Peak 200 - a First Attempt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morning!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The floral coffee before the storm

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

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

I seem to have ridden to Wales

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ground Clearance

I've been reading a book that has brought nature back to me.

Gradually.

This week has been epic and stressful but reading has helped me lift myself out of the sofa, sit in the garden and look at the sky.  I've started to notice the birds - on the river, in the trees, in the skies.

I invested in a bird-book to replace the Canadian book which isn't really much use to me anymore.

I've started reading Nan Shepherd too.

This weekend I needed to de-stress gently.  Every time I've been upstairs to do yoga I get slightly depressed by my cyclo-cross bike which is propped upright by the wall, asking to be fixed up ready for next season.  On Saturday morning I brought him down, put on a new derailleur, fixed the gears and gave him his first bath since he stood-in for my mountain bike in December.  After that I got the mountain bike out and re-tuned those gears so it doesn't annoy me when I ride it.

In the afternoon we walked into town.  Not a very nature-oriented activity but as we sat outside at the cafe I thumbed the bird book and learned some new things. 

We got home and I started attacking the garden.  One of the trees in the garden is being strangled by vine.  I hadn't realised how bad it was till I saw a few spindly branches with yellowing leaves on the end in stark contrast to the over-riding evergreen vine leaves. I gradually, over the course of the entire afternoon, peeled back all of the vine from the tree.  I then cut back the grapevine that's moved in from next door from the elder, the dog rose and the pine tree. 

The patio was more "dappled shade" than "basement" now.  The brambles gone.  I fear for the future of the elder tree, it was damp and rotten in many places where the vine was rooted between branches. I'll need to keep an eye on it but it seems reasonably strong and I hope it survives.

This morning I sat outside to eat my breakfast.  There were no birds singing.  I couldn't see any either except a few darting around high in the sky above the valley.  Suddenly I could pick out the different varieties - house martin, swift and swallow - against the blue sky.

I spent the rest of the day trundling around town to buy a mower (the old one broke) and some bags to take the garden rubbish to the skip where we also deposited the old mower and a bunch of waste electrical equipment and old batteries.

Back at the house we managed another load of garden waste and sat and watched the birds again whilst drinking tea. 

In a world where I've tended to shy away with the computer on my relaxing days, it was great to work hard, outside, on my space.  It no longer feels like a lost cause.  It's now a planted out, slightly tidier, slightly lighter, more thriving space to breathe.

Nature is supposed to bring me out and I would have liked to ride today but my self has been exercised at home and is immensely grateful for it.

I might be quiet on twitter for a while.  I feel incredibly middle aged and I really don't give a shit.

Relief

I shouldn't really need to explain or note just how much of a relief it is to find a body, my body working normally but I am happy to report that my normal, old fashioned heart rate monitor gave some normal, old fashioned readings on Sunday. Zone 4 felt like zone 4 and I managed to get out of zone 2.

I wrote myself off for a day today except for a small mountain bike trip that was satisfying for 30 minutes and left me with the feeling that I should do this more often... but I never do.

Something Edgy

Something has woken up this week. It's a while since I have felt like going quick - in any way. The Highland Trail always just felt a bit like I was surviving it. I had an excellent base of long distance strength but never ever felt like I was pushing myself - except to go further, later.

Perhaps I was just riding the waves of tiredness, always cruising the rollers before catching a wave. This week, by Thursday I felt like trying so on the way home I did a few intervals. I didnt really watch my heart rate, just got out od breath then recovered and repeat till I got home.

I tried again on Friday but this time I was broadcasting my heart rate from my watch to my Bike screen. Disappointing that I didnt really get out of zone 2, despite blowing out my nether regions so either I am dead or my watch is.

Today I needed time to catch up on life. I did household chores!

This isn't the normal chores people would think of. Sure, I put some laundry through the machine - my bike's nose bags are now hanging on the line - their innards exposed to the sun trying to bleach the last of the black mould out of them.

I also removed the soggy packets of Lockets from the plastic box we know of as oue bathroom cabinet. They had leaked into the bottom of the box and were seeping into bandages and sticking plasters, infusing with athlete's foot cream. Their best before date date was 2011.

TSK once said, "we're like ferel cats - someone should really take care of us but if we stick together we might just be OK". I sometimes wonder at the sanity of two endurance athletes living together.  Certainly few other people find our lives appetizing.

I've done nothing but tidy all day. Since we actually got our gutters fixed I have found the enthusiasm to at least treat this like a home and not a bivi spot (think of more black mould and wall paper hanging off).

As I mused about the house I wondered on my heart rate and my lungs and my sudden urge to race. Perhaps I am fit. Perhaps on Friday I was too fatigued to raise a pulse (I ran at lunchtime too). Perhaps the inhaler I have been prescribed since early May is actually making a difference to my life.  With my head in mountainbike land I haven't had time to ponder these things.

I wrote a blog post about it so I don't forget.

Highland T-Reccie - a Trail of Human Stories

After a failure to finish - nay, properly get going on the Highland Trail this year, I decided to take a long weekend off work with the days of holiday saved and attempt the second of three "loops" of the course.  On Wednesday evening I drove to Scotland, driving through rain in Glasgow, past Crianlarich into rain in Tyndrum.  I had eaten on the way so carried on in to Fort William, seeing where I'd get to before I got tired of driving.  It was lashing it down in Fort Bill, the petrol station attendee pittied me as I rushed in to buy porridge sachets to keep me going through this mini "holiday".

I carried on through Fort Augustus into Invermorriston.  I thought of stopping in the carpark and pulled in to check for, "NO OVERNIGHT PARKING" signs.  They were everywhere although there were a glut of people obviously overnight parking including a car with two mountain bikes locked to the front grille.

I decided to carry on up to Cannich and camp there, hoping to persuade the campsite to look after my van for a few days in exchange for a few coins.  Unfortunately road closures on the A82 put paid to that idea (explaining the overnight camping rash in Invermorriston) and I scrummed down in a layby.  By power-lifting EmVee onto one side of the van, I managed to climb into the back without putting my nose outside and crawl into the sleeping bag in about 10 minutes.  Result.  Fleece hat over my eyes, I mostly slept through the occasional passing vehicle.

At 5am I woke up to the sound of moving traffic.  I was stiff from a night in a narrow space and the thought of climbing out of Invermorriston to Loch Na Stac for the second time in two months filled me with dread so I drove on up to Cannich and headed for the Corrimony Cairn car park where there were no "NO OVERNIGHT PARKING" signs.  I set off on my ride with a belly full of Cream Crunch biscuits and strawberries.  The good stuff was packed in my bags and I consumed everything I was carrying on the ride over to Contin.

The scenery was big, wide and open, the trails were in a similar condition.  I was enjoying myself and making progress.  The few remaining showers didn't bother me much.

In the stores, I took the time for a chat with the owner over coffee machine cleaning then sat outside and scoffed sausage roll and a chicken sandwich whilst watching a clueless bufoon nearly mow into a family turning off the road before aggressively challenging some motorcyclists on their riding technique.  He was brusquely sent on his way by the Glaswegian biker who was then immensely civil to me as he popped into the store for supplies.

I now understand the "Road of a Thousand Puddles" nickname and appreciated the Hydrobothy's shelter, initially from the breeze which had gotten rather stiff and battering and then from the rain which hammered down for around 10 minutes - just long enough for me to cool down properly after my packet of crisps shelter feed.  Hopes raised for a bit of speedy road riding at the sight of a little white van but it was just a long way away and finally a large, lumbering toyota Hilux came into view - two Scottish Hydro workers made me realise they were the only people I'd seen on the trail all day.

I envied their work then continued on my way.

Through sqally showers and a stiff breeze, I stoically pushed through towards Oykel Bridge, focussed on getting there within the day, thanks to Karl Brooks putting the idea in my head that it was achievable.  I still saw no-one and chatted to the cows instead in between battling the breeze and enjoying the sunny spells.

This blonde was a bit pretty

Cute little bear

I got a bit tired, (or was it a bit cocky?) when I spied a big old building by a road and got quite excited that I'd made it to Oykel Bridge by 4pm.  Could I, in fact, conceive of riding the top loop too?  When I realised it was only the Alladale reserve, I was put back in my place.  An eerily empty building (though obviously used by school and scout groups) in the middle of nowhere.

When I did finally reach Oykel Bridge after 11 hours riding and 13 hours outdoors, it was 7:30pm and time for dinner.  After race reports of a poor welcome at the hotel, I decided to save myself the descent and climb back out and cut the corner off to rejoin the return route at the Schoolhouse bothy.  In race mode I wouldn't have stopped the night but with heavy rain forecast between 9pm and 11pm, I decided not to get soaked on the first night and take my rest when the opportunity presented itself.

A rather luxurious bivi

'Twas the night before solstice in the highlands

I shared the building with Paul (a quiet student) and Dave and Caroline from Sheffield (no really).  When they asked me a few questions about how far I was going and where I was going, I was ashamed to admit that, although I had a vague idea, I didn't really know how long loop 2 was or, after Oykel Bridge, what my next moves were.

 I put my dinner on and pulled out my cheat-sheets to figure it out. 30km then 70km were the order of the next day, to Ullapool then to Kinlochewe, then Torridon and Glen Affric.

I cooked my dehydrated food sachet in the stone grate and snuggled up on the wooden bench, a little annoyed that the promised rain hadn't materialised to justify my early night.  Just as I pulled my hat over my eyes again to keep out the persistently illuminated grey sky and dozed off, the rain started to sheet on the tin roof.  Rather than keep me awake, it lulled me to sleep.

I was up with the dawn but took the time to holiday on porridge and coffee, still making it out the door by 7:30 and polishing off a lot more food on my way to Ullapool - my first opportunity to check in on the phone with loved ones. I was hiding under the trees on the edge of town whilst a wall of rain made its way through the valley.  Sure enough, as soon as I saw the other side of the bay the rain had cleared and I found my way to the cafe to share lunch with another couple from Sheffield - this time from Sheffield, Tazmania.  I listened with sympathy to their ageing stories of not being able to sleep on camp matresses anymore despite their love of remote places.  I sewed the thought in their minds that thermarest has come along somewhat over the last few years and empathised with their pillow woes in rented accommodation, admitting that I have travelled for work with two pillows in the car.

Next it was time for the tescos trip.  Suitable Macarons sourced as well as sweeties and crisps for the road ahead and a pair of waterproof gloves from the outdoor shop, to guarantee good weather for the rest of the trip (the marigolds got a pinhole between two fingers and sadly started to let water in).

On the road out of town, an unidentified vehicle overtook me, hands waving out of the window, I was pleased to see two brand new pillows pressed against the rear window of the hire car.  The couple from Tazmania had taken my advice.

And so to the Coffin Road where, thanks to rest and much faff in Ullapool I was feeling relatively fresh.  I enjoyed the breeze and the rest at the top of the climb, looking over the meadows below.  On the ride over to the Dundonnel Road I particularly enjoyed picking my choice of Highland Trail route-finding around the bogs - convinced I could tell whose line belonged to who - at least it was fairly obvious which tracks had the bog-hopping skills and I chose those tracks to follow.

Top of Coffin

The descent was another matter.  I enjoyed single track, cursed single track and felt a little sad to be leaving some of the hanging valleys behind with their tempting looking boathouses.

From the Dundonnel Road I was momentarily joined by around 10 hikers in different groups, setting out for An Teallach and beyond for the solstice weekend.  They warned of busy bothies and I wasn't bothered.  A clear forecast and a tent was all I needed.  I stopped part way and brewed up some food, letting the hoardes subside and fuelling on one of them Macarons.  Bloody hell they're sweet!

By the time I was back on the trail, the majority of hikers had turned off for their bothies and I enjoyed the ride to Sheneval alone with the deer and highland coo again.

Deer on the river crossing 

The An Teallach slabs glistened in the still high sun, then after the descent the puddles turned silver, then gold, finally dazzling me to a level I couldn't complain about as I witnessed the most incredible sunset I have ever experienced.  Not sun-dipping-in-the-sea incredible but, "I've always wanted to come here and now I'm here on the solstice and the sun is *actually* shining" incredible.

The bothy was heaving.  At least 10 people were milling around outside watching the sunset and a small tent farm was springing up.  I pushed my bike on by and talked to a young mountain leader out for the Fisherfield 6 tomorow.

I explained my nervousness for the route ahead but also that I had my shelter in tow.

The whole crossing went as intended and I pushed through the bogs until I found a patch of dry-ish flat-ish grass by the river to perch my tent on and somewhere to lean the bike up.  Navigating by torch light had just gotten difficult - though the remaining daylight made it possible wihtout a head light - it was just slow.  My feet were pretty wet from bog hopping and I reminded myself I was OK as I peeled off into something dry.  I really was very OK but somehow my excitement levels were too high to be conducive to effective sleeping and calm.

I was having a minor wobble that my battery had not charged all day (loose connector) and I was already onto my second, spare Garmin as my highly efficient model had too little battery (and an erroneous charge reading) when I left the car.  I sucked what remaining battery power I had into the GPS and hoarded all my electronics in my coat.

At 3am I woke up shivering but chocolate put paid to that and I went back to sleep until the much more appropriate 6am when some hikers walked past my head.

Morning

I had a nosey at the other bothies then crossed the beautiful Causeway which I'd been looking forwards to since I checked the route out, years ago.

 I was very jealous of the fellow bike packers camped at the edge of the causeway though I figured their view had not been as spectactular last night.  That said, the sense of awe for the place had not waned although it felt a little less intimidating now that I had crossed it... though there was the slight reluctance to leave.

The sun was beating down by the time I started the long and relentless climb out to Letterewe and I was down to just my bib shorts.  I didn't think I'd be sleeveless for long so I wouldn't get burned.  More Macaroon got me through the rest of the day, as well as some chocolate also bought in Ullapool. 

Briefly, Letterewe was like civilisation - Scottish Hipsters in full tweed, waistcoated and flat capped strutted around the main house, looking like they were doing gardening chores and American tourists scattered, calling "biiiiyek" at eachother, not knowing which way I was turning on the postie path, then horrified at my choices.  Alan had warned me that it would be bracken bound and unrideable by summer but I chanced it as it was only just sumer and the chance paid off, with most of it only being 6 inch tall and the worst only just below handlebar height.

Bracken baby

Cross this

At the river gully, an exposed boulder caused me to drop the full weight of the bike unluckily and uncomfortably onto my helmet, writing it off (as I later discovered) with a hairline fracture at the forehead and a large chainring bite in the back but at least it wasn't my head sandwiched between bike and boulder.

I had little food left and one packet of tictacs was set to last me the whole length of the Postie path. I find it incredble what can be achieved on a packet of tictacs.

With the heat belting down, I was back to taking frequent breaks and gathering water wherever I could get it.  Some rivers were less savoury than others - just below houses - though none of them actually seem to have caused me any issues.

When I got to loch level, where the sun was most captive and reflective, I suffered wearing my jersey to stop my shoulders burning - just in case the factor 50 suncream was insufficient. It was 4pm. 6 hours since I had told myself then sun would go in soon.

Despite the delays, I couldn't bring myself to panic too much about missing the shop until I finally got to Kinlochewe and realised that 34km had taken me almost 9 hours.  The pub was still open and I sat indoors, in the shade, consdering my options.

With a 3 course meal at my table, the situation improved.  When the waiter agreed to charge my battery, the situation improved further.  When I went to pay the bill and discovered the stash of cakes and crisps / peanuts, the situation became salvageable.  Torridon was on!

Some of the other guests called me brave for continuing after dinner and I did contest that brave / stupid are sometimes inseparable but as I cycled past the sterile environment of the Kinlochewe Caravan and Camping club site, I realised that I was the clever one.  For the first time this week I was starting to behave like a racer (give or take the patience for a 3-course meal).  I ploughed on down the road and easy trail well into Torridonian Sandstone (though pausing for plenty of photos) and started the long toil over the mountain towards Attadale - the Ironman route I never got to run in 2014.

Rainbow clouds over Ben Eighe 

Behind me I watched the sun set over the Fisherfield 6 and took regulr breaks to feed my brain which was starting to get annoyed by drains on the path.

Fisherfield sunset from Torridon

These were soon replaced by exciting slabs though, which - with my new tyres on - I enjoyed riding right up until the point they got so steep that my arse regularly kept trying to overtake my head.

Sorry for your cake Margaret, Torridon happened.

Eventually, the helmet light had to go on to help define the trail features ahead and to help me identify a spot to bivi as I got more sweary and sleepy.  A waterfall provided just enough breeze to keep the biting midges at bay and I found a reasonbaly dry 4 x 7 foot stretch of spagnum moss on which to pitch.  The Garmin went back on charge and so did I when I woke at 3am with hunger pangs again.

Another hot day in Paradise, looking back to my bivi spot from Attadale

It was a difficult morning next day but again, 7am walkers provided stimulus and honey-roast peanuts provided breakfast.  I hadn't stopped far from Attadale station but missed the opportunity to visit it as I missed a turn - at least I know for next time.

The Strathcarron Hotel provided breakfast in the form of haggis in a bun and polystyrene tray.  The new owners made me feel very welcome so I'll be back there if I need to. They're open from 9am.  I took my leave of them and the german tourist and enjoyed the ciruit of Attadlae gardens before the final leg to Dornie - back to the seaside.

I don't remember much of this bit.  I was getting a little tired but I had a fair ammount of food to keep me going.  I was glad, briefly to be back down the other side and onto the road for some speed but drivers soon started to get annoying.  I arrived in time for the bakery and had a double helping of iced coffee shake, cake, supplies and a can of cold sugary drink before deciding I had time to go a couple of miles off-course to visit my parents, staying at Glen Shiel on a walking holiday.

I sneaked a little shower whilst waiting for the olds to show, washing 3 days of factor 50 and sweat off, drying myself with my shirt and sitting in the sun to dry.  It was briefly like a different world before continuing on my journey.  My dad and I talked about mountaineering for a while then his only warning was to make sure I sleep before driving home.  No warnings abnout riding my bike in the munros in the dark.  I love him.

I figured 6 hours before dark to do 55km on reasonable trails was do-able-to-ambitous but acknowledged that I still had Monday to work with and could just concentrate on getting as far back as possible on Sunday night.

Glen Affric was everything I expected and more.  I pretty much knew what the trail would be like even though I've not travelled all of it before.  The mountains and hidden valleys however were another matter.  They just went on and on, overlapping, ever-climbing.

I stopped part way up as the rain passed over, brewing up my dinner in full water proofs in anticipation of a storm that never came. In the end I stuck with the coat but removed the leggings and continued in shorts through the evening.

The lights of the youth hostel were moderately tempting but I remembered my promise to cover as much ground as possible.  The summit bothy would have been single occupancy and whilst tempting, was also a little spooky and far from home.

I tried to look over my shoulder for the sunset but it never came.  We had reverted to normal Scottish conditions and there was just a gradual greying of the sky.  The track out of Glen Affric was so wet I started to wonder if I'd got the "Road of a Thousand Puddles" a bit wrong.  Some could have drowned a small child.  I poked my way around anything I couldn't see the bottom of which took some time, so down at the final bit of accommodation (private University club bothy), it was already dim enough to warrant lights for the section along the Loch shore.

Tents came and went in the darkness, abandoned piles of pots and pans where people had rushed indoors away from midges.  I continued in search of the Shangri-La of flat, shelter with just enough breeze but none was forthcoming so I went for the carpark at the end of the Affric road and spent too much time pitching on a (too) carefully selected flat spot and tying my guy ropes to a bench because I couln't find anywhere to get my 8th peg in.

Because I thought I could quickly get my tent up I hadnt worn leggings or a midge net and had been eaten alive.

Right next to the river again, I spent a whole 4 hours sleeping soundly before the alarm clock went off again. Remarkably (not) there are no pictures of this bivi spot as I threw everything (I wasn't wearing) into the bike bags willy-nilly as quickly as possible and started riding into a breeze until I could at least take my oh-shit coat off. The weather obliged to let me keep my other waterproof layers on, nodding in shared recognition at 7am to a fisherman walking through Tomich in full waders.

The climb out of Tomich was on the road but without any breakfast, the slowest of my life. I gritted my teeth and slogged it out despite a growing desire to hide my bags in the bushes and ride to the van unloaded to drive back for my gear.

The greatest relief was the van still being there when I returned and as I disassembled my bike to give myself space to sleep in the van, I didn't even care that a coach load of old-lady tourists had turned up to visit the cairn and, now, watch a lady mountain biker get quickly naked.

For the first time in my life I drove away from my wheels, leaning against the back of the van but thankfully realised after a couple of miles and headed back. After I finished Friday's packet of biscuits my lunch stop turned into a long and sleepy one before the rest of a VERY self-satisfied drive home.

Rehab and Mastery

I went out on EmVee, my Highland Trail race bike on Sunday - fully loaded - and just rode it.  No plan, no agenda, just fun.

Within 20 minutes I reached for my phone (camera) and realised I didn't have it with me.  It made for a satisfying day of just riding.  No need to record anything.  I left the Garmin running but ignored it and otherwise, just observed and rode.

As I dropped down to Bingley Lane, a bunch of Roadies were going up.  We turned down the same junction, me whooshing by with, "I'm really not racing you but I DO have more momentum" as I span past on my 23kg loaded bike.  They rode alongside the rest of the climb, quizzing me on my bags, their content and my gearing.

I turned off to rejoin the A57 from a farm track and they raced off.

At the top of Wyming Brook I ate crisps and started phase 1 of project bike fix - tighten them dam brakes again.  When these pads are done, sintered is back!

Stanage was bright and breezy, the descent all the better for brakes.  It still wasn't too busy.  I was hungry so I took the road to Hope (call myself a mountain biker!) and sat with a solo roadie.  I think I persuaded him to take on an Audax and to ride home to Glossop via Mam Nick.  We left together then I side-saddled Win Hill on the bridlepath with a boy on a bouncy yellow bike and a couple riding together.  We swapped gate-holding duties all the way to the top.  Hikers at the top were confused as bikers all scattered in different directions but us four, we stayed together.  I didn't really know where I was going but followed the craic and enjoyed myself for it.  I talked with the lady of the couple then forged ahead after the bouncer down the descent.  I passed another couple too.

Instead of going straight up to the A57 to cross over to Hagg farm, I decided to see the track to its end as I'd never done that before.  It was interesting, and a nicer way to see out the climb up to the Snake road but I'd now have to retrace the valley to Hagg farm.

I joined a line of traffic I'd seen from above and remember thinking there were traffic lights on the road.  I had a faff with my front wheel which had been making clicking noises on the descent then got off and checked the back wheel then got on and waited a bit longer.  I'd been snootily thinking the roadies pushing their way to the front were being a bit cheeky but we'd been stopped for a while now with nothing happening and nothing was coming the other way.  I headed to the front where two fire engines were parked at 90 degrees to the road, blocking off an accident.  I could see the blades of the rescue helicopter gently turning over in the breeze in the field adjacent.  Oh.

Whilst the roadies peered around the edge of the fire engine to see if they could sneak by, I really didn't even want to look and decided to respect the person's privacy.  Besides, the day was still young.  At worst I could retrace my steps, at best I could go towards Glossop and see what else there was in store for me.  I had options.  In fact, I said to a motorcyclist, I had my options packed with me.  If this turned into a long ride, I could make it into quite the comfy night.

With the road closed, I now had the Snake Pass all to myself - give or take an occasional U-turner.  Now I'm a bit of a stickler for the rules so I didn't' take any of the trails off the Snake pass which are footpaths or unmarked tracks but stuck religiously to the road until near the top where a guy taking bikers' pics then alerted me to the existence of the "Old woman stones" bridlepath from almost the top of the Snake down to Glossop.  It was to live up to its name.  There were many stones and man! did it make me feel old!  I picked my way foot-over-foot on the narrow lead out trail then bounced down some steep, rutted stuff before it was back on to rocks.


I warned a few folk about the closed road as they'd all be heading back to their cars but then a big slug of traffic came through - I'd made it off the main road just in time.

At the top of the valley, Glossop and Manchester opened up before me, as did the rain clouds.  The coat went on - upgraded from my commuter roadie coat to one without armpit holes and with a hood.  Still a running jacket but a little smaller than my big winter bike coat which (if I'm wearing it) I rarely take off as it's so un-packable.  I've carried the running coat out to see how much better it is to have a coat with a hood and no pit ventilation to let the water in to my body.

The weather gave the coat a proper testing.  Nothing got through that thing.

At the top of the steeps it was time to address the next of my Highland Trail anxieties - I had absolutely no idea how I was going to carry my loaded bike.  Obviously I've spent years shouldering a 'cross bike but a fully bagged mountain bike is a very different beast - 10-12 kgs heavier and bags in all the places I'd usually put parts of my body.  I'd tried to carry it before and found myself either beating myself soundly over the  head with my forks / wheel / handlebar or toppling over backwards into the heather where I beetled until realising that all I needed to do to be able to get up was to let go of my bike.

In Scotland though, I'd watched someone else to it properly - possibly Sean - and thought, I can do that!  I put all my confidence into lifting the bike over my head, setting it onto my back and across both shoulders.  It was amazingly comfy.  I clung on for life and edged my way down the steep, rocky hillside.  One slip would have hurt a lot, dumping me on my coxcyc, still hurting from Scotland.  Something uncomfortable dug into my neck and I remembered the massage my wonderful Physio Pete had given my neck, gradually manipulating each vertebrae to free it up, despite the fact that it was still a bit bruised.  Now it was my pedal shoving in my neck.

  A runner passed, giving me some acknowledgement as I unseaded my bike from my shoulders and lowered it back to terra-boggy with some level of decorum as mud dripped off the wheel, just missing my head.  He proper held the gate open for me after that.

I went on to lift my bike twice more on the descent, feeling increasingly pleased with myself.  Eventually I passed the runner back again when we hit the double-track and the usual citizens of Glossop started to appear in white coats, doc Martens and a grumpy dog lady who bitchily said I should use my bell despite looking straight at me as she threw the dog ball across my path... because the sound of a bell is so much less scary than the sound of jiggling bike luggage at 50metres.  Not only did I assume she'd seen me, I was more concerned with steering around the border collie than adjusting my hands to ding a bell.

I didn't let her bug the wonderful experience I'd just had descending the A57 off-route.  A wide Clough with only 4 other people and a lot of sheep, the rain to wash the heather clean then the sunshine taking over, all witness to me conquering the fear of carrying my bike.

Time for coffee where I peeled off coat and waterproof shorts to avoid getting the upholstery filthy and ate sandwiches whilst watching the bike in the sun.

I had another chat with a fellow cyclist outside and gave directions to motorcyclists, frustrated at crossing the Snake in post-accident traffic had returned to Glossop for a run at the Woodhead pass.  Next for me was Chunnal.  Call myself a mountain biker?  I just wanted to get up to the off road around Kinder and not dick about trying to find a more sustainable way out of Charlesworth so I rode up the main road in sunshine.  Peewits circled over their nests or searched for what had been their nests before the bracken was burned back.  Cows eyed me vigilantly alongside their young and a few still-very-young lambs skipped about over the gritstone lumps.

I dropped down to Kinder reservoir, holding the gate for walkers at the bottom then spinning up the other side towards Kinder top and the Hope valley, past where TSK and I did our first bivi under the Manchester airport flightpath, a reminder not to make that mistake again passed overhead.  They don't sound so close when you're not trying to sleep through it.  The noise was totally alien to the otherwise remote and picturesque landscape, even if the belvedere windows of the old filter house are now shattered and starting to ruin, looking more like an old greenhouse than a water treatment works.  I guess Hayfield takes its treated water from elsewhere now.

As I skirted around the side of the tops, effectively crossing into the next watershed, it was apparent that I was in for another soaking. My track crossed a Mountain Rescue Landrover below.  I struggled into my coat in the onsetting weather, carrying surely on and using a stile as another opportunity to practice my carry.  I'm sure it was a bridlepath yer honor.

The rain came down hard as I passed a group of DofE students with a resignation of, "here we go again".  I struggled to free my hood as it really started pelting down and regretted not bringing my Scottish glove set (marigolds).  We were back to Scottish conditions.  The streams meant nothing to me now and I skittered down Jacobs ladder in the wet.

I tried not to clatter gates too loudly in Barber Booth, some people were just sitting down to their dinner.  I was hungry but not ready for shortcuts so I set off up towards Mam Tor, stopping at the end of the road to eat a cereal bar as I pushed the steepest and slippiest section.  I need better mud tyres back on for Scotland.  I know this now... I knew it in Scotland.

At Hope cross I dropped my bike in the heather and walked up to the ridge to say hello to the one other walker up there whilst I looked into the Hope valley and across to Mam Nick then I descended the hillside in full sun to the sounds of an Indian wedding marquee drifting up from the Edale valley below.  Rainbows splintered down from the clouds.  My brakes were screaming so hard I started to plot a route home in my head that involved the minimum amount of braking.  I decided I could get one more climb and descent in before I had to get on the A57 and freewheel all the way home, saving my last braking for the turning at the bottom of our road - besides, it was already gone dinner time.

I crossed the road and climbed the side of Win Hill from Combe farm, eventually passing the ridge path I took 6 hours ago to drop to the A57 on my original route.  That had been quite the detour.

My battery flashed low on the Garmin so I plugged it in for the second time that day and hung the battery in my nosebag.  Much to my delight, I found my Scotland bombay mix in the bottom, now tastily mingled with a bag of pecans.  I pushed up to Hagg farm and on to my usual stopping point, pouring Bombay mix and pecans into my mouth as I walked.  I drew a line at eating the duck wrap that had clearly fallen out of someone's rucsac a few hours ago (maybe days?) but left it where it was in case it was a careful food stash.  DO pick it up if it's still there next time you pass.

Sheep lined up in the berms where they'd been sheltering from the rain.  They were my only witnesses to my passage along Bridge-End Pasture and I gave up trying to find the line of least disturbance through all the slumbering lambs and adults there were so many.  This bit of track is one of my favourite places to be in an evening and this evening was no disappointment.  No-one on it.  Bright sunshine, showers playing over distant hills.  The crags defined by rain and sun.  I dropped down to the road, easy on the brakes as much as possible.

I belted across the bridge, chasing a pb for the segment - childish but fun - but then had to slam the brakes on for the traffic lights.  Bugger.  At least I'd recovered for the off-road climb past the Ladybower pub - a bit more pushing and some twiddling.  I'd spent the whole day getting further up everything before my legs burned out and this one was no different.  I had to rush past to avoid falling into the pub for beer and dinner when there was a husband and free beer and dinner at home.

When I got to the end of the flat run-out before the rocky descent to Devils Bridge I indulged myself in one more hike a bike from the rock step down to the road - to show of my new skill to myself and to save my brakes in case I needed them on the road.  It was the comfiest carry yet although I was a little graceless putting the poor thing down.

I stuck on the back light and set about eating pecans again.  Traffic passed too close and too fast on the road but I didn't give a shit.  I was too busy enjoying food, thinking about not spoiling my tea but also thinking about refuelling as early as possible so I kept on eating until there were none left.

The descent down the road was exhilarating, if a little dull and no close-passes was a result.  I didn't need to use the brakes.  I did need to hike up my own road I was so tired.

I'd learned so much today and gained so much more in active retrospection than I did sat on the sofa thinking about what might have been.

There's probably a metaphor for life in there.

HT Angst. Put to bed.

With friends like these, what could go wrong.