The Peak 200 - finally dunnit

I signed up for the virtual highland trail but (unless they’re counting pathetic little runs), I hadn’t actually started it yet.  I’ve been thinking of riding the Peak200 as part of this week’s holiday but actually, putting off doing so until after the bank holiday weekend – just because I have an aversion to crowds, especially in the hills.

The two thoughts collided as I lay in bed on Saturday evening after a particularly lazy day.  

The Peak 200 would at least get me on the board in the virtual Highland Trail and the Sunday’s forecast was not set to be great but not dreadful either.  Overcast, some rain, some wind – perfect Highlands conditions.

I made my mind up but didn’t get out of bed to do anything about it so consequently it was a late start as I put all my devices on charge, took the van out for a run up and down the motorway to make sure its engine and battery were up to scratch after 8 weeks sitting still, just in case I decided I needed to be rescued… and then I loaded my bike with some emergency bivi stuff.

I spent a good half hour packing up all the sandwiches, crisps, chocolate, cereal bars and fruit I might need for 24+ hours in the outdoors, with refuelling stops likely to be shut or have long queues  outside.  For all that I meant to do this ride at race-weight (no excess clothes, no fuel or stove), I was a pretty hefty lump.  Homemade sandwiches don’t come in a convenient cardboard box to protect them until they’re eaten and you can dispose of later.  Homemade sandwiches will get the inside of your new rucsac completely disgusting given half a chance so I packed everything into a plastic box… then another as I made breakfast sandwiches and another as I packed a bunch of perishables like cheese and tomatoes.

When I’d ridden a good 6 of the 8km to my starting point, I suddenly realised I’d left my spare light on charge at home.  It’s non-essential but supplements my dynamo light when I’m not moving fast enough to get the dynamo light to work.  The headtorch I carry is extremely light and only really suitable for use in camp as it’s on a piece of paracord and is either unstable or uncomfortable.  Still, I decided an extra12k, the climb up the hill to home and the even later start was not worth the effort.

On the 8km out from home, I tightened pedal tension, straightened out my saddle after a bike-topple last week and texted TSK about the light situation. It was a faffy ride in but as I flew around the corner of Onkesley lane, I put the pedals down – literally it goes straight up hill - but then remembered to ease off as I had a long day or more ahead of me.

I generally tend to ride at around 10km/hr average and so technically the ride would take me 20 hours if I were fresh all the way around.  Plus stops – of which I was planning a limited amount means in theory I could be done within 24 hours plus slowing down time.  The BB200 took me 35 hours including a 6 hour sleep and a lot of dicking around with brews, camp food and café stops.

Past the barky dog who was out for the first time since lockdown and some other people walking dogs.  As they started fighting amongst themselves, I rode away – dog fights, one of the few things that always reminds me why I don’t have a dog anymore.  On the top road, the dog walkers caught me up again as I changed my clothing choices.  The dog was fine.  The forecast rain was a little late and it was pretty chilly up on the top road of Rod Moor.  It was the kind of wet air that you can hardly notice but tends to accumulate and won’t dry out too quickly.  I decided I didn’t need it on the descent to the Ladybower.  I put my waterproof coat on and cursed myself for not packing baggy shorts to just add a layer of warmth to thighs and knees.

Going over Ladybower was enjoyable.  I got off and walked when the going got tough instead of trying to power up stuff for training.  I was in the long game and I like the long game.  I rode across the new trails smoothly, picking the best lines for once instead of upping my boulder-hopping game.  I descended past the cutest daschund, complimenting its owners on their dashing hound before dropping into the stone bivi hut for my first lunch.  The more of this backpack I can eat, the better.

As a pleasant surprise, the next mountain biker around the corner was Colin Papworth, a friendly podiatrist who has, in the past, been a big part of my Triathlon life as he fixed up my feet so I can actually run a marathon.  He was riding a new Sonder and we had a good chat about challenges ahead.  I told him I’d probably forget him in this post so I’m quite proud I still remembered.

Colin went on his way and I finished eating as much weight as I could manage then packed my waterproof away again before heading over to the other side of the hill to Ladybower reservoir.  The crowds were massive here but everyone was friendly and in a good mood.  I dreaded the dam crossing but everyone stepped to the side to distance and all went well.  

I nearly wore the bell out on the traverse of the Southern edge but people thinned out as I climbed up the hillside through the trees towards Win Hill.  Finally I felt there was enough separation for me to leave my bike in a ditch and hide behind a tree for a pee.  Cue appearance of a dad and his 3 sons who had to stop and have a faff metres from me before heading off down their downhill lines all of which overlooked my pee spot.  I just about maintained some decorum whilst sitting in the pine needles with my bum exposed but didn’t half find it difficult to “go” after that!  Guys, if ever you find a bike lying in a ditch on its own, move on please, move on.

The pine needles I picked up were to become ingrained in my skin over the next 20 hours. 

So, on to the final push up to the top and over to the Hope valley side before the long, laboured Hike-a-Bike up to near the top of Win Hill (most PRoW up there are footpaths so there is some sketchy transfer of bikes between Bridleways to get elevation and transfer from one path to the other).  My bike was heavy, I had to put it down several times then haul it around me and put it back down in the heather, just to get elevation when I couldn’t carry it any more.  That’s the weight training wearing off through Lockdown.  

Finally I hit the second bridleway and dropped down into Aston then Thornhill and then on to the climb up towards Shatton.  Steady grind – remember the end game – but I couldn’t be bothered to get off and walk so twiddled a tiny gear to the top.  A couple on e-bikes dinged their bell and I took the less steep outside line on the bend to allow them to undertake me and got a “Brilliant effort” from the bloke on his way past.  Nice.

I love the drop down to Bradwell and I love it even more on my new bike.  Last time I was here was just after the floods and half of the descent was closed so I had to walk EmVee down a footpath. This time we had a clear run at it.  I had to finesse the last steep bit as a family sat and watched.  (secretly, I metaphorically pooped myself a bit).

After my lunch it had started to niggle with me a bit that I might not have enough calories on board to last me through the day. I’d saved a sandwich for Monday lunch if I needed it and it suddenly started to dawn on me that there wasn’t an “if” in there.  I was still going to be out for Monday lunch – or at least a second breakfast.  Besides, I didn’t fancy more beef sandwiches straight away and so I popped into the infamous Bradwell Co-op to get something different for my second-lunch and some additional supplies for the rest of the ride. 

If you’ve missed the news, Bradwell residents have been particularly shouty about scum from Sheffield coming to ride two-wheeled contraptions through their village during lockdown.  There were no angry villagers around – in fact there was no-one else in there and I realised that it was 3pm and the sandwich shelves had been stripped almost bare already.  

I had a sausage roll (win win) and staggered to the till with an arm full of sweets, a sweet sugary drink, a bottle of chocolate milk and some more chocolate for good measure… oh and some Soreen.

Having shoved it all in my rucsac (now even more bulging), I felt like I’d overdone it so set about drinking both the fizzy sugary drink AND the chocolate milk as well as eating the sausage roll and the Soreen.  I hoped the chocolate wouldn’t melt and looked forward to the sweets overnight.

The Old Mam Tor Road from above.

From Bradwell it’s back towards Edale via an ascent of Mam Tor old road where more folk were enjoying the sunshine responsibly.  I passed over the top of the Mam Nick road then flung off to the downhill to the road where last time there had been an Indian wedding at one of the houses, the marqee throwing out sounds from Bollywood and glorious colours of silk flowed through the garden.  

This time it was just the flow of tyres on gritstone with the occasional squelch from my forks where I got it wrong and trying not to vomit chocolate milk mixed with sweet, fizzy drink.

Last time, I turned for Edale to fuel-up at the café.  Last time some other bikers warned me of the rain to come but I continued regardless then bailed when I remembered I didn’t have any waterproofs with me.

This time I didn’t bother with Edale, I just set off up the road to the next turn-off – a lovely little path that makes its way up the side of the valley at the perfect rideable steepness, just avoiding all of the houses and farms.  It is the perfect off-road alternative which then turns into the crossroads that leads to the rest of the route.  Two lads passed me on full sussers as I bounced my way over the rocks / fell off then waited for me at the top to see which way I was going so they could get the gate.  It was nice but I was going the “other way”.  No-one is ever going the “other” way at 5pm – the way that leads to more – the way that leads to the potatoes.

Potato Alley is a descent of around 150m which leads to the bottom of the Ladybower valley and the A57.  The only place to go is Manchester or the Derwent valley with the associated consequences of then having to get back out and go somewhere else on top.  That’s why not many people are heading down potato alley at gone 5pm.  I always know I’m on an adventure when descending Potato Alley late.  Last time EmVee through me off a steep bank on Potato Alley.  I know you shouldn’t have favourites but Sunshine delivered me safely to the bottom in one piece with a PB and a smile on my face.

I picked up a couple of sheep as sweepers at the bottom.  Without causing a massive stampede or worrying pregnant animals, I generally don’t tend to change my riding style around sheep.  They will do what they do regardless of how much time you take, how careful you are, which way you shoo – or not.  So I carried on riding.  I tried stopping – that didn’t work. The little lamb was clever.  The little lamb wanted to run off the road but every time it left its mother’s side she would barge it back into the road or bleat so that it followed her back into the road.  

As we approached the busy A57, I backed off completely but there was nothing to be done.  She’d either stand in the road and stare or run along the road ahead of me.  Even when I stopped, they started walking towards the road until eventually they were stuck between the road and me.  I didn’t move.  They stopped, looked, listened, looked again and then crossed safely.  Fuckers.  Crazy, clever fucking fuckers.  I crossed the road too and together we climbed all the way up the hill.  

It seemed they were local.  The sheep in the field above the A57 bleated back in recognition until we all reached the farm, complete with the rest of the herd on the other side of the fence.  The Ewe and her lamb wandered nonchalantly into the yard at the house and demanded attention in order to dob us in.  I climbed on up the hill assuming my role as a shepherd was done here.

The sheep above were more sophisticated.

I was rewarded with a solo ascent to the top of Hagg Hill and a clean descent down the other side to an empty Derwent reservoir for the second time that day.  Finally I had the place to myself.  

As I rode down the road I placed a hand under my rucksac and jiggled about.  There was still plenty of water sloshing around in there so I didn’t need to divert to Fairholmes to fill up.  I didn’t want to if I didn’t need to – I had a long climb ahead of me and the less weight the better.  

I thought about my lighting situation – I didn’t want to be on Cut Gate in the dark, picking across the bog with a mediocre dynamo light so it was good that I was there before 8pm – but I did start to get a move on.  The ride along the valley side was pleasant with the occasional walker still out.  Up at the top a couple tented at the conflagration of two rivers asked me if I was out for a bivi, “Yes, somewhere, maybe” was my answer.  We could have continued a conversation for longer but by now I had an eye on the clock and eye on the light.  If anyone is reading this and recognises themselves, sorry I didn’t stop to chat.

I climbed up as the sun went down.  Had I been out for fun, I might have bivied up there and watched the sunset and climbed over the top for the sunrise but I wasn’t nearly tired enough.  The usual swimming-pool sized puddles were absent, replaced with dry, dusty pits.  Quite literally perfect conditions.  Places where people have scrambled up the peat walls to avoid a drowning have become unused because passage across the ocean-beds is now possible.  

Sunset hues on Cut Gate

 

Emley Moor and Wind Turbines in the twilight

I took the descent on the other side a little cautiously as the light faded and I knew I’d be completely alone if anything happened.  Before I knew it though I was at the last, rocky descent which I cleared for the first time ever thanks to the new bike and dropper post, again.  Also, a complete lack of other people to point and laugh does wonders for confidence.

Through the trees and out to the Woodhead road crossing then over to the Trans-pennine Trail.  On my way an owl furled around in the sky above the fields and I heard its young calling from a nearby tree.  I added my fleece layer and leg warmers as I’d started to shiver on the descent and the Trans-pennine Trail isn’t steep enough to stimulate much increased energy levels but climbs ever higher in elevation up towards colder air.

I took great pleasure in flying past the bus stop where so many long rides have ended in a reluctance to leave that bus stop and go back out there.  Beyond this point I had merged the most technically challenging section of the ride to the longest out-and-back section of the ride and I felt like there wasn’t any stopping me now.  

Over to the Woodhead Road again – on the other side of the hill.  The Trans-Pennine crosses it a few times on its way down to Glossop.  Earlier in the day, I’d driven past the motorway signs that indicated the Woodhead road would be subject to Night Closures over the coming weeks.  It always makes me think of the BeeGees “Night Fever” and I sing “Night Closures, Night Closures” at the signs in a silly, high-pitched voice.  At the time, I hadn’t realised the consequences but now, every time I came to a road crossing I could see for miles that nothing was coming and happily sailed across every one without having to stop.  Pure bliss.

Sheep scattered, bunnies hopped, lapwings whirled and Peewitted, curlings mewed into the darkness.  The dynamo blazed bright as I dropped downhill.  I stopped above Crowden Reservoir to sit on a bench, eat some more food and put my gloves and an extra layer back on.  I took off my shoes to rest my feet.  As I stayed longer, clothing turned into adding a fleece along with my waterproofs.  Putting shoes back on, the inside of my left shoe felt like it was engrained with sand – or cat’s’claws – and I couldn’t face sinking my feet into it.  I checked with my hands and yes, the fabric was very prickly.  Why I haven’t noticed this before, I do not know.  I took the wrapper of a chocolate bar I’d eaten and used it as a barrier against the prickle.  Totally worked and I was especially proud of myself, even if I did rattle from time to time for the next 10 hours.

The continuing descent took its toll on my body temperature but I was OK.  I shivered my way into Glossop and thanked fuck I didn’t try this last year when I was soaked to the skin.

The route merely skims the edge of Glossop and there weren’t any refuelling opportunities in Hatfield. It was 11pm by the time I got there and everywhere was shut. I was thankful I’d taken the opportunity in Bradwell.  In Charlesworth I had my first walk up a road climb. I needed the waterproofs for warmth on downhills and exposed moorland but they were too sweaty to make an effort in.  Eventually I gave up on gloves, my hands were so hot, and stuffed them into a food pouch for later.

I don’t really know where I am when it comes to a lot of the bridleways around there, I simply recognise gates or particular features or road signs.  I remembered Littern Pike for a couple sunbathing inappropriately on a hot sunny day and the non-parking space sign at the bottom of the hill, “Please don’t park close to the edge, the last car that was parked here is still missing”.  I ignored the request for cyclists to dismount for the steep hill and then worried when my brakes made a complaining little squeaking noise after I’d let them off.  Nothing came of it, thankfully.

Above Charlesworth, I took my turn onto (what I thought was) the bridleway only to find myself faced by a Range Rover parked right across the gateway.  Thinking a farmer had just dumped his vehicle inconveniently, I continued to walk by until the engine fired and the vehicle started to move slowly yet ominously straight at me!   I hopped off sharpish onto the steep banking alongside, pulling Sunshine up behind me as the vehicle rolled passed, driven by a young guy in a teeshirt.  The odour of weed poured out the cracked window.  Whatevvs… but don’t drive me over chick!

Through the gate, after a while, the Garmin chimed to tell me I’d gone the wrong way so I had to retrace to find the bridleway proper, heart in mouth that wasn’t where my friend had gone to finish off his joint or worse.

I know there are bits that TSK and I did before on this route and I only recognise them by the wheel ruts and pedal strikes.  They all came and went in the darkness to the same amount of swearing as before – but more so in low light conditions.

I tried wearing my head torch on my helmet but it just didn’t work comfortably.  I tried wearing it around my neck (as it’s designed to do, and works pretty well in camp) but the shadows just moved as I moved on the bike, distracting me from my view of the line and giving me a sea-sick sense of balance for where me and the bike were going.  The downhills were fine – once the Dynamo was up to brightness - but the uphills were going oh-so-slow.  I could just about ride stuff but only with the headtorch on full beam and I didn’t want to completely kill the only light I had available for emergencies / a bivi pitch later.

For mile after mile I just endured the route – not really having much to look at except the moorland passing in front of my tyres and startled sheep.  Manchester put on a show from a distance in one of those, “Bloody hell, I can see my parent’s house from here” moments of “I am actually closer to them than I have been since Mothers’ day when I accidentally* bumped into them the weekend before lockdown started”.


*no, really.

I kind of made a plan to stop somewhere on my own territory. Somewhere that I at least knew where I was.  There’s no logic to that except for knowing that there’s not a better spot just around the corner.  If I’d got sleepy sooner, I would have stopped sooner but as it is, given all the rest days I’ve had recently, I didn’t get the overwhelming fatiguing urge to stop that comes from a long ride that immediately follows a hard week at work or a long journey to get to the start of an event.

When the bright lights of the quarries around the industrial side of Stanton in the Peak started to hum in the darkness, the lights of their 24-hour operations reflecting off the limestone they mill, I knew I was back on home ground.  The random bridleway signs became Pennine Bridle Way specific and I passed the pub that I’ve inevitably stopped at for dinner more than once on a long ride based loosely on this route.  It was all closed for the Covid, its campsite empty of partying stag-nights and children running feral, up past their bedtimes on family weekends away.

I’d thought about bivvying at Parsley Haigh as Landslide had mentioned it on Thursday when we went out.   I couldn’t remember how far it was from this pub to Parsley Haigh. Unfortunately a map check revealed it to be too far away to be in contention.  What was nearby was a big oak tree near Rushup edge that I’ve had my eye on ever since my first recce of this route in 2017 before the Torino Nice Rally.  Anything better en route would be an acceptable alternative.  

I carried on my merry way, chucking Sunshine down anything that the Peak threw at us – mostly with a successful level of gusto yet occasionally I would forget I have a dropper post and become lodged over the edge of a big drop whilst I sorted out my balance and got off and walked.

Finally, a descent I recognised (in the dark) and we bounced down the steps like Tigger on speed to the gate at the bottom which separates two land-owners and two field systems.  Through the gate, I remembered the stream – ridden through and walked through when too high for me to have the confidence in my old wheels.  I skittered through it on the bike.  It was no more than 3cm deep and 24 inch across, although a little slippery on the bottom.  

There’s a second gate but the place spoke to me – another of my “on the list” bivi spots and here I was at the right time and in the right frame of mind.  It wasn’t so much that I was sleepy (though I was ready to sleep) but more that I was hungry and knew that in my wet and sweaty state, as soon as I stopped I’d start shivering with cold.  I’d been supping heavy amounts of water for hours to sate the sweat but had eaten no food to replace the electrolytes so was feeling washed out as well as a little hungry.  The fact I was still guzzling water after 15 hours riding is testament to the weight I carried out the door when I left the house.

A quick check for civilisation – what was I doing?  It was 3am! Still, coast clear.  The worst thing was, it was between two streams which were emitting an air of cold but to be honest, everywhere was starting to emit and air of cold so it would do.  Three sides of a dry stone wall meant it was totally sheltered from any breeze and I had running water should I mysteriously run out and need a top up.

The mat went up inside the bivi, quilt out and fluffed.  I got quickly (very quickly) changed into dry baselayers then sat in the bag and ate some more beef sandwich before I realised I was putting paid to my lunch for tomorrow – should I still be out at that point.

The chilly air got the better of me and I lay down to get the mat’s insulation on to my back.

For all that it had been cold, it turned out to be the perfect bivi spot.  I warmed up pretty quickly in my bag.  The Rolos I’d bought in Bradwell for dinner desert softened up nicely and I lay on my back looking at the outline of a large Oak, the Plough constellation underlined with dry stone walls and the rise and fall of the moorland… and popped one chocolate covered caramel after another until they were all gone.

I quickly fell asleep. No rustling, no mice, no beasties, no surprises.  Well, one.  1hour, 20 minutes later, I woke up to a grading of colour in the landscape and a meadowlark sitting on the wall for an alarm clock.  I hit the snooze button on my brain only to be woken up 10 minutes later by my actual alarm.  I felt reasonably refreshed and OK about leaving – best bivi “night” yet at only 90 minutes.

It was still quite chilly and had got cold in my bag – unless I lay a certain position – a position which had already got uncomfortable- so I packed up.  I can easily say that getting dressed inside a bivi bag is easily the best warm-up exercise I have done.  Without much time to dry out my damp, sweaty clothes, I took to rubbing them vigorously to get the fabric warm before putting them on.  To get my feet warm I put my damp socks underneath my sleeping socks as it was just a one-night trip.  I also put my damp shorts on over the top of the leggings and wool top I’d been wearing so no heat loss there.  I was packed up and ready to move within 30 minutes.  A bit of a record and as I climbed out of the stream bed, a nice uphill to warm up on.  

Sunrise.

About half a kilometre along the trail, the big oak tree came into view.  The sunrise, now developed a little further, was warming the spot with a pink-purple glow, absolutely beautiful.  Though to temper my regret at not continuing that bit further last night, a lamb decided that I was definitely its mummy and proceeded to run along with me bleating.  That attracted the attention of other ewes… and their lambs and soon I was being followed across the hillside by a small flock, all demanding… who knows what?  Given my Welsh Ride Thing experience from this time last year, I think I picked the best bivi spot in the end.

Now the sun was up I could enjoy the glorious technicolour of Rushup Edge before heading out to Peak Forest.  It was still oh-so-cold and little patches of valley fog weren’t helping.  Watching a foal chase three calves around a field helped much more. Watching two leverets playing in a field helped a lot.  Then I plunged into the darkness of the White peak Dales where I did a little lap up and down a hill trying to figure out if there really is a quick route onto the Monsal Trail or if I really do need to drop all the way to the bottom and ride back up again (there isn’t).  At the station, I was relieved to find the toilets open and I piled in to re-fill my Camelbak for the day ahead.  Although I’d not completely run out, there was about an ounce of water left.  The café looked like it has the facilities in place to re-open too but it was only 6am – so no luck on the coffee front.

I sat on a picnic bench and ate my peanut butter sandwiches and any other savoury food that was left, saving my remaining sweeties and biscuits for the rest of the morning.  I couldn’t remember exactly how I get from Millers Dale back to Sheffield and hadn’t done any time analysis but all I needed was enough to last my 24 hour timescale – so one more breakfast then.

Back on the bike and I did the math.  Hm, 4 hours to do 55km.  Arse.  There wasn’t a chance I was going to speed up, no matter how many long railway trails I had left to ride – I started to let the 24 hour dream go.

The tunnels hurt my cold.  I set off riding with my synthetic down coat on and out of the sun I was cold.  I positively shivered through the tunnels and didn’t warm up enough to remove my down layer until I got into a flow.  I kept the fleece on till I reached Gratton Dale – where the long stretches of railway trail finally turn into something with a bit more oomph. 

The baby’s head boulders didn’t really bother the bike – unless someone has been tidying up down there?  The line I usually miss into the valley bottom was actually spotted this time before I overshot it and even the nasty bumpy bit at the end was a complete pleasure as the usual peanut butter mud was now nicely crusty – although still pocked with horse hoof-prints.  

A couple hiking in teeshirts, sunhats and shorts reminded me I really should lose the extra layers and knee-warmers but I didn’t want to stop really until my hopes of 24 hours were truly dead and I was ready to add some sunscreen.

After my bail-out point last year where I ended up sleeping in a bus stop in Baslow completely fatigued from trying to find a perfectly obvious path in a field, I was a bit dubious about the section between Youlegreave and the “finish” for me.  I never have ridden the path in the field and at the end of the route, I just kind of assumed I went up Stanage and then home, but how to get from Baslow to Stanage???

On this day, the path in the field was just fine and obvious in the day light, as it had been on Google Maps after my last ride when I looked with incredulity at my squiggles in a field. 

Further route-finding chaos laid ahead though as I selected the wrong path out of a thicket and only realised when I rejoined the path I should've been on.  The little angel on my shoulder whispered that I should follow the route at all times.

The devil on the other shoulder said, "play dumb, the route-checker won't notice".

The Angel said, "we might not fucking be coming back to do this again, do it right soldier".

The devil sulked then said, "Anyway the time limit is 24 hours and you're going to miss that so we might as well just go home"

and the angel said, "no it's not"

and the devil said "yes it is"

so we sat on the grass and got the phone out and used some data to google Peak 200 ITT and that shut up the devil so I went back down the hill and rode up the right path before carrying on.


Through the next gate and all was forgotten.  The route through the woods above Chatsworth is my absolute favourite woodland path.  I think there is magic in those woods.  Sadly, it was not worth visiting the excellent café in Edensor as it would have been either closed or packed.

 

I was beeped at for riding out in the road after Chatsworth.  As a notoriously bad road, I adopt a position in the road which makes drivers think twice about passing me – and if they do decide to squeeze past, I have somewhere to go to save myself.  Whilst this guy did feel it unsafe to pass me on a blind corner, obviously that was my fault for being too far out in the road.  He had the decency to beep at me from behind so I had the wonderful opportunity to firmly show him two fingers.  When he finally did pass I hissed, “I’m looking after my safety, what are you doing?” through his open side window.

The brake lights came on, though presumably he thought better of it given the number of other people waiting patiently behind me or the very camera-esque light fitting on the front of my bike.  The next driver waited patiently, then on an open stretch of road drew up alongside with the window down while his passenger asked if I was OK.  There are lots of good people in this world.

Baslow was decidedly busy so I opted not to get any food – only Stanage and home to go right?

I climbed up the hill to Curbar – Not Stanage - stopping half way up to consume most of my remaining sweeties and half of yesterday’s beef sandwich.  Still, not far to go.  Curbar was also busy.  

Presumably, if I’d been on cue for my 24 hours, I would have been here at, like 9am, in the quiet, but at least there was still enough room to ride and distance from the hordes going to stare off the edge. 

On my way up I was passed by a skinny middle aged bloke on a full susser.  Cheap looking bike and the fella looked more like a fell runner than a rider.  The rather round woman walking down the hill assumed we were together and joked “I was just saying to my daughter, I’d be the one like you”.  Instead of sarcastically saying, “COOOL, you rode 135km yesterday too!” I kept my gob shut and smiled.  I hope you’re proud of me internet.

At the top of the climb the bloke was stood on the grass with his poor bike upside down.  I checked to see if he had everything he needed and he responded with, "I've got a flat".  It sounds terribly selfish but the clock was ticking so I took that to mean he had everything he needed (and more) and continued on my way, leaving him to tip his bike up the right way and start hitting the quick release to get it to undo.

At the end of the cliffs, there was an ice cream van selling hundreds and hundreds of ice creams  (mainly to cyclists) but I didn’t bother – only Stanage to go and then home.

I turned left and then right onto a trail I only discovered last week (I’d been riding on the footpath instead and only realised last week that I had it wrong – woops).  It’s a lovely trail and the *actual* bridleway takes in a small woodland with a reliable stream running through it.  Where, last week, I stepped carefully from stone to stone, this time I stomped through the puddles and ground my cleats into the mud, hoping desperately that the cool moisture would seep through to my sore, hot feet.  

I found a nice tree to lean my bike against and opened my frame bag to pack away my fleece and wool top and pull out my thin, air holed, Norton Wheelers jersey.  The dry bag is, unbeknownst to me, a pretty good heat reflector and the jersey was wonderfully cold, still soaked with yesterday evening’s sweat and nicely chilled to a very cool temperature.  I stank to high heaven but was completely happy.  I slathered some sunscreen over my exposed forearms and removed my knee-warmers now that I was taking the time out to do suncream and could protect my leg skin (I might have got sunburn 2 weeks ago that’s still healing).  With the 24 hour limit gone, I could afford a bit of skin safety.

When I got up to leave, the Garmin had that annoying flashy “?” on the screen that says, “GPS doesn’t really have a fucking clue where you are but will this do?”

Given that this track would be my proof that I did the ride, I needed to know it was good.  I hiked out of the trees to get reception, to no avail.  I checked the battery – 53%.  I started the alternate Garmin to load the route and started my watch GPS so I could start riding whilst the new Garmin recalculated.  The watch still had a bloody big think about finding satellites.


By the time I got to the Fox Hill road, the new Garmin couldn’t decide which way the route was going but the old one finally had us on-screen.  Deciding it was a battery issue, but I was close enough to home to capture both routes, I left two Garmins to record but put my main one onto battery charge, just showing the route on screen so I could navigate by it.

I turned left.  The Garmin said Right.  Fuck? What?

Cue: lots of zooming, scrolling, screen swiping.  Oh yeah!  The loops.  Bollocks.

Now: had I thought about this, I should have bought ice cream.  But no.  

I bombed off down the road to a turning onto a track I’d not ridden before.  I should have been relishing the opportunity to learn something new in my own back yard.  I don’t really get over Ian’s side of town so their trails are a bit of a mystery to me.  Instead I was annoyed I had to start doing laps of my garden at the end of a particularly difficult marathon.  


The sun was shining but in my head it was raining.  The loops are a part of the ride and to be honest, they’re quite a nice part but when I did my reccie last year, I gave up on them and went home when instead I should have been out there, finding out what they do and where they go.  I put it on a to-do list somewhere and never did it.

The Garmin sent my little Virtual Partner blokey off down the trail ahead and showed that I was right on its tail.  So I turned.  The sign on the path said, “Footpath” but there are a lot of permissive bridleways around these parts so I thought it might be one I don’t know about.  It wasn’t that kind of terrain though and I soon started to drown in heather.  The Garmin had changed its mind and now I had to back-track.  The Garmin went in the bag.  Stupid fucking Garmin.

Back onto the road and took the next turning which, although more accessible and bridlepath-like was still pathetically un-rideable for my weak legs.  Cue a period of wandering around the moors with my bike and a bunch of teenagers.  Where usually speakers playing music in the outdoors does my head in like you wouldn’t believe, I found a bit of Dance was exactly what I was in the mood for (yes my Eastern Moors Teens were playing 90’s retro).

Up towards Houndkirk, a poor dad who had been mithered to take out his son’s bike was refusing to push the bike up the hill – making the son do it himself.  It turned into a race game which, I confess, I let the boy win – but only just because I am a nice person.  Having reached the finish line, I just about managed to get back on my bike and ride off to do my loop of Lady Canning’s Plantation, relieved that the route only made me go down the kiddies’ run in front of 16 young men, 4 dads and 12 children… whilst rocking full bikepacking bags and crazy-old-lady-hair.

And that was when the water ran out… but never mind, I only have to get away from Houndkirk and then it’s just Stanage right? NO???

Down there??????

As I got to the bottom of the Dale, passing a couple I announced, “I’m verrrry tired, this might be funny”.  Still: I nailed it (it's all the bike), rode out, back up the climb. Please oh god oh god oh god, just Stanage right?

There was no ice cream van at Stanage to scavenge a drink from, never mind an ice cream.  Still, I’d saved emergency measures – about 125ml of home water (none of that skanky tasteless limestone stuff from Millers’ Dale station).  I sat under the only tree casting a shadow at the plantation below the Causeway and downed the entire thing then ate the remainder of the chocolate bar I’d taken from home.  I had officially drunk all water and consumed every calorie I had brought or bought on the trip.  It just about worked.

I rode about 2/3 of the way up the Causeway then the enthusiasm just waned and I walked the rest.  At the top, walkers swayed off their socially distanced line to accommodate my wobbling progress over the stones and then finally, that was the top of the last climb.  A Monday Pole to mark the almost completion (bar the descent)…I took a picture of myself but the grin is screen-splitting so not sharing.

I opened it up on the downhills.  Sprinting for the line – you can’t beat it.  Most people that were still out were somewhere else enjoying the sun, not walking in the woods so I had a relatively clear line to the finish, the tiny incline to the A57 was suddenly no bar to my enthusiasm and I set off at full tilt down the A57 to Onkersley Lane.  

I flipped up the hill to cross my own start-line and considered getting off for a finishers selfie but was too interested in eating some more and getting a drink of water and not causing offence to the residents by flaking out on their driveways in a sweaty mess so I just did a U-turn and continued my down hill trajectory to home, toast, tea and a nice, long bath to soak the pine needles away.


Distance: 237.8 (including from/to)
Elevation: 5554m
Time: Around 29.5 hours (Subject to confirmation).

May Bivi - Of theft

Much of the day was physically lazy but over the course of the last 2 weeks I have finally drawn together a new plan to get me out of the non-Highland Trail frame of mind and back into the 3 Peaks and out the other side into next year.

This task usually takes me around 2 days.  This year it took 3 because rather than tackling the next 6 months, I couldn't resist rolling it out to next year's HT in an attempt to convince myself I can do it.

I recently drafted a chart to remind me to live my life and stop being such a slave to my job. 

Put simply, I realised that if I:

1. make a plan
2. make it achievable
3. stick to the plan

I can finish the race.*

Today I have achieved 2 of the three things and it feels like I am incrementally closer to my goal.

Once complete, I looked at what is left to do this week.  Most of the big things were ticked off my a couple of medium length rides in the Peak this week (in glorious weather) so I went out and ticked off the remainder - a 2.5km run on hills and strength training which has been almost exclusively dropped since lockdown through a lack of enthusiasm based on the crap weights I have at home and the sun being out.

Cue weight-free squats and lifting baked bean tins whilst feeding the cats and cooking dinner.

The bean tins weren't heavy enough and replaced with 750ml water bottles.

The cats came upstairs to walk underneath my plank.

So I registered to do the Highland trail virtually.  That was a silly thing to do.  After staring at the plan for the ride for 8 hours yesterday, I got all excited and registered at the last minute on a bit of fun basis.  This morning I was wide awake at 5:30 am - perfect for a good start but I went straight back to sleep until 8:30 am. 

As I ate my breakfast I realised the wind was still blowing and the motivation to ride deserted me.

Yesterday, you see, I had a rather pleasant morning.  Mr Landslide sought company for a bivi.   I'm rubbish at making long term plans but he's clever and we agreed to meet on Thursday evening at 8:30 then ride local, sleep local and ride home again (him to home-work, me to my holiday at home).

We socially distanced through the neighbourhood and up the North side of the Rivelin Valley.  Though I'm sure his Escapade would have been fine in the rock garden, it was an evening for bimbles. 

Along the lane of 100 puddles, we rode through dust pits then had to decide to ride-on or go to pitch camp.  Mr L chose to make a twilight camp instead of burn more miles so we dropped back into the river bed and made our way over to my chosen spot. 

I gave my guest the flatter spot with the view but due to prevailing wind direction bringing showers in the morning, the tarp, unfortunately, had to have its back to the view.  I delved into my comfort zone in the trees amongst the twigs with somewhere to lock the bike to a pine.

Mr L pitched in no time whilst my attempts to pitch the Ugly Tarp in the trees just led to rucked material and guy lines that were too short, insufficient headroom and poor slopes.  I gave up and pitched traditionally with a pole and some sketchy pegs in the pine needles, moss, lichen and tree roots.

We spent the next 2 hours talking shit and whittling, consuming snacks, whisky and beer and scaring away a deer which wandered into camp, it's white rump prancing away in the darkness.

The owls serenaded, the squawked then bedded down eventually.  At 1am we went to bed and I lay awake staring at the trees for some time before drifting off.

I woke up first to the sounds of mice scurrying around so stuck my earplugs in.

Mouse:1 Trep:0 

The noise persisted and I found my rucsac was over a mouse hole dressed as a tree root.  I moved it. Mouse:1 Trep:1

The mouse continued so loud I was convinced the deer was back and rummaging through my food bags but a quick look over the tarp yielded no beasties or thundering hooves.  I tried reassuring my senses by removing the earplugs but the noise of the stream made me think it was raining heavily and I got cold... but my bivi was dry.  I put my earplugs back in and slept through the rain that eventually did come at around 4am.

I was wide awake at 4:30, ready to get up and race but persuaded myself to go back to sleep - finally - and very convincingly - till 8am when I woke very delirious and physically stiff from an awkward sleeping position.

After a discussion with Karl about pillows and a bit of research, I tried out a new Thermarest inflatable pillow which was just peachy.  Improved rest and no morning neck pain and the little lovely stayed exactly where it was put all night. 

When I awoke Mr L was all breakfasted and packed up and headed home to his office. 

Whilst it was a shame we didn't get to brew up together in the rising sun, he had vacated the pole position and I decamped before moving into his dry patch of ground to brew coffee and porridge. 

I sat on my folded thermarest and laid out the Ugly Tarp and Bivi to dry in the sun before packing up my bike and pushing back up to the main trail.

The first bite of my Camelbak nozzle revealed the damage the mouse had done - little tooth marks around the split in the bite valve meant it was leaking and I needed to spend the day locking it off to stop water dropping down my leg.  Thankfully I'd locked it over night and still had water left.  Mouse:2 Trep:1

Despite the forecast breeze, it was too nice a day to head home for me.  I had limited resources with me - a cereal bar, some loveheart sweeties (couldn't resist them in one of my rare trips to Asda) and a bag of Harribo's. 

First stop was Stanage Pole as a minimum since once I'm in Wyming Brook, I can't resist. 

I knew I wouldn't be able to resist dropping down the Causeway on the other side.  The tail wind practically shoved me down.  In some kind of weird sideways whirlwind, the wind then shoved me up the Stanage Road climb so I went with the flow and decided to traipse across Burbage so I could go home via Houndkirk.

The wind blew sideways across Burbs until the Longshaw end where it was an obscured headwind in the trees so I took time to eat my only remaining vaguely nutritional food item.

The climb up to Fox House was protected by trees then the tail wind continued across Houndkirk as the backs of my calves were exfoliated by a sandstorm and walkers coming towards me pulled their Covid neck gaiters over their ears, mouths, noses and hair to keep the grit out rather than the germs.

I used the auto-assist functionality of the wind to dial in the rebound on my forks a bit more and accidentally found a few PBs - not all of which I was comfortable with.  I was sorely tempted by the takeaway kiosk at the Norfolk arms to see if they had any snacks but decided to go home and eat healthy lunch instead.

After being blanked by a middle age gnarly roadie woman in full Rapha kit I had the great pleasure of catching her up on the climb out of the dip after she bottled-it on the descent.  Her rudeness was met by the brrrrrd of a set of fully -loaded Maxxis Icon tyres as she begged a right turn when I drew alongside to overtake her. 

"On you go" I chirped cheerily as I braked to let her turn off the climb before the top... leave it there.

Once back off road I settled at a suitably scenic bench to devour the sweeties in my bar bag only to find they were gone.  Mouse:3 Trep:1

Thankfully, it didn't fancy the emergency Harribo, or couldn't get them out of the opening in the food bag.  Or maybe its brain exploded from the Aspartame in the lovehearts.

I pulled myself away from the view of the reservoirs to ride home to devour lunch, satisfied with what I had achieved on limited rations.  I've been hungrier and the ride was mostly sponsored by the giant curry I ate before leaving.

So I'm not sorry that my first day on the virtual Highland Trail will be somewhat of a shortfall.  Other smaller races are still to be raced this year and now I have a plan to get there, life seems more organised. *

*all hell being let loose, set aside.

At the risk of whingeing

I'm not sleeping.  It's 1:20am and I have a 9am meeting tomorrow but it doesn't really matter as the commute isn't that far. 

It's a shame I have a 9am meeting as I really wanted to get back to riding before work but I know I won't make it because I'm awake at 1 in the morning... but I need to do something because my brain is a mess.  Without that decompression at the end of the day I walk straight out of the office into dinner and then bide my time till bedtime. 

Oh sure, I went for a ride on Sunday but it really wasn't that far, 47km, or high, 1139m so I have no rest day excuses - except for a crank that fell off, rendering my most accessible bike temporarily out of action and oh! I just couldn't be bothered to get the other one out from underneath.

Today I was just mardy about how difficult it is to get anything done right now and didn't want to talk to anyone about anything.  I retained enough enthusiasm to keep my new starter entertained and that was it.

IT could be worse, of course.  I'm not flat out gone lazy, I'm going through boom and bust when it comes to riding bikes.  It's the dangerous bi-polar disorder of cycling - peaking between mania and depression, clear skies and grey.  Today was definitely grey in all sense of the meaning.

Of course, now I'm a grown up I know this will pass - but the cliche will not send me to sleep.  Probably only staring at the insides of my eyelids will eventually, imperceptibly send me to sleep but until then I felt the urge to write it down, remind myself it will pass and try and find the crumbs of encouragement that sustained me last time I had a sleepless night or a lack of enthusiasm. 

Last time I ended up in my valley riding 130km and it was the hardest thing I've done in a while and the happiest thing I've done in a while. With a May bivi on the cards soon I can only hope that lockdown will lift and I can sleep out because that is the kind of thing dreams are made of.

Lockdown Week Whatever - Be More Al

After a few weeks of making the most of the lockdown situation I have run out of steam.

This weekend I should have been in the Keilder Forest - cancelled.  Nothing to train for
In 6 weeks I should have been in Scotland - cancelled.  Nothing to train for
In July a race I have been meaning to register for - for years... I could go on... (not cancelled yet but good luck with that).
The 3 Peaks Cyclo-cross - who knows?

It's not that I only ride my bike to train though.  I just haven't felt like riding my bike this week (since Monday).  It's like I needed a massive rest.

I read a Twitter thread last night on the interpretation of the Government guidance which states, "If you *need* to go out for exercise".  I have happily concluded that, this week, I did not "need" to go out for exercise.  In fact I felt relief that the article gave me an excuse to have been a lazy bastard all week. (not lazy, I've done a ton of work).

I have not been sleeping terribly.  I admit, I have not been sleeping well.  About the only thing I miss about exercise is the desperate *need* to go to bed, the, "I'm gonna be asleep by the time my head hits the pillow" kind of tired.  Instead, I lie in bed looking at the insides if my eyelids and turn over at least 3 times before actually going to sleep - whilst TSK (still riding his bike) is dead to the world next to me.

I tried, on Tuesday night, to get motivated - remembering the list of events to come (tentative or not).  It worked briefly and then was forgotten about.  The sun has remained out all week and my bike is running perfectly.  Even my knee pain is gone but still, motivation remains illusive.  The only thing that motivates me is a nice long ride.

I have plotted long routes out to the Welsh coast and back and thought a lot about adventures to come but I can't execute them.  Right now I could murder an Audax or a weekend in the Lakes... even a weekend riding to the Lakes.

Today it is the weekend and I have no excuses left.  I am tempted to go further afield to finally sate my desire to pop over the hill but "over the hill" lies a tourist hotspot and so I remain tempted not to become part of the problem.  The other temptation is to do laps of my own valley to get my long ride in.  It sits well within my personal rules but I'm not sure I can take it.  What irks me more is I'm not sure I even want to.

My strength exercises have taken on a renewed level of fresh as I've had to adapt them to my sore knee, reverting more to yoga and less reliance on weights.  I can do them in my loft or in the back garden and man alive(!) I can  feel the difference.  I have often thought I'd do quite well in solitary confinement.  This is my time.  That said, I've had no motivation to do those either - finally making it out the door on Thursday evening for one quick session in the garden. 

On Monday when I went out for my last ride, I passed an old Triathlete friend - now rocking the 75s category in the worlds.  He was running well (for a 75 year old).  He wouldn't appreciate that as he has the brain of a 24 year old.  All his races have been cancelled this year.  As a newcomer to his age category he'd finally qualified again after a few years coming last in the 70's category.  His aim is, "to come out of this stronger".

Last time I ran I caused my knee problems... but then I took on too much.

So maybe I'll move my focus this week.  Stop being work-driven and start being more Al.  If I can't be more Mike, I might as well be more Al.

I'll go and get my bike out.

Aprili Bivi

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

I panicked.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Newt made attempts to assess the bivi for comfort

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March Bivi 2020 - on solitude

The Preamble

I have to admit, I thought this BAM might not happen.  There's been a lot of short rides on a new bike - the first one where I took it up to the pump track near home, just to make sure I actually rode it - once.  There was the ride where the cheap bit of plastic "chain protector" came loose and kept making the chain come off.  Then bags started to get added, tape to protect the frame, building the new dynamo wheel, adding the dropper post.

It was all building up to last weekend - meant to be the start to a beautiful holiday.  We would finish work on Friday and race to the highlands armed with a loaded mountain bike for me and a road bike for TSK to do whatever took his fancy.

I was looking forwards to reccying the new lines on the HT route and was poised to report back to organisers and friends, then the Government took over.  For future reference: This is the week Covid-19 took the UK into lockdown.  For now reference: this is the last time I will mention it this Blog.

2 Sundays ago we raced.  On Monday and Tuesday, in line with ambitious training, I managed to continue riding to work and on Wednesday I was forced to drive in so I could collect my desk, screen, chair and mouse/keyboard and set up my home office.  The holiday morphed into tentative, then a staycation.

TSK had always wanted to visit Ludd's church and so we thought that we'd sneak in whilst no-one was looking.  We took a packed lunch and unwittingly joined 1/6 of the UK in the white peak, the rest being in the Dark Peak, Lakes, Highlands or Yorkshire Dales.  I felt bad enough about travelling that far so on Sunday I went in search of solitude and a little bit of daylight.  I was successful except for a brief period around Derwent reservoir.  I empathise with folk wanting to enjoy the countryside but when it occurred to me that one in 10 of those big groups of people I saw could be from the hotspot of Westminster, I took a different tune and was glad I rode by quickly in search of further isolation on Cut Gate.

Success.  If we're never allowed outside again then I will dine out on that apple, eaten in a sheep ditch, for years to come.  I loped indoors late in the evening - my first (and possibly last) pass over Cut Gate this year left me prepared for Monday exactly how I like it - slightly exhausted.  We concluded that if we were stuck at home then we might as well offer to work.

I cycled though Tuesday's team meeting on my Turbo, getting 50km in.  I felt positive, maybe I would get a sneaky BAM in on my new bike - get the dynamo finished, figure out the baggage, pop out, use up some of the time work owes me - a quickie before lockdown and then the news came in on Tuesday.

Everyone knows by now how much of a goody twoshoes I am.  I dreamed of sneaking out to "that" bench for a night - the one in the valley I've had my eye on for ages.  But deep down I knew that in any kind of legally enforced lockdown I'd spend the night wide awake somehow paranoid I'd be arrested by the nature police.  I even lay awake in bed on Wednesday night, imagining which way I'd ride through the allotments to avoid capture.

The week seemed to drag on forever and I worked waaay more hours than I ever would have at work.  Things got busy and instead of  turning away for the daily commutes I had set myself, I worked longer and harder than ever before as BAM floated on the breeze outside my velux window in the loft office.

On Friday I had myself a glass of wine straight after work. It was bad.  HT was cancelled, BAM seemed off the cards and I'd lost all mojo.  I sat outside looking down the valley, hankering after what could have been in the glorious evening sunset and decided to check what was happening on the BAM notice board.

At first I expect a tough-luck approach.  If you didn't get out already then more fool you.  I'd already turned down Mr Landlside for a March BAM on the basis that I was feeling a bit off with hot flushes and a tickly cough which transpired to be high settings on the central heating, early menopause symptoms and hayfever.

I also expected some people would be out doing it anyway or using mates' gardens - none of which were on my radar for reasons previously described.

Sense finally prevailed and I realised Stu wouldn't be so irresponsible as to break with caution in the pursuit of a cloth badge and as I write this I hear the hipocrisy in the face of the legality of wild camping in this country but mental health and public health are, sadly, still very different things.

Tempting as it was to head off onto the moors on foot (emergency exception number 1) I opted instead for my Own Back Garden (emergency exception number 2), suddenly very happy to have one, as well as a plush new bench, fortunately purchased in last year's garden centre sales.

My rules

I decided to remain as close as possible to usual BAM experience - leave on Saturday on a fully loaded bike, camp in my own garden, get up and go for another ride on Sunday with all the gear back on the bike.  Only 2 changes:

• I wasn't leaving a brand new bike outside overnight in a city garden - lock-down or no lock-down
• TSK said I wasn't allowed to poo in the Compost bin - or anywhere else in the garden for that matter.

I would let myself in the house once to lock the bike in the kitchen and use the bathroom.

The First Ride

I spent most of Saturday still dicking about with wheels and wiring the dynamo.  As the day went on, my soldering got worse and the electrical tape got thicker.

As soon as I started to load the bags, the heavens opened and the cat bust in through the catflap a little soggy.  I'm glad I didn't open the blinds to take a look outside because, in retrospect, the noise was so loud because it was hailstoning.

Of course, I had bivi plans so, gone were the chily but clear sparkling spring mornings.  The forecast was for 1 degreeC, cloudy , windy, potential for precipitation.  I packed the largest sleeping bag I thought I could get on the bike, the Ugly Tarp, mat, bivi bag (warm one), the Thermatex blanket, big gloves, coat, thermals and for funsies, my stove to brew up in the garden.  I was wearing fleece bib leggings and my waterproof, wool top and thick socks so by the time I left the house I was glad to get into the cold air.  It was 10pm.

As soon as I set off I knew things were wrong.  I couldn't steer and nearly ploughed into the bin.  A little disapointing on a bike that had previously been so agile.

I'd strapped my big ortleib drybag to my bars in a harness and inadvertently looped the harness strap around by dropper post cable. I rectified it in the cold air and set off for the allotments to warm up again on the hill.  Things still weren't great but I put it down to the harness rubbing on the frame, cursed myself for getting distracted earlier in the day and not taking the time to add some frame protectors.  I resolved to make it a short ride and do something about it in the morning.

With dodgy steering I wobbled and hauled the bike over the usual terrain.  The only car I saw as I rode through the allotment at 10.30pm was a police car which made me smile about my plans to play keystone cops through the tomato plants and gardening paraphenalia of Western Sheffield.  I could imagine the conversation,

Policeman: "Where are you heading to then?"
Me: "Home"
Policeman: "What, with that lot?"
Me: "Yes"
Policeman: "Where's home"
Pointing behind me: "That way, just getting my exercise in first".

He didn't stop.  I grinned at the sense of freedom.  Being back on a loaded bike, the confidence that I could stop anywhere, the knowledge that I wouldn't.

I opted for the acquisition of height over whooping empty downhills and tested my new lighter bike fully loaded up my local Hike-a-bike training ground.  We've been doing it every morning unloaded so far but even with bags on it was an easier lift, more surefooted and an easier set down than with EmVee.

I crawled silently past the last houses in town and the first flecks of hail chilled me out as I rattled down the byway to Blackbrook farm where I had to carefully remove a caterpillar that seemed to be thinking of crysalising a bridge between the gate and its post.

At Long Lane I turned my back on the extended bridleway in favour of saving my bike frame, fixing my bags and getting some sleep in tonight.  I also relished the idea of clearing the Rivelin Valley path in the dark without a dog walker in sight.  It was 11pm after all.

The valley passed in between the highs of a clear run without walkers and the lows of: hitting a slab jump all wrong and slapping myself in the arse with my seatpost bag and; getting a narrow section of oversize "cobble"stones wrong and falling off into a holly bush.  I did manage to clear all the other obstacles and keep my feet dry, whilst others - unfamilliar in the darkness - were not on my route and deftly
avoided.

I stayed on the path all the way to the road crossing, passing the childrens' playground - normally closed at night and now eerily locked up with bulky chains and padlocks during the day.  Amusing given that the fence is low enough that I could step over it without me standing on my tiptoes.

At the turning for home, I wasn't ready to go in yet.  This eerie sense of armageddon, this aura of solitude, I was hooked, I'm addicted and at the moment it's impossible to find during the hours of daylight.  I don't begrudge people their access to the countryside, I begrudge my loss of solitude.

In the apocalypse movies when the star is exceited to find other survivors, I'm the one at the back saying, "Woah there, can we trust them".  I'm the bearded old man dressed in sacks with a staff in one hand and an AK-47 over their shoulder.

I carried on down the bridleway, across the stepping stones and out near Hillsborough fire station and crossed to head up the footpath opposide.  It's a push all the way up until I can get on and ride home.

Urban Push

The cobbles on the steeps make me look down and I realise my steering is compromised due to my electric cables which are under tension when I turn right.  My front light has been dimming and my phone hasn't charged so I fear the damage is already done but at least its a few quid in cables and not a hole in a £1300 frame.

The Bivi

When I got home, my bike announced our presence.  Having just been dragged through the river, brakes squealed past the living room window where the light was still on.

I quietly hoped that TSK wouldn't come out to say hello.  I wanted to concentrate on setting up my bivi before it rains again and I didn't want to be tempted by the thought of a warm, cosy bed.  Was that bad?  Was that nasty?  This was my wilderness break though, my chance to be alone, just being, I guess it was OK.

No one came outside except Mark next door, putting out the bin. He's seen me play this game before in daylight and as ex-army, probably, deep down, "gets it" so left me in peace.

I didn't need a headtorch.  One neighbour has an outside light, the other's kitchen light is on and the guy behind us has an outdoor light that burns with the light of a thousand suns.  Fortunately it's in the direction of the breeze so I pitched my tarp to add some shade from the light as well as the breeze, with the dog rose and spruce pine adding extra cover.

Sleeping bag, mat and bivi were set up for rain proofing and I decided to risk making a brew of herbal tea to enjoy the night air.  I got the water from the garden tap to add to the spirit of adventure and delay the inevitable incursion into the house and the jaws of temptation.

My hands were getting cold so I crouched down by the stove and warmed hands and gloves, realising just in time that two fingers were on fire before it reached my skin.  So you know, Sealskin gloves extinguish pretty well.

With everything set out for the morning, I took the bike indoors for the night and popped upstairs for a wee. I have no qualms about weeing in the garden except for kitchen-light neighbours still awake next door and I did not want to be captured sans-trou whilst Mark smoked his last Malbroorough of the night in the back doorway.

Otherwise, time was past 1am and the house was quiet indoors.  I saved my teeth cleaning for outisde then to add to the true bivi experience, completely forgot unless Landslide reminds me by doing his (I call it tooth shaming).

Indoors in full fleece leggings and waterproof trousers (for warmth) I resented the heat in the bathroom but did appreciate it giving me a few minutes to leave the shoulder straps of my bibs around my waist for any night time trips to the garden without removing all my layers. 

Hungry from my after-dinner ride, I necked the packet of crisps I'd been carrying around all week and finally remembered to drink my brew - still warm in the ti mug.

In dashing back across the garden to my cocoon I realised two things - my down booties were wet from a few steps across the grass and; we have some very hard bits of porcelain which have randomly surfaced in the garden.  I stuffed my feet in the sleeping bag hoping two layers of dry down would make up for one soggy one.

First adjustment of the night was to take my mat out of the bivi bag and give my feet some space to lie right and fluff out the sleeping bag.  I poured all my spare clothes out of my pillow and packed away my waterproof coat.

Mark crashed about at 1:40am with the recycling and finally I was settled in darkness.

It was no good, I still shivered. The devil whispered in my ear, "Look mate, there's too much going on in the world. You don't need this stress right now.  What are you trying to prove? The race is cancelled. You don't need to put yourself through this. There's a warm bed inside. You can try again later in the week."

Still, I didn't move. I waited. Something magical might happen, or at least, this would make me a stronger person.

I would have quite liked to see some garden wildlife and my brain really wanted to stay awake for it.  At the same time I was dreading it setting off "the light of 1000 suns" and also didn't fancy a fox trying to steal my crisp packet or getting caught in the cross-howling of a cat fight.

I did, however, fancy the company of one of my own cats for body heat if nothing else.  Unfortuantely they eyed me suspiciously from afar and the only presence felt was "Thursday" from number 95, jingling past in the night as my bivi was pitched right on top of the "catpath" that runs through our garden.

It was no good - I was still cold.  I took off the down booties to check for wet and added extra socks underneath. In doing so, I found my wool top and added that and went for another outdoor wee which always helps.

As I piddled under the twinkling stars and streetlights and watched the clouds flurry past high overhead, I wondered what the hell I had been thinking about the Highland Trail.  I'll never do that, I'm too soft.  I can't even manage a night in my own fucking back garden FFS, what a woos.  At these times, it's hard to remember the transformation that happens between March and May and the freaky weirdness of the weather in Scotland that has seen the HT 550 run in temperatures ranging from +30 to -7 degrees.

I walked back to my bivi - the Ugly Tarp fringed with a lace of hailstones - not just being soft then, it was genuinely frickin cold.  I hunkered in and waited for the wool and feathers to work their magic.  Starting out right could have got me 2 hours more sleep.

Finally at around 3:40 I went to sleep in the pleasant knowledge that I wouldn't need to rush off anywhere in the morning.  I was woken up by Mark letting the cat out.

The Morning After

My feet were still frozen. In fact it felt like I'd lost all feeling in the left one and the right, though in better shape, was aching from stepping on porcelain last night.  In my morning slumber, I had frostbite and a broken foot but I wasn't going to give up my cocoon that easily.  I rotated the joints and flexed and extended my feet to encourage blood flow inbetween dozing off again. It didn't work and I gently worried whilst doing nothing about it. I could have gently warmed my feet in warm water inside but that would break my rules.

Eventually at 8:30 I got up and went to the house to get coffee and porridge water.  The porcelain I'd stepped on last night was broken into 3 pieces.  The bench was comfortable given the ammount of times I will use it over these next few months it's an investment I am particularly hapy with.  Coffee was drunk and porridge eaten outside.

The Second Ride

Without foot circulation and a complete and utter ennui of the same trails I set off on the downhill to ride a gentle road climb to start the day off and warm my feet up gradually.  I'd liberated the handlebars and taken a skinnier bag out of the house to ease damage / restriction on the bike and I freed my electrical cables.  I passed the Rivelin pub, its sign groaning mournfully in the wind and realised how rare it is to get a tailwind along this road.  It would have been a perfect weekend for a ride to Wales and a train home.

At the bridleway where I usually stop for a faff, I got my second wild wee of the weekend and finally removed the extra wool and waterproof layers, rejoicing that circulation had finally returned to my feet.

I could have carried on to Strines but responsible thoughts about social distancing and practical thoughts about food shopping and sleep recovery stopped me.  Instead I took a picture of some horses and dropped down to Wyming Brook to distantly socialise.

I was getting peckish.  As I passed a bench I exhausted my mental inventory of food but the memory of a bottle of Jura in my rucsac had me grabbing the brakes and flopping into the sunkissed bracken with a smile.  At 10am I snuggled under a pine tree witha view of the reservoirs whilst sunshine occasionally flitted through the hail stones.

Instead of bouncing through reservoir-dogs walkers I carried on upto the Lodge Moor road where I stopped to analyse the phone charging results of wiggling a few cables.  I took another pic of some horses and got buzzed at 6 inches separation by a silent roadie that made me jump out of my skin.

At Lodge Moor I awaited patiently whilst 2 children wearing roller skates got off the stony dirt path - not sure who was taking more care of not ending up in A&E.  Was I hallucinating?  I don't think so.

A long inventory of people were out and about in groups and solos.  The sun was out, the temperatures up and it was time for me to go indoors again.

I mused on my future with the HT 550.  In the past, the Fisherfield forest had been my ShangriLa, the place I'd always wanted to go and held high as a bastion of remoteness and tranquility and then Karl told me, "I've never felt alone in Fisherfield".  When I finally went I was not disapointed but I realised he was right because it is full of people - as famous as it is as a Wilderness, it's become a victim of its own Wilderness success.

So while I will still look forwards to it, I'll look forwards too to the path after the Great Glen, the hill climb up to the hydro-bothy, the Northern Loop.  Places I can be alone, at least I can at my end of the race.  They may not even be places, but times - late at night or early in the morning.

I arrived back at the kitchen, exhausted from lack of sleep rather than physical exhaustion and just a little drunk.  It was 11am.

"You were up late last night", I say to TSK.  He had headphones on when I got home, screaming brakes past the window where he was sat.  "When I went to check the garden from the spare room you were huddled over, cooking something.  I thought I'd leave you alone and let you do your thing".

He's a fucking genius that boy.

Some women crave a man who dotes on them like a puppy.

Me: give me a man who loves me like a cat.

Februarbivi 2020

Before ramblings

Mojo is weird.  It can be absent one minute then wholly present the next.  A mountain bike leaning against a kitchen radiator, once loaded, suddenly becomes motivation.

After the January ride 6 weeks ago I recovered a little then did a few little rides. We went out to watch a fell race then the week after, set off up a local bridleway near home.  It's a sustained climb but not difficult.  I usually find an excuse to sit on some steps as I leave the woodland that demarks leaving "town" - even though it's already countryside - and starts off "moorland".  I eat a butty or faff with my cleats.

This time those steps broke all resolve.  I sat in the grass in the shelter of the trees and faffed with my feet as a sqally shower passed by and, friends, I retreated.  Dropping down to the bottom of the valley, I was ashamed of myself so I diverted up the next bridleway - starts off as an HAB - and forced myself to ride over Stanage in a hooley.  It was hard and I had to get off and push to avoid being blown over to Holme Moss.

The descent into Bamford wasn't an issue as the wind hit Stanage Edge full-on then went vertically up so a bit of sailor's tacking got me off the hill.

I don't often use the garden centre caf in Bamford but it's a great place.  The waitress even empathised with my sigh as I pondered going back out.  I pretty much rode home a different way and got into bed.  The highland trail was no longer looking good.

With that kind of history, I wasn't looking forwards to going out again and I've put it off and put it off - with the weather.  I changed a saddle on the bike to try something new and fixed the forks after Welsh mud got in the lockout in October and I've been thinking of replacing the final elements of my old bike - frame and forks with something more pliable than Aluminium (frame) and shite (forks).

Don't get me wrong - plenty of effort has gone in to my training.  My weakness is my weakness - literally.  So gym weights are the order of the day to strengthen my legs and back to ensure I can carry my bike more often and for longer than I currently can. This is a challenge as I only lift just over half of its laden weight right now.  My rides to work have been more intense, giving me insights into the potential gains from what I am doing in the gym and finally I'm more comfortable on my bikes than I have been in a long time so some work that my physio has had me doing on flexibility are paying off.

So it has come to pass that February nearly disappeared.

After loading my bike this morning and other general faffs - including sewing my club jersey one last time.  It got to 12:54.  I'm not a person who takes well to missing lunch so with a half-packed bicycle, I dressed in civvys and walked over to my local cafe to lunch nearby instead of some over-priced peak caf.

I sat in the window contemplating the outcomes of my hard work and actually looking forwards to a night out.  All of a sudden, places I haven't wanted to go for a while feel like places I want to be on a bike - even in the dark.  After weeks of events or trialling kit for events, this time I was going to load up properly with my brew kit and food.  I scoffed my lunch and headed home.

After

It was gone 3pm when I finally rolled the bike out.  TSK had been for his ride and got home.

I took my usual route out of the valley, a series of bridleways up and down the side, culminating in Wyming Brook where I was joined by an evening rider.  A rare person who totally "got it" that I was going out for a cheeky pre-work bivi but warned me that the forecast was for snow.  Bugger, I forgot to check the weather!  Still, I had packed heavy so it didn't really bother me.

He rode on ahead when we hit the steeps before the car park then a ride around the reservoir gave me the best view of the evening - the fringes of sunset falling on the reservoir.

I headed over to Stanage where I rode on past the pole before dropping down to the Yorkshire Bridge in dusk. 

The light went on as I set off up the trail around the shoulder of Win Hill - a regular unofficial trail centre, I tried to stick to the main routes but inevitably ended up on a footpath where a surprising, smiling dog walker warned me of the slick mud.  She was right.

When I left the trees my dynamo light illuminated just enough heathery tussocks to see my way towards the summit of Win Hill.  I wouldn't have gone this way in daylight.  I wouldn't have gone this way in the dark except for knowing that the alternative route was a clamber under low-slung trees over baby-head sized boulders that are impossible to ride.  So I thought I'd see where the path took me.

The path took me direct over the top of Win Hill.  A place I haven't been since my Forestman training in 2013.  Mainly due to me quitting running and hiking in place of full time riding.  The approach was hard but grassy and heathery and then we were there, clambering up the boulders to the top and facing a descent of boulder fields on the other side.  I don't seem able to make it through highland trail training without lifting my laden bike off the occasional cliff.  To hell with the instructions not to pick my bike up by the dropper post.  Oops.

Through the darkness we snaked down the other side, our shame of riding on paths eased by some bastard that's been up on the moors in a 4x4 and ripped the hillside to pieces.  It was practically unrideable, unwalkable and I took to the thin line of footfall by the edge of the 8 inch deep trenched tyre ruts and rejoined the bridleway over to hope cross.

There I turned right, dropped down towards the A57 and paused at the Boundary for my first outdoor pee of the evening, watching the red and white lights passing by in the valley below.  It seemed like the first time the wind had dropped in weeks and I felt lucky to be out there, alone in the darkness, slightly illegal and exhilarated.

Nailed the descent to the bottom (thanks dropper) but ran out of gas on the way up to the road and had another sit down to scoff a bag of brazil nuts.  It was dinner time but it would have to wait till I reached my hut for the night.  Just the one stop, thanks, it was getting chilly.  As I remounted the bike and nudged the Garmin screen, it brightly told me it was 0 degrees C, though I actually didn't believe it because until I had stopped, I hadn't felt the cold at all.

The A57 crossing feels like an uncomfortable brush with civilisation that I'm happy to get over and then the push up to the outdoor centre where no-one was home, the weekenders all gone back to their normal lives.

The Beast darkened, was ridden with occasional dabbing and I spat out the bottom, reassured of a water top up for my dinner at the Fairholmes cafe.  The security lights came on to illuminate my bottle fill as I sprayed clear water into the dog bowl to flush out any spiders before I filled the camelbak.

We pottered along the road, observing a vehicle coming the other way, way across the reservoir.  They slowed as if watching me back and as they drove back again 3 minutes later, I wondered if someone is actually paid to go and check the place out every time some dehydrated cyclist sets the security light off at 9:45pm.

Still, it was time for my push up to the hut which I did.  In the slippery smear on the limestone slabs, I couldn't be bothered faffing for trying to ride it and my bike was heavy with stove, fuel and food.  At this precise moment it occurred to me that my sleeping bag might not have enough warm to see me through a night at minus *Whatever* 4-ish?  New bag: can't remember rating... -4? Zero.  Bollocks, try it out and see, you can always just go home.

I brewed up chicken curry - actually too much food since my earlier binge on Brazils.  I couldn't find my tea bag for the hot water brewed on the last of the fuel so I dropped my Nalgene bottle of whisky in the hot water to heat up and enjoyed a warm dram of Jura 10yo for desert, swiftly followed by the plain hot water.

With the luxury of the hut I completely changed into dry comfy clothes: new tights to try which were excellent paired with my dry waterproof trousers; synthetic down, an extra wool top, hat, gloves.

I slept on and off till 1am when I just shivered.  I contemplated just going home but couldn't face packing up so got up for another wild pee and then settled down again to try sleeping some more with my waterproof jacket added to my legs and feet and a reduction in the number of socks I was wearing so that my thermal socks were loosened - so more efficient.

I woke up again at 3:55, four minutes before my alarm clock for getting into work on time.  I was chilly again but not surprised, since the wind had shifted, was blowing in the doorway and a sloppy layer of snow was laid on the ground outside my hut.  Spatters of icy water had been dropping through the roof onto EmVee.  I packed straight up rather than brew coffee.

I contemplated retracing my tracks into the valley and riding home up the road climb in preference to slopping through the puddles on the climb back to Devil's bridge.  No, though.  I love that climb far too much.  Sure, I couldn't be arsed to slide about trying to ride it but how could I resist the snowy hike out, the view across the moors as the sky lightened (no chance of a sunrise in the grey slop that coated the earth).

Snow!

And so I trudged.  The familiar puddles and gates marking my progress up the hill in  the thin light of my dynamo and the headtorch dangling around my neck after my main spare bike light died hours ago (that headtorch is my new best friend).

At the top of Derwent edges I set EmVee down and climbed over the edge of the footpath to dig into my waterproof trousers and hitch up my leg warmers after the long hike out.  There was still no sunrise, just a steady stream of aeroplanes making their queued descent into the airport and the grey-white lumps of the peak stretching as far as the cloud allowed me to see.  I turned tail and slithered through the remaining boulderfield to the track out.

Joining the traffic on the A57 for the down-lift was a trial of will as I ground slowly through the pouring rain towards home, a shower and a warm bed.  There was no way I was going into work in the morning but it was fine - I've done enough days recently that they owe me some back.

A van drenched me head to toe driving through a stream (now crossing the road) at full speed as he overtook.  I just laughed.  I was already drenched through and my waterproofs took it remarkably well.  I walked through the door with still-dry feet under the trousers, gaiters, goretex boots and waterproof socks.  Clearly I hadn't tried hard enough.

It wasn't long (57km).  For what it was, it was quite hard (1500m) but I was out and sticking to something and that felt like all that mattered as I slumped into bed till 11am.  Not the greatest day out but it had its moments and it's done for February.