and received a hand written receipt so I had her sign the time on my brevet card.  Around the corner I met Steve looking for the speed of a convenience store as I was trying to get my Garmin to load / start.  He suggested my battery had died and was right.  He saved my bacon from a Trep meltdown.

I stuck the Garmin on charge on my spare battery and headed off back into the hills.  As I descended  a steep slope musing about how you never really get the hill climb time back on the descents, I met a slow-moving tractor - just to prove my point.  It took him a while to find space to pull over but he did it just ahead of a large 4 inch deep patch of gravel across the road.  I suspect that also saved my bacon.

By 6pm I was really rather hungry.  I knew the pub at the last check point was closed and we were instead relying on an info control so when I happened across another pub 2 miles before the control, a quick (badly informed) maths reckoning concluded I could be pushing the time limits but I knew I needed real food.

I ordered a burger and pint of lemonade and just as I was finishing the last of my chips I was excited to see Steve go by.  I caught him on a hill climb and we had a little chat before I surged ahead, knowing I'd see him soon.  I actually felt a little guilty about leaving him to the darkening potholed descents but he caught me up soon enough waiting for some never-changing roadworks traffic lights.  We rode into the darkness together. 

He was out of water.  After my lemonade, I was down to a couple of mouthfulls of drink left in my bottle.  My bat-sonar detected a Spar behind us at a junction so we doubled-back and I repayed the bacon-saving by sitting with the bikes whilst Steve got water and juice which we split between us.  Pace picked up again on the flat as we gossiped away the evening with our life-tales.  We arrived at the finish just after Shaun and sat about talking crap with the organisers until gone 10:30 pm.  It was a brilliant ride that left me relaxed, yet brimming with pride.

In similarity my 600 start was quite relaxed, with a 200 in the bag for September the 600 was only really worthy of having a go.  What a lot of commitment for just "having a go".

My hotel was booked last minute but ended up conveniently close to the start - all looking good so far.  I went to register but no-one was there so I kicked-off my Garmin only to find that none of my routes were on it.  I rushed back to the car and spent the next 15 minutes uploading routes from my work laptop email onto Garmin Connect then transferring from my phone to the Garmin device.  I slithered in to the organiser with 5 minutes to go, caught the end of the briefing then set off with the peloton to ride into the wind.

Boy did we need it!  We had a man-down within 30 minutes.  I dropped off the back just long enough to make sure he'd got up again then battled hard to get back on the group into the headwind. 

They were knocking out 26kph on the fens.  I am usually chuffed with 24 kph for the first 80k so was worried about burning out but the truth is, I'd have been trying even harder to make 21kph on my own so sticking with the group was my top priority and I tied my urethra in a knot whilst others dropped off the back for a pee. 

I held on as long as I could and then drifted along on my own for a bit until a railway crossing got me a few more companions but I couldn't keep up with them either so I let it all go.

I walked into Chatteris Green Welly Cafe alone, only to meet the impressive and lovely Judith Swallow in the undesirable location of the loo queue.  She was on the other 600k ride, travelling in the opposite direction.  I took a moment to chat and embrace as she was on her way out.  I timed in then, heeding warnings not to spend too much time, opted for a flapjack in a packet and a milky instant coffee.

I also bumped into Steve in the queue for food which was nice to catch up.  With riding most of the morning with Shaun, it was like 5 days of working week had never happened.

It also felt like the beginning of the end already - only 12:00 and I was knackered.  I got outside and it was raining so more time was spent coating-up.  I was on for a late lunch

Back on the road, the next stop was at Great Dunmow and the end of the first chunk of 173 kms.  The route passed through Cambridge which I confirm I still have little time for with its tiny streets of meandering gormless tourists.  I had a sandwich in a petrol station for lunch and paused to remove coat and rain legs.

A young couple caught me up and towed me out of town.

I really liked Dunmow although I almost missed the control as I didn't fancy a pub but control was at the pub.  Near miss!  They had ran out of baked potato so I settled for a Sandwich which brought me to the uncomfortable position of having eaten two lumps of white bread and very little hot, real food.  I left a little depressed with only a civilian couple out for a bimble on their bikes before dinner to draft for a while... and in the end I was towing them along.  Only 3 people were on the road behind me.

I enjoyed the last few Essex hills before the long slog to Boston started.

The intermediary control was at Whittlesey which we passed in the morning.  A promising-looking place with a marked square and toll bar building.  No toilets though and the suggested petrol station control was closed leaving me to retrace my steps several times to a little corner shop to furnish me with cold coffee, a sausage roll and the most delicious, hot home made samosa.  The 3 guys behind me were joined by 2 more but people split with some going home to a DNF and the rest continuing on.  I was joined by an older chap who was pretty quiet.  We rode together for a while but then I started with the dozies so started looking out for a convenient stopping place.

A bench presented itself with a nice comfy-looking water pumping station behind.  Never mind that the constant buzz of the A15 was not far away - I would sleep anywhere.  I'd calculated I was 3 hours up on time and I would sleep right back up to the time limit, give or take an hour to get myself sorted then get myself moving again.  I unfurled my bivi on a fine mat of ivy, put on my oh-shit coat and lay down. Shoes off, I was happy as anything with a quick look-up at the starts and the canopy of trees above.  I farted into my bivi for extra warmth and pulled the hood over my head.  Nothing, nothing would keep me awake.

My watch sounded 2 hours later and I could hear the spatter of rain and resolved to wait for my 2:15 alarm but the onset of shivers fixed that decision and gave my body different ideas.  The effort of rolling up a 6ft tall bivi was enough to warm me up then I ate the last of the sausage roll for breakfast and headed towards Boston for coffee.  Then I discovered that my rear tyre was flat.  I walked back to my bench, pumped it up again to see how it went and started dealing with the concerned enquiries from the fast lads, starting to head back the other way in the Fenland Flier ride.

10 minutes down the road I decided to just fix the puncture at a nice walled bridge giving me excellent cover from the wind and somewhere to lean the bike. 

It was around 5am when I arrived at Boston and I'd been dreaming of a cheese burger for about 12 hours but unfortunately you can't get that at McDonalds at 5am so I did with a bagel instead.  I felt neither full, nor appetised when a Romanian guy with a BMW and a swagger like a drug dealer started buying everyone espressos. 

Steve and I had another chat and he very kindly gave me a confidence-boosting speach about me being a stronger rider than him and he thought he would finish.  Sadly I think I left all of my strength and courage in the Welsh hills.

I left him (wisely) to his porridge and pancakes and rejoined the road, riders now consistently streaming past in the opposite direction but Judith Swallow now long gone.

I decided that Romanian guy had definitely put cocaine in the espressos as a steady string of riders who I had previously been riding with came flying past me at a frightening speed. 

I plodded on to Lincoln alone, eventually spilling onto the canal towpath where I was finally joined by the couple on the tandem.  We exchanged some stories of our days before they drew ahead as soon as we hit the road.

When I arrived at Lincoln I made a beeline for the first cafe I saw but it was closed so I rode on looking for a cash machine.  I was 2 minutes ahead of time.  I asked a Deliveroo rider where I could find a decent cafe.  He regretted there were plenty of decent ones but they were all closed so I would have to make do with an indecent one.  Crap, it was 9am Sunday morning wasn't it?  I had a steak sandwich in Subway, struggling to understand the server's northern accent and friendliness.

"Sorry, I was in Essex this morning".

I looked at my watch, Shit it was still this morning.  She laughed suspiciously at the deluded lady.

I sat in the square, leaning against a wall watching my bike.  We'd come a long way together.  I hardly dared look how far it was.  A homeless man shuffled by in wool trousers and coat, sandals and a silk nightdress.  He was better dressed than me.  We smelt about the same.

I got back on the bike and set off for Goole.  First there were Wolds to climb up out of Lincoln - some respite for my legs which quite enjoy hills and my bum which really needed a saddle break.  Beautiful sunshine, some roadies whooshing past and stragglers on the Fenland route in as much trouble as me and then I bounced over a crack in the tarmac and whoomph, my rear tyre went flat again.  I crossed the road to a driveway which got me out of the wind and off the road and sat down on the concrete to set about the repair getting nervous that my tyres were getting old or my bag was too heavy.  At least I found the glass which had been gradually whittling away at the new inner-tube and could rest assured that the problem was fixed but my only spare tube had a wonky valve which, after all the effort of pumping it up, unscrewed with the pump head.  I stood up and cleanly kicked the wheel right across the concrete driveway.  This at least kick-started my brain into action and then I calmly unscrewed the valve head of one of my punctured inner tubes, fitted it to the new tube and started again. 

I toyed with the idea of riding back into Lincoln to get a train to Sheffield and going out to get the van on Monday but riding my bike for another day didn't appeal so I decided to carry on, heading North West now towards the Trent. 

I was on familiar territory from my Bank Holiday weekend ride and stopped in Kirton Lindsey for some respite and food.  I remember this as being around dinner time but the lady in the shop wished me "good mid-day" and went on to have a monologue with herself about how she should greet me at "1200hrs".  I say monologue because I stared at her blankly, not knowing how to reply.  "There were a lot of you here yesterday, is there some kind of event on?" 

I glibly told her I was the end of it and, thankful for clear weather, went and sat on the kerbside with my bike to avoid further questioning.  At least the village toilets were free, open and clean.

The fens to Goole were going to be a nightmare - turning 270 degrees of wrong direction - South, West, North, East a bit, then North then West.  Not long with a tail wind before you're unceremoniously forced to ride into a head wind for a bit.  And then the rear tyre went flat again.  All out of inner tubes.  I pumped the tyre up to see how long it lasted and the answer was, about 4 miles into the next village and with blackening skies, I walked a way to find a bus stop to set up my repair service.

Trust me, in the meantime I considered calling for a taxi to Sleaford but that seemed like it might be expensive. 

I considered riding back to Sleaford but that would involve retracing my path into the headwind - also not popular. 

This time a blown patch was to blame.  I replaced the patch, pumped up the tyre and it held.  No excuses for not finishing and plenty for not being finished in time.  To add to the embarrassment I had 100 Sportive riders to deal with coming in the opposite direction.  100 awake, jolly, exiteable sportive riders - everyone offering a cheery hello for my pissed off and exhausted brain. 

I had a little tail wind up the Trent where I expertly avoided riding into Scunthorpe to go and sleep on the Alsatian dog belonging to the security guard in my site office.  The only thing stopping me: that I didn't have my work pass in my cycling wallet.  I rolled dubiously into Goole at 6pm, starving hungry.  Whilst I should have been chasing down the time limits, I was instead, ordering tasty Mac meals, hot apple pies and coffee, more glorious coffee.  I wasted further time changing into fresh shorts for the night time riding and was 2 hrs behind schedule when I left and headed back into the headwind and setting sun.  It felt like abject torture to be passing the exact spot where I sat and decided to push on to the finish in favour of riding back the way I came into the headwind back to Sleaford only to find that I was heading out to ride back the way I came into the headwind to ride back to Sleaford.  All sense of achievement had diminished.

Not much makes sense after that except for the village of Haxey where, looking for a place to sit down and eat my stash of crisps from Kirton Linsey, I decided to throw the time limits to the wind and sit on the swings to eat my food.  It was the happiest I would be for a while.

Gainsborough was next up.  I thought I was going to die from a steady stream of boy racers close-passing along the A631.  If ever there was a reason to stick to a time schedule, Gainsborough at pub-closing time on a school night was it.  Yes, I was now riding at 15kph.  My wheels had fallen off and it was late!  Then the footpath was a tree-rooted pavement which would have been a) illegal and b) would have snapped off my feet and arse - also leading to certain death.  Pulling into town I found a petrol station to control and witnessed my first ever drive-away at a fuel station as a young voice shouted "fuck you" at the CCTV then roared off in his plate-less hot hatch.  I spent the next two hours dodging a red Vauxhall Corsa which continuously close passed me until I dived into the bushes behind the scary phone-box, extinguishing all lights and watching him prowl up and down the street a couple of times whilst I put my leggings and extra layers on.  Who knows?  Perhaps he was just delivering pizza and I was paranoid.  Perhaps he wanted to scare a girl on a bike. After a while he gave up looking, or whatever it was he was doing. 

In Lincoln it was now 11pm.  Retracing then not getting lost on the Canal.  Constant back-tracking.  Some, "Oh, I'm here - always wondered where that came out".  I started up a hill again, not sure why I was going up a hill but happy to be standing up for a short time then I seemed to go back down before urgently needing to go back up again.  Damn this was cruel.  I decided to take a walk.

I cycled as far as the end of the streetlights then found myself a tree for a pee and a bench to sit on.  I faffed for a while eating an apple then pushed my bike so far up before re-mounting.  At least I was to quickly turn out of Lincoln onto more minor roads, just in time for SLEEPYTIMES!

According to my Garmin, from Lincoln, the route trended gradually downwards.  It's obvious from my trendline that I gradually fell deeper and deeper into lala land, my average speed hitting 15kph then 14 then 12 then 11.

Everywhere I looked the view was the same.  A grey bowl of concrete where my light shone and nothing else but lines of plastic carrier bags along the side of the road filled with sticks and lined up one after the other.  Occasionally a gateway broke the monotony of the plastic carrier-bag-weeds, a black and inhosptable gateway to darkness.  There was no moon or stars just darkness and then I was talking to Brian from work and asking his guys to wear their PPE and planning our test programme but then I would wake up still talking but Brian wasn't there and still the world was grey and the carrier bags rolled by so I closed my eyes to think about something more interesting.

This time I talked to Matt until something rustled inside a carrier bag and so I sprinted in case a deer was about to knock me off.  The rustling continued and I thought it might be a dog so I sprinted and sprinted until I had no more and then realised that the noise was coming from my coat and I went back to sleep.  Who knows how much time this went on for?  I did have enough mental capacity to watch the distance to my next turning come down each time I woke up but then I reached Digby and it was a village with stuff and things - like bus stops and I found the perfect shelter to keep the wind off.

Sadly the bench was made of iron slats but I could sleep on anything.  I put on all my layers but couldn't be bothered to get my bivi out.  I spent 10 minutes checking my phone to text TSK I was OK but sleeping and trying to persuade my body that it didn't really need a poo so I could sleep soundly for 40 minutes before waking up shivering uncontrollably.  I added my final layer - waterproof trousers - and set off into the dark still wearing my Oh-Shit coat over my waterproof with my hood snugly crammed under my helmet.

I was, of course, off-course, having missed the turning I had been so carefully looking out for but took an alternative route which didn't add too much distance.  Of all the wrong turnings in all the ride, I picked the wrong turn that did least damage.

At 3:15 I arrived at Sleaford McDonalds but couldn't face human interactions to I overshot to an ATM and got a statement from there.

I had done it.  I had actually ridden 600km in one effort, between two showers, with one change of clothes.  I didn't really care that I was out of time but then I wasn't really glowing with pride.  It was embarrassingly hard and depressingly difficult.  It helps only slightly that others suffered with the wind and punctures and also thought it was hard.  I was not sure, not convinced, if it was something I would ever be motivated to do again, the point is, it was over.  In my preparedness, this time I had proved that I was still too stubborn to quit.

None of that needed thinking of then though.  I took the wheels off the bike, put it in the front of the car, blew up my mattress, unfurled my sleeping bag and with a streetlight shining straight in my face and an air conditioning rumbling and gassing outside the van window, I slept for 7 hours straight, waking only to email the organiser to let him know I was OK and stop my Garmin. 

That was Audax for another month.