2020 Welsh Ride Thing - The Apocolypse

WRT 2020 Bear Bones W RT 2020 was a shadow of its usual self. Titled "The Apocalypse" I decided to make it a true Zombie get-away in the best way I know how. I used up the last of my accrued Covid leave to take bank holiday Thursday and Friday out, as well as Tuesday so I could ride to + from the event. What started out lightweight grew with the addition of a stove and coffee, one sachet of dried food and 2 stashes of porridge for a range of off grid opportunities.

With a new warhorse to ride (the Cotic Solaris Max) I gave my gear a weigh-in. I was really pleased with 19. 4kg on the kitchen scales lighter than my carbon fibre bike! I must have packed light!

But then realised I'd taken off the front roll containing Tent, extra fleece, pillow. Sod it, I didn't want to know. By the time I'd packed it was 9:30pm Wednes­day night so I was too tired. I enjoyed a night at home and vowed to leave early. I set out my clothes, got everything ready and set the alarm for 3:45am and 6 as a backup.

Astonishingly 1 made it out of bed and onto the road by 5am. My course had studiously ignored the toughest trails near home and I ignored it back, throwing myself through the rock garden instead. At least the hike a bike would be good practice. Nothing fell off me or the bike.

Something's coming, something good

Lesson learned, I crossed the rest of West Sheffield on easier roads before starting on Houndkirk Road.

Desperate for a wee, I thought I'd go before Joe Public got out of bed. The pause was what I needed to look up and see the sunrise over the city before the sun faded away for the rest of the day. I had one shot at the full sun before it departed behind a never ending succession of cloud banks. 

It's loss was countered by a herd of deer who initially scrambled away then stopped to watch me pass.

 

 As I bounced over Froggatt traffic started to build in the form of a couple of elderly hikers and a man and woman who looked suspiciously like the morning after the night before.

I haven't got the hang of Froggatt yet and had my traditional off, leaving one bar end in a bog. At the end of Curbar edge my sacrifice was rewarded with a view of the temperature inversion in the Chatsworth Valley.

I'm embarrassed to say I got lost around the Chatsworth estate. The main road was hitting rush hour status and drivers have little patience to wait their turn on that road in particular so I was distracted by a small Lane that drew me out to Hassop Station (still to early) and the Monsal Trail to Bakewell.

I navigated Bakewell quickly as it was still too early for cake, continuing to Youlegreave where I sourced a 09:03 scone to eat on the lovely bench in the church yard and invested ahead in cakes to take with me.  It took off-roading again to get properly cow shitty on the descent to the manifold valley. I was hoping I'd make it into Wales before getting so cruddy... but new bridleway time was calling .

At the Manifold valley, at least the cafe was open. At 10am it felt like lunchtime. I stocked up on a fresh Sandwich and more cake and ordered a sausage roll + coffee.  Sitting outside watching kids going out for rides with their grandparents was great.

• • •

The manifold trail was short-lived. It runs N-S and my general E- W direction meant I had to leave its tempting tunnels and head over the cliff onto new (to me) bridleways. This was a common theme but most railways do go north / south I suppose and canals through the Peak seem to be mostly rare or decommissioned.  

 

The first gate was irreparably inoperable (without an angle grinder) so I swore for my grass-wet feet and rode across the extremely private cattle grid instead, muttering under my breath. All was redeemed by the next gate which opened smoothly, leading to a gravelled drop to a paving slab bridge over a stream. The edged gravel exit flowed seamlessly onto the green slope ahead. Over the top I slithered down to a Peak National Park work group building a similar structure at the next stream. We had a chat about where I was off to, about camping gear and conservation works.  They warned me about the sketchy bridleway ahead and I reminded them I had plenty of those to go in Wales.

I thanked them for their efforts. A few bridleways and lanes later, the belly rumbled again. Checking the map there was a picnic area at a church. The bells struck 12 as I rolled through so I accepted the invite and sat at a bench nodding to passing, retired hikers.

On the trail: "what kind of creature is this?".  Back at home: "Ah, a horny one!"

After lunch the ride got distinctly less bridleway-ish and more lanesy.  My lazy route plotting had left it to Garmin and Sustrans. There was less "grass-up-the-middle" and more just, "lack-of-tarmac-up-the-middle" riding. TSK had warned me to be on the lookout for flood waters and it was a sound reminder. 

I did take on fords nervously, used bridges where available and did some puddle dodging, though from the smell, partic­ular puddles, I suspect, contained cadavers, possibly human, I wasn't hanging around to find out. At 2:30 the rains finally came and, man, did they come good: just as I was ready for another snack. 

 

 

A bus shelter was on hand for the purpose. As I pulled on full waterproofs and delved into the M & Ms I checked the forecast for the route. The weather was locked in till 2am. No dry spells up for grabs. If I stayed out I'd be arriving at the event Piss wet thru so I burned some data to book a Travelodge. £94 for a room! Then realised I was booking for 2. £70 was bearable so I booked and embarked on a journey to Telford. 

When plotting the route, I decided that thrashing across 50% of the country on completely unknown bridleways wasn't really a good use of my energy resources. So I'd used Sustrans or Garmin to find me the best options. In all they did a good job. The occasional foray into overgrown nettley nightmarish footpaths could often be replaced by another diversion to a pleasant bridleway to cut across to the same road. And so we continued through the midlands to the secret pleasantries of the Stone Canal which diverted me away from Stoke on Trent.

I stopped in yet another Church vestibule to eat more sweeties and to plan my final miles into Telford. Becoming quite the religious experience this ride - in many senses of the word (biblical).

Another loss of direction led me to an off road trail through birding reserves and "The national stud" where tiny horses are grown in test tubes whilst big ones tread the bridleways making them chossy and a bit shit for mountain bikers.

Getting closer...

I had one main road on my route which was circumnavigated by a rather charming old road bike lane that ran alongside but just far enough away not to see the traffic, even though I could hear its presence.

My new re-route took me to the North of Telford to a suburb called Wellington that has an army base. Whilst the re-route was easy to latch onto, like all army bases, the houses are predictably brick and gaudy filled with kids toys and nappies on the line whilst on the other side of the fence, overpaid tweens without responsibility or mortgages bezz around the roads in oversize American V8 SUVs laughing at anyone that engages in outdoor pursuits for fun instead of work necessity.

After 5 minutes of horror I realised Wellington and Telford are well endowed with an underground network of Greenway style bike lanes away from the roads and once you've found a way onto it you can never leave-unless you have a good GPS.

At this point I realised that despite tracking my position, the GPS was not recording my route. Shame because it was both innovative and not.  I had cycled towards the Leek road then, realising I needed to avoid it in fear of my life, I cycled out of my way to Cheadle, Staffs which has road works and is shite so I did three laps of that trying to escape onto the closed major road back to my route.

Oh well, I captured the final run in, emerging onto a bike lane along a busy dual carriageway which led, predictably to the Travelodge.

Had I asked at the time what food was on offer, the Toby Carvery would have put me off but now I didn't care.

I pulled to one side, out of sight and wiped the cow shit off my bike with my glove. It was the least I could do.

I put a clean hat on over my helmet hair, wiped my face and removed my wet coat then put on a face buff and strode into reception to sanitise my shitty hands.

"Can I help you?" said the dubious receptionist. All smiles returned though as she recognised my name from the bookings list. At 8:30pm I must've been the last arrival and she seemed dubious she might need to turn me away but in the end she checked me in to the family sized room 1 hadn't booked - I could have brought TSK and the cat, Landslide, his wife and the boys along!

I set my Garmin to recharge off the TV USB and put it on mute whilst I went out to obtain an overly dry roast dinner with as few questions on the side as possible. Coke? Refillable? Only pepsi unless you want a bottle. Then it's not refillable. I DONT DRINK THE SHIT I DO NOT CARE! 

 

At least they had icecream

I cheered up with the food and fell into bed at 9:30 with the phone on charge. At midnight I woke up to turn the TV off.

The alarm in the morning led me to pop them back on for the weather. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN 5°C overnight??!!" I slowly packed, enjoyed petrol station breakfast while watching the rain through the window. 

Eventually the Greenways called again, up to the Wreakin trail centre where I could have spent a decent bivi night in the right conditions. My first encounter with a steep drop helped identify the issue that the brand new dropper post had succumbed to yesterday's wet and muddy conditions.

At first I put this down to the outer cable shaking loose and hauled out the internal cable routing and post merely to find out it was fine. A few free-hand taps on a hardy tree-trunk and everything was functioning fine. Still, a frayed cable, lost ferrule meant I now had no ferrule,we'd have to hope for the best. Still, Tom Hardy passed with his son to check I was OK (I'm convinced, you can have your opinions). 

At least an hour lost. I couldn't face the second hill after the abs and arms workout I'd just had so I skirted around instead.  I then regretted it as I rode past. Still, this weekend was part of something bigger and  there was no point wrecking myself on the Wreakin. 

 More crappy puddles followed and the rain gradually flowed back. As Dorrington approached, I started to think about lunch. On the incline to the village I pulled up alongside a runner and through the pouring rain she directed a thankful me to the shop. The shop looked fine but the pub looked finer. 

A tentative look proved it to be open. As the rain intensified 1 could think of no better way to wait out the storm. I made myself moderately presentable and was positioned in the window with a view over my bike enjoying it's oak tree shelter. I dispensed with a posh Sausage sandwich, chips and as many hot drinks as I could muster before braving the conditions again and continuing towards Wales.

On my route there was no particular fanfare to Wales, just the appearance of Montgomery and some extra Consonants in road signs. The first thing I recognised at about 4pm was the A 470 followed by the realisation that I did not now want to follow the route to Carmo, but instead take the canal path to Newport, avoiding the constant stream of campers, caravans and overloaded estate cars heading for Barmouth and beyond, and get myself some dinner. There was no point in arriving in Carmo and at BB Towers too early.

I'd only ever ridden this path in the dark at last year's WRT after messing up my start to the route. Someone else had already nabbed the best bivi spot so I'd had to press on. This time I was too early. I debated coming back to it after dinner.  I absolutely love this canal though.  It was great in the dark and beautiful in the daylight.  Considering it is the alternative to an arterial A road it is so peachy.

I got directions to the Chinese from a dog walker.  I was relieved when the people at the takeaway did not ask me to follow the rules and ring through the order whilst standing at the window. I found a breeze-free town centre bench and went into full hobo mode. I put on my least attractive warm clothes and hat. Shoes and socks off to dry on the paving slabs, still hot from the day's high sun - well, warmer than my feet anyway. 

One lady talked to me on her way home from work. Most people hurried by, busied by their phones or keys - and I can't say I blame them. The sky grew increasingly dark - both the evening drawing in and the arrival of clouds. I prepared to make a dash for the cover of the porch at the bank but, appart from a sprinkle of a shower there was no dramatic outburst of rain that the skies were hinting at.

I adopted a slightly new route toward Carmo but still one that went up a sharp hill. Still, I could manage it, stopping only to put on my rear light, then my dynamo light too. This glowed dimly for a while but because I couldn't muster any speed but there was no traffic so I really didn't mind. A few Land Rovers  rumbled down to Newtown. Valley boys heading into town for a pint or three. It made me start to believe it was later than it really was and, after all, I was tired. 

After I dried my socks out. I didn't want to be caught in any evening showers so I started keeping an eye out for a spot but the road was relentless in its pursuit of the sky.

Eventually I found my route taking a turn onto a wind turbine bridleway.

One look at it in the darkness and I knew I was NOT in the mood for getting wet and crappy any more. This is not good news when you've just arrived in Wales.

Fortunately I'd just passed a small woodland without any fences around it. It wasn't far from the road but the nearest houses seemed too far away to notice me. On closer inspection it was thinned out enough for me, the bike (Midnight) and the tent.

Half way through pitching, a van came up the track. I lay low. Nothing happened. Then dogs started barking. I got ready to pack away quick but they didn't get nearer. No sooner had I got in my tent than the Mrs came home. She started barking at the dogs which made the whole thing worse. Fearing more for my sleep sanity than my safety around canines, I considered moving on but fatigue got the better of me. 

I lay down to think about it and before I knew it I was snuggled in my bag drifting in and out of sleep. whilst listening for packs of hounds. At 2am I awoke to the sound of wild boar grunting and lay awake terrified until I dropped off and realised it had been my own allergic snoring that woke me up, not, in fact, a wild boar. The munching and farting of cattle in the next field definitely didn't help either.

When the alarm went off at 5am I thought it best to move on before the early morning dog walk and I set off up the track to catch the sunrise over the Montgomery hills before topping out with the wind turbines. The track was not so bad and the dog house was nowhere to be seen for miles around. 

Sunrise without a dog house

I don't remember the approach to Carno, though I should, so that I can remember to avoid it for next time. Clearly the route was was from my "make this as hard as possible" phase or more likely my, "I can't be arsed to check this" Phase. 

Can you get any more Welsh?

After some pleasant happy times rollicking around on the moors with sheep following a pink line on a map, I found myself bamboozled, staring straight down a precipitous bank of bracken with a bridleway hidden in there somewhere. I should have at least tried the obvious, unmarked path but instead I dove foot-first (or tyre first) into the handlebar high mini-forest with an" it can't be that far" and "it won't take too long" altitude (despite being able to see at least how far).

This is how it worked:

• the bracken ached as a bike brake and just about neutralised gravity enough to keep us moving
• I followed the occasional sheep trod but these turned out to be nothing more than alarming mini land-ships.
• We sat under a tree for a bit to eat sweets and regain our composure.
• I dropped the bike side-over- side a few times, entrusting the bracken to catch it, then followed behind on my bottom.
• Despite the heat my waterproof trousers stayed on to minimise bracken-related stab injuries.
• We managed to avoid the unfenced cliffs 
• We both travelled the height of a mature oak tree in about 10 seconds through a combo of sliding and jumping down branches.
• We still had to climb over a fence at the bottom.
• We survived
  

• We ate an apple. 

The homeowner sent his dustbin out but the fat Labrador did not like apple cores. The next hill took us to our first checkpoint of the trip, the Trannon Windfarm. Then it was in to Pennant for checkpoint number 2 to visit Stuart (organiser) and Dee. 

 

I recognise that valley

We styled this one out too, doing the hardest of bridleway / footpath  combo's to get over to the house. I felt like I was re-opening a pony track that hasn't been used since the mines closed, forcing open overgrown gates, forging through the nettles and climbing over fallen trees, where I drew the first blood of the trip. It was all worth the smiling faces when they realised they had another customer. Stu and Dee were pleased to see me as well as the dogs. I ate cake and drank hot drinks as much as possible and chatted until more willing volunteers arrived. 

 

Stuart was interested in my route. I waffled something about the pink line on my map. He suggested a bivi spot at the Borth visitor centre and Machynlleth for tea which, to be fair, sounded like a lovely idea but I was pretty sure it was the other way around to what I had planned.

I'd stayed a bit too long, leaving hungrier than when I arrived but I didn't want to eat more than my fair share of cake and leave others without. I climbed the other sleep way out to Dylife and carefully managed to avoid stopping at the Star Inn for any more food and long conversations. Thanks to whoever waved at me but I was on a mission.

• • •

The mines behind Dylife brought me universal mountain bike satisfaction. Steep, slippery descents, wet feet, sunny climbs out. 

Beyond, I chased the sunshine across the edge of the Hafren Forest.

 

Another rider had taken a completely different route through and yet 4 hours later we rocked up at the same place - Clewedog reservoir at 7pm. Well, ok, it was another checkpoint but we couldn't quite believe we'd arrived at the same time. 

My plan at the Checkpoint had been to turn right then head over to Ponterwyd where I had dinner in January. However by the time I'd fought my way up and down shale and rivers, the promised icy wind had arrived and I was totalled. I needed more clothes and food stat - preferably hot food. I checked the map then abandoned my route and turned left to the picnic spot. My heckles were set to "up" by the bloke powering across the reservoir in a white rib (boat) with binoculars. He was dressed in black and looked more "Ranger" than "late evening fisherman".

The slipway to the lake was rudely blocked by a camper van but I squeezed by.

If we don't say anything... she won't notice we're here.

I snuggled down in the once-upon-a-time toilet block amongst the bird shit and brewed up enough water for my emergency food supplies and some left over. While waiting for my water to boil, the actual ranger stopped by to politely remind the van owners that there's no overnight camping. Oh. Having suspected this might be the case I had not unpacked my kit, waiting to see. That does not mean I wasn't disappointed. I've been coveting this spot for years-though May or January are definitely a better bet.

• • •

I had a chat with the vanners. They were reluctantly going to look elsewhere yet all official sites were full. I also decided not to risk it. I didn't have my bivi, I had a tent that needed pitching out and the lie of the land would have meant pitching it in plain view. I needed a good night's sleep, not moving on at midnight. The extra brew water was used to brew a micro-coffee. 1/3 of my stash-into 1/4 of the water. It was enough to get me reloaded and out of the Clewedog steep road sections. Once that was done though. I couldn't face much more. The uphill legs were still empty.

I followed the ridge road getting further and further away from my route. All of the fields were full of sheep, or overlooked by farm houses

• • •

My plans disintegrated to:

• finding + staying at the George Borrow in Ponterwyd.
• Carrying on to Devil's Bridge bothy or the picnic site. 
• One previous bivi spot near Old Hall ruled out by a noisy wind turbine with dodgy bearings that made the whole valley groan.
• The Dinas reservoir boat yard.
• Going up random Bridleways to see where they went.
• keep riding to Landiloes to get a hotel room or sleep in a bus stop or get TSK to come and pick me up.

knew I would regret the last one. Thankfully after I got fed up with bridle­ways that made farm dogs bark then petered out into muddy puddles, I stopped to take off some layers. 

The weather had warmed up again after its brief spell of autumn and I'd lost about 300m in elevation. Whilst looking at the map for the sudden emergence of Valhallah right before my eyes, I noticed that there were no houses on the last track I just passed. 

I was getting desperate and passing out by the side of the road in a crying mess was starting to seem more inviting than pushing one more pedal stroke - even if it was towards a hotel room. One of those would mean a conversation closely followed by the expectation of standing up in a shower for longer than necessary.

The gates on the track were unlocked so I slithered my way through beyond the first field of cows then the second any vaguely flat grass appeared, I was on it.

There was space for a bike on the fence. The stream was a bit high on noise volume but I had the sense my brain would not care and also if there were any nearby animals, my rustling noises would be masked, avoiding the consequential woofing, bleating and moo-ing.

My brain switched off at 2am. My alarm switched off at 6am. I got up at 7, having missed the sunrise.

Still, it was only 5 hours since I'd gorged on something out of my food bags so I had plenty of energy to pack up and see what the wind farm had to offer. I'd missed the Hafen forest checkpoint on my valley amble but my track brought me back to a pleasant ridge-way bridlepath to the checkpoint above Dinas.  Pleasant, that is, once I'd left the dead-end of the track and ad-libbed across an open field of long grass to the bridlepath.  Note to self: I can not distinguish bridleways from contours in the dark. Thankfully the erection of the wind farm meant some awesome drainage ditches had been built and my feet were only wet-grass wet instead of bog-hopping wet.

• • •

 

I brewed the remaining coffee and porridge with a sheepy audience and wind turbines.

• • •

With my plans turned a little upside down, I realised I wasn't standing much chance of capturing all the checkpoints, riding up hill and down dale, eating tea in March or sleeping at the idyllic bird hide in Borth. I'd desperately been wanting to ride to the coast since Lockdown lifted and at this rate I wasn't going to make it so I swallowed my pride and decided to peg it down the A44 for a bit of easy riding.

It was less hellish than I imagined. I didn't get many close passes or caravans, the surface was mostly as smooth as ice. I occasionally considered the forest instead but by the time I did, I realised the track I'd picked was shown on the map as a dead end. I decided not to risk it and was right not to. My mistake would have meant a 100m hike across chossy felled wood land in front of 250 passing holiday motorists. 

I've never seen this carriage in the sunshine before

After suffering a bit of road I enjoyed the sudden submersion in the forest above the the MTB Centre Bwlch Nant Yr Arian, dropping out of the mossy muddy wetlands into a sun-baked valley sprighted by dragonflies and tiny lizards that slithered through the grasses. 

Sun's out...

I had a Skittles celebration then embarked on the short hike-a-bike across a bog, my bike held aloft over my head as I assessed the easiest way out.  I clambered along an old building wall, depositing my bike sunny-side up on the other side, as I bent double over the wire fence.  All well and good until I tried to extracate myself from the handlebars, only to find my rucsac lacing was caught and I unceremoniously unlatched myself from the rucsac like a parachutist whose first chute gets snagged.

When I righted myself a group of 6 backpacking Duk of Eds were trying (unsuccessfully) not to point and laugh.

On over to the Afon Rheidol for the crossing to the MTB centre.  Another pleasant bridleway which felt substantially under-used for its beauty.  Then in complete contrast I dropped down to the heaving moutnainbike trails, where two bears on their way out assured me there was a cafe to be had.

There I joined forces with more bears working on an engineering project - a stripped deraileur being single-speeded and a front mech that wouldn't come off its cable. I obliged with pliers and cable and removal techniques before leaving dad to sort his own single speed out whilst I ate ice cream, chatted to the kids and watched the impressive display of red kites.

One pastie and lots of unhealthy snacks later I set off none the wiser as to why anyone visits a trail Centre on a Bank Holiday weekend - except for the obvious pull of a cafe.

 

Still, it was nice to turn away from them all, collect the view of Aberystwyth-on-sea, the lead-mines at Cwmerfyn, got hollered at by someone at "The Study Centre" -does anyone know what they study there? -and reach my final checkpoint of the day-the hills above Tal y Bont, looking down on the ocean and, possibly, Ireland. 

 

Time to celebrate life. In the impossibly beautiful sunlight, sat out on a rock slab in my fleece, the swallows screaming overhead, I finally finished the M & Ms and the last of the rubbish crisps from Carmo. I was too early for the sunset. I couldn't face the down and up to the actual check- point as it was going to need to be retraced but I stood and looked on, thought, "that's very nice Stu" and left again and appreciated that it didn't matter. What mattered was a pleasant evening at the pub, a decent night's sleep and having enough beans left to manage Monday.

 

I texted TSK to make a plan for pickup, accepting that if I can't face riding across a hillside, I sure as hell can't face the ride home through Shropshire.

I whooped down the hill to Tal y Bont, parked on an iron drain pipe and booked myself a table with my coat and helmet. I left my "muddy boots" on the sun-soaked concrete slope to cook dry along with my socks and disgorged insoles. Inside the grumpy proprietor was a bit fed up of this Covid Crap so we had a giggle and he was nice to me and didn't charge me tourist tax, unlike the waitress who tried to add a quid to my pot of tea order but I'd already paid my mate at the bar. I even managed a beer. The weather stayed warm enough for me to sit out until dark when I drank some more tea and spent more time indoors preparing for the night ahead. 

When I'd put on all my layers to leave, the concrete slope outside was still radiating heat so I lay there for a while, getting my dried socks on and stretching out the legs.

My new get up and go didn't last long. The shop was still open and I realised that all I had for tomorrow was some fizzy fish sweets and porridge-which required effort. I raided the stores for Popcorn, Welsh cakes and couscous. As I left I heard the proprietor say, "we've had more cyclists in this weekend than the whole of last year". There we go Stu - supporting local business... stealthily.

• • •

My route to the coast was a little disjointed by dead ends. I wonder how many times one old man has been asked for directions to the bridleway at the end of his lane.  Stealthy indeed.

On one tiny road I stopped for a wee at a bench mounted atop the 8ft high grass verge. Relaxed now. I found myself becoming wistful for my bivi bag again. The bench was the perfect length for me-including the slot in the arm where my feet could hang loose.

Moon so near

 

• • •

Aberdovey so Far

I could see but not hear the lights of Aberdovey across the water and the almost full moon made it certain that no rare passing vehicle would notice me. Still, I also liked the idea of bird watching with my eyes shut at the Visitor centre. I carried on.

Several abortive attempts at the canal path later, I just cycled up the B- road to Borth, past the seaside holiday town - shopfronts, takeaways and the mobile home parks and packed full touring sites. It's not that I couldn't have sneaked a spot and been gone before dawn but the floodlights and tarmac pitches really didn't appeal. The closest I got to stopping was a luxury bus stop complete with benches and a shady corner but I resisted and ploughed on, at the same time, acknowledging that the return journey would be shit into a headwind.

At last the visitor centre arrived. Another ranger vehicle in the car park. Nobody in sight though. I went to "take a look at the info boards". Like the proverbial solo stage audition or an interrogation scene in a movie, banks of fluoro lights switched on by motion sensors, "Bam Bam Bam Bam". Hm.., no stopping there then. I went to investigate the boardwalks. They soon ran out. I didn't fancy spending Monday grinding sand through my chain so I backtracked, checked the toilets then turned tail and rejoined my route which went up to the Estuary mouth before heading back south.

I stopped at the estuary. A number of cars were parked-I stopped to wait for a heavy vehicle to leave, assuming (for some reason) it was a council van clearing the beach. As it passed I realised it was a camper. Someone else evicted by wardens? It didn't matter, I was having a ton of that draft, I don't care why they were leaving. There's not much better for drafting than a box build camper, especially a box build camper driven by old people. He held a perfect 24 mph average right along the golf course before stopping to consult the map at my turn. Over 20 minutes riding and a lot of pain saved there, I'm sure. 

I sped across the road raised above the mudflats, not even pausing to consider stopping there, then resumed my track to Furnace.  Unlike last night I wasn't completely desperate. Sure it was late but I was warm and I had food, plus there were wooded off road sections and the Forge checkpoint to come and the checkpoint almost seemed to be on a flatter spot.

Unfortunately I forgot this path was up a virtual cliff of a lane so there was a right hike to get to it. I seemed to remember a kennels nearby but to my inane relief, the barking and smell of dog poo did not materialise.

On the path, I put on my big light. There were no overlooking houses and the time was right to get my head down soon. Before my checkpoint, before leaving the womb of the woodland, a fallen tree gave rise to a flat bit of earth JUST the right size for my tent. Just.

Branches were moved. Tyvek placed. Trial lie-down confirmed all Ok. When I say "Just", I had to drive one of the pegs into a split in the fallen trunk to get my rear guy rope tensioned. It wasn't a perfect pitch but without wind or rain it didn't matter. I bedded down, ate some couscous and slept like the log I was tethered to. The dog walkers might have had a "death to wild campers rally" outside my tent and I would not have stirred. I shamefully packed up my tent at 8:30, admired the checkpoint (a rock slab that would not have been any good for the tent anyway) and headed into March for some tea (and breakfast), so only 2.5 days later than when I previously said I would go to Mach for tea.

• • •

Mach was sunny. I grabbed a coffee and breakfast order from the park cafe and sat down to wait for my order and to see about the 2 "nearby" checkpoints I had missed and whether I could get to them before TSK arrived to pick me up.

No sooner had I made myself comfy, 2 mountain bikes approached. Thinking they might be Bears that I do or do not know, I prepared to give a non-committal "Hey" and a wave. This quickly escalated as I realised that they were two really good friends from Cheshire who I haven't seen in ages instead of the 4-or-5 times I usually see them either at races or for our Christmas get together.

They had been riding the Cambrian Way as a credit card tour and were just heading out unladen to ride the last bit to Dovey Junction.

• • •

All plans went out the window as we degenerated into more coffee / tea / cake and they debated calling the cat sitter to say they'd be late. Before I knew it TSK had arrived and my Last two tenable check- points remained unchecked. Not that I regret it. I travel alone to make new friends and keep old ones. I like my own company but I like surprises more.

Despite not getting the best out of myself on the WRT because I left a lot of it in Staffordshire, I had a great time being away from my desk and only having a sketchy plan that got binned was great stuff. I drank more alcohol than I'm normally capable of, did one of the longer cycle tours I've done on a MTB, 450km / 7900m in Elevation) and all on my new bike so great for bonding and man did we bond!

• • •

It may not have been the peak 200 or my Northern Myth route but it was a lot of hours in the saddle so I'm pretty happy I didn't suffer any of the bruises I have experienced this summer.

The wrist pain I had after 134km on day I was resolved with a bar height adjustment and a change to saddle inclination. My new Igaro charger worked a treat to keep me off grid for 4 days (2 if you count the 2 days battery I took with me) and for this trip I appreciated the training and gear ratios from the slightly higher 11- speed old setup compared to the twiddle-anywhere on the Trek. I'm excited for the possibilities though.

• • •

Am I tired? Hell yes I am mentally exhausted. I haven't had nearly enough sleep. I haven't dared to try to ride today. Just getting around the house has been a chore but of course I could ride today - just not fast.

Aside from the beautiful scenery and the pure ecstasy of being out for 4 days straight I'm pleased about the information gathering. I've done few multi-day rides recently. Especially at any effort or off road. Particular highlights were feeling like I'd repaired myself after day 2's exhaustion with just a good meal and asleep.

The recovery that happens over the next few days is one that has to be extremely kind to me. It needs to acknowledge the effort that went into making this happen. Acknowledge that the improvement to carrying on as long as I did is massive. Finishing on Monday was not "quitting" but rather accepting that I was no longer cycling with any effort, merely pushing on the pedals free wheeling the flats or walking the climbs.  I stopped not because I wasn't having fun but because I wasn't getting any real training or riding out of it.  I needed to recover for next week-both mentally and physically, come back and do it all again soon.

The knowledge collected for the HT was incredible. I now know that day 2 may be a disaster but I have experienced the comebacks that can happen whilst still keeping moving. I know what I can squeeze into a day, what extra I need to do or how I can recover better on stops.

Missing out in Wales made me a bit more comfortable about driving places to ride and made me more comfortable about putting some skinny gears on a heavy bike to last out better in the future...  I just need to wear these ones out first.

WRT 2020 and the rest.

 

Here there will be tales of Dragons

Forkup - For Sale

August BAM

 It's rare when social media actually (I mean *actually*) inspires me to put down the TV set and go and do something more interesting but this weekend it happened.  

On Saturday I worked on a new project before packing up my bike packing gear gradually.  I'd planned to do a 40k ride and a 50k ride this weekend but, after a trip in to town to post some bike stuff, I didn't leave home for number 1 till 8pm.  It was me and Mr Landslide again, fuelled by home-cooked pasta.

We rode over to Hillsborough at which point my left crank dropped off at an awkward pedestrian crossing.  I limped over to the pavement and kicked it back on as best I could and tightened the bolts.  The cap nut was long gone.

Hoping the bike would stay in one piece, we threaded our way along the Trans Pennine trail as far as Penistone where we needed to put lights on properly to ride through town to the big Tesco for a toilet trip before hitting the Peak district for the rest of the night.  After Penistone, the sky was dark enough to warrant front lights - even if the back ones stayed off.

Wildlife 1 - a hedgehog.

We cut across the moor to Langsett.

 Wildlife 2 - a moth beating out its pattern on the wing.

 Landslide realised I was dragging him the rocky way.  I had not even thought of his "skinny" tyres (in the modern sense of the word) or lack of bouncy forks.  

We briefly mused over stopping near the woodland but, fuelled by enthusiasm for a classic summer evening with resultant glorious sunrise, we proceeded into the heather in search of a better morning-vista and another stop that I had in mind.

I enjoyed the little pool of light in front of me, watching the purple heather bouncing back in the light.  In fact I enjoyed it so much I failed to notice the dark orange blood moon rising over Sheffield until it was almost too late.  As a cloud bank dropped over it, we slowly watched it disappear as we, too, scrambled into the dark.  It made puddle-dodging more challenging, trying to remember the deep ones.

Somewhere along the way, Landslide's tyres started to let him down.  Whilst he faffed with that, I sorted out my cleats which had been bugging me all week.  I finally got them into a position I could ride some power in and L continued to struggle with rocks and rolling.  I took the occasional hike - partly to make sure he was still there and partly because my skills weren't working in the faded light and fatigued state.  We were both making mistakes.

For a moment we considered camping on the peat bog (currently dry) near the summit but concluded that the breeze we had been seeking out to keep the midges at bay was actually a bit too blowy for comfort.  We agreed to descend to the planned stop to get out of the wind.  

The planned stop never came (at least I shot past it in the dark) and before I knew it, we were at another spot I have covetted for a while.

(c)Mr Landslide: High Speed Trep

We both tarped-up with backs to the wind then just as we were about to get comfy, the gusts started coming from 135 degrees anticlockwise, just enough to grab the edges of tarps and ruffle them thoroughly.  Still, we persevered - it would keep the midges off.

I lay awake for some time, then some time longer.  Eventually I started to snooze but it felt like every time I dropped off, the tarp would rustle and wake me up.  I re-pegged and pinned down my ground sheet with everything going but nothing would silence the damn thing.  I went for a walk - partly to have a week and partly to suss out if there was any shelter nearby.  

In a few places, I could have got out of the wind in the bracken but recognised as that a really stupid midgey idea.  I reached a stream with the tarps on the other sideand, figuring I'd got back to camp, toyed with the idea of crossing the stepping stones to get back to my bed.  Thankfully I realised I'd probably fall in the water so retraced by steps back to L sleeping soundly behind my pitch.  I had decided to re-pitch the tarp into a tunnel to get low profile and cover all the bases of this swirly wind pattern.

Amazed that I didn't wake Mr L, I snuggled down into my tarp tunnel and really appreciated the extra warmth.  Unfortunately, the midges joined me in there so I got my head net on and started the process of quietening my groundsheet again by littering shoes and my rucsac around the place.

I did at least get some sleep but as this was all happening at 3am, it was only about 3 hours sleep before the sun was up, my cosy tunnel was too hot and I found that most of my mat and bivi bag were poking out from under the tarp and I was happily (yet painfully) curled up on nothing more than the ground sheet and a 12 inch long rock.

My first words of the day to my bivi buddy were, "mats are for losers anyway".

L informed me that there was another camp just across the stream - luckily I hadn't crossed the water last night as I would have stumbled into the wrong campsite.

I insisted on scrambling together my kit and heading about 100m down the trail to a known picnic spot to brew up breakfast in the shelter of the trees.  It was midgey but at least the breeze was low enough to ensure the stove would work.  I wasn't in the mood for riding any further than home that day, on the basis of my limited sleep, but I knew that food would make me feel better.  I viewed the whole thing as a mini-exercise in keeping on keeping on.  I stuck it in the category of "How will I finish the highland trail if I bail at the first sign of difficulty?"  I tried to stay positive and just focus on the job of making the brew.  I was very buoyed by measuring exactly the right amount of fuel we needed.

Mr L pottered about birdwatching and dodging hungry ducks whilst I minded the stove and sat on the ground at protest to the really crap and uncomfortable bench.  My breakfast of porridge, honey and dessicated coconut did a lot to fix my mood, as did the coffee. 

We bimbled down the lake in the fog.

I took one photo

Just before we headed into Fairhomes to check out the toilets and, to our sheet joy, the cafe was open.  A sausage sandwich was consumed and I enjoyed sweet tea.  Moods even further improved, we started the potter home until such point as I had to send Landslide ahead in order to make his daddy-care duties on time.  I was having trouble keeping up with his increasingly anxious pace and his wife's gym sessions are just as important as my bike rides.  I am always grateful to her for letting me borrow his company from time to time.

As soon as he had gone, my pace slowed and I warmed into my movement a bit more.  Eventually I was able to park up, reinstate my clothing organisation and get rid of the warm stuff from last night - much to the enjoyment of a photographer that I hadn't noticed sitting on the grass well above the track.

I took the Thornhill trail to Bamford lights then set off up Shatton to take the pleasant route to Hathersage.  In the village, I felt the crank start to wobble.  I wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing that I now knew when it was about to fall off.  I didn't manage to get my foot out of the pedal before the crank fell off but I did at least manage to carefully put my foot down before the  approaching big range rover came around the blind corner.  Thankfully it was being driven carefully and responsibly by an elderly lady and she did not run me over as I scabbled about on tarmac with a hunk of metal stuck to my foot.

As I torqued it on as tight as possible, another kindly Shatton resident came out to check if I needed any help.  

I'm amazed it held all the way up the long, relentless climb.  I'm also amazed I rode it all the way to the top.  The crank held on until the flat road where I tied it in again.

At a footpath junction I bumped into the lovely Marcus Scotney out on one of his long runs so we disrupted eachothers schedule a bit with some exchanged Covid tales then I dropped over to Hathersage.  The crank obliged by dropping off again and I started texting enquiries to TSK as to his whereabouts, toying with the tentative idea of a rescue call.

I decided to persevere, hope for the best, select walkable hill climbs and head straight home,soft- pedalling as much as possible.

I made it to Hathersage Booths before I felt the familiar wobble again, meanwhile TSK had just texted me I leant the bike against the wall reached into my bag for my phone, crank in hand. I said hello to a bloke and, a moment later his girlfriend but something was not right. She was making worrying sounds and at first I thought she had sudden brake failure. I ditched both phone and crank on the ground and as I turned to help, she fell off her bike into the road next to me, tearing at her face with her hands to remove her glasses. She had been hit and stung in the lower eyelid and her screams were an attempt to stop safely with her eyes shut on a 16% descent whilst trying to remove glasses and insect at the same time.

My first job was to stop the approaching traffic on the blind corner whilst she extracted herself from her bike.

The motorists were kind and offered 1st aid but we sent them on.

Next I had a look at the eye. Her lovely fresh young face had developed the dark circle of a more mature person and a tiny pinprick was visible near her nose.

I passed on my last remaining antihistamine and checked on her whilst she composed herself. I prescribed a cafe stop in Hathersage before continuing and she set off in pursuit of the boyfriend.

TSK was in Hope, out on his bike so that put paid to my rescue.  I did not expect today to be this much of a trial of my ability to keep going.

This time I took a lot of care over putting the crank back on, tightening the bolts incrementally in sequence. I made it past Burbage + up onto the summit then stopped at a Hawthorne tree to get out of the wind while I put a warmer jersey and a coat on for the descent. At the carpark in the Mayfield valley I stopped for a snack to celebrate the crank staying on then ended up in the caf with TSK, drinking coffee instead of anything sensible like eating lunch. And so my ride ended with a little tow home, watching a buzzard and wondering if it was the Vulture (it wasn't) and being motor paced by two roadie students who couldn't understand me thrashing them on the descents then fading to soft pedalling on the climbs. After I gave the bike and me a wash I went to sleep for 3 hours,and felt like shit for the rest of the day.

Well man alive! There's nothing like a pandemic to make you paranoid after a not-so-terribly-hard bike ride but, thankfully a few healthy meals and 9 more hours sleep saw me right.

We are go for the next one-give or take a few crank-saving devices.

Northern Myth

Northern Myth is a route I plotted last year, whilst sat at my desk on a Friday with a fully-loaded bike waiting for me in the carpark.

My aim was to ride North to Mytholmroyd then East to Todmorden and home on the Pennine Bridleway, amongst other things.  I wanted to do as much offroad as possible but ran out of time to plot my route beforehand and so I let Garmin make my choices after work based on the heat-map function. This left me with mostly a road route (although some great, tiny roads).

On the Friday I went to the pub for dinner, slept in a wood then continued through a big day on Saturday, battling the map all the way to make it more interesting, beautiful and less roadie.  I slept near a reservoir just outside Tintwistle before dragging myself back over the Transpennine trail to home on Sunday early afternoon.

I used lockdown as an excuse to re-route it from home back to home and to fix the roadie sections to make it more mountain bike fun.  The original was 200km on the nose with the ride to work a part of it (8km).  The new route was 187km.  I left home, after spending Saturday morning packing, at about 12pm and stopped for lunch at my favourite local spot, overlooking the Rivelin reservoir.  Due to the Covid, I was mostly carrying all the food I needed for 36 hours plus three litres of water but my bike was lighter and I was packing less kit.  The weather report hinted that a stove would not be of any comfort but I did still pack my Oh-Shit coat, full waterproofs (to stop it raining) and all the clothes I love to sleep in.  To offset, I didn't bother with any other layers for riding in - adopting the all-or-nothing approach to any extra warmth required.

I freestyled the ride from home to the A57.  Rather than following the random route that Garmin plotted, I took the steep ride through the allotments and "the Rock Garden", getting some highland trail Hike-a-bike training in - confirm can now lift loaded bike - though it was somewhat ungainly.

I wobbled up and down the side of the valley and over to Stanage pole where I dropped down past the bird watchers looking out for the lammergeier.

I rode past all the motorists out for a spot of parking frustration by Ladybower and even stopped to let one nice Indian family know that if they stayed where they were they might get a ticket just like all the other inconsiderate people parked opposite double-white lines and half on the bike/footpath.

Finally onto my favourite bridleway where, as ever, I saw only two other people until such time as I needed a wee when, no matter how well I tried to hide and pretended to stop to eat an apple, a constant stream of people kept walking past so I gave up and carried on riding all the way to the A57 at Alport Farm.  A brief flip over the other side of the river to edge ever further up the A57, yielded beautiful sunny views of Alport Castles and a pretty shoddy game of football at the Alport junior FC.

Alport Football Cows

Alport "Castles"

Further along the A57 was "Mad Woman Stones".  Another of my favourite places due to its absolute solitude and it did not disappoint.  Within 100 metres of the main road between Manchester and Sheffield I had enough peace and quiet to creep between two ponds away from the path and enjoy the quiet of the scenery for a while.

The trail is maddeningly stony and totally un-rideable without full suspension or dislocating every ligament in your body.  Old cobbles that do not seem to have ever been worn down by anything.  It crosses the perfectly paved Pennine way at 90 degrees part way across and despite the motorway pedestrian traffic walking East West, no-one seems to venture North-South except a couple of hardy runners and - on this day - a rather exquisite and lovely French lady on a full-suss Juliana, recceing the route.

We had a chat after I had sauntered down the steep drop off into the valley and she was on her way up.

After the joy of sitting by a bridge over a babbling stream with nothing but boulders and beautiful French women for company, I had to endure Glossop but that was OK because it was nearly time for early dinner and Glossop has a petrol station. 

As I emptied my re-useable food wrappers of the spoils of the day - crisp wrapper, crumbs, apple core, banana skin, I felt a bit annoyed that I had to carry my sustainable choices all the way home.

My potato salad, onion bhaji and milk-based desert went down OK supplemented by coffee, though I crammed the last onion bhaji into a pot to take-away as everything was a bit too dry.  The sauce for the bhaji came along too for the ride and I was now thankful for my sustainable food packaging. 

My route through Glossop disappeared behind the shops for a while and I joined it for the pure intrigue.  I found myself on a railway trail I never knew existed and arriving at a pump track I never knew existed where the local kids had a good laugh at my kit and I joked out of getting involved, preferring to stay "on the bunny tracks".  Sadly, my path went to a big metal fence that kept people away from the *actual* railway and I had to literally stick to the bunny track to get back out again. 

Still, in doing so I dropped down through the old railway workings of the site, finding all kinds of buildings and service-tunnels along the way.  Probably not safe to camp out at night but all the same, weirdly attractive.

Rolling Stock Service shed in there somewhere

Cue several other diversions through Glossop - none of which I knew existed, all of which were pleasant - as I bounced around little suburbs of Glossop / Greater Manchester all the way up to Dovestone Reservoir where the sun was rather satisfactorily setting and I could look across the Cheshire plains and see both Alderly Edge and North Wales and quite possibly the Isle of Man.

Sunset over Gtr Manchester

 I inadvertently found myself misguided onto a cheeky footpath more than once - entirely through gawping at the view and paying no attention to the Garmin.  The lanes were perfectly rideable, the old lady motorist that passed was perfectly wavey and friendly and the descent off it into a little village was satisfyingly technical. 

The sun setting through the trees on this path was all that I really came for

The old mills and cottages and this wind turbine nacelle without it's blades made me smile with reminiscences for my time spent living on the West side of the Pennines.

To be honest, I wouldn't have left the footpath except it didn't go where I wanted to be so I dropped down.  The drop-off brought me out into this cute little lane on the edge of Oldham with it's own bin nooks built into the wall.  Shame we have so much waste nowadays they need two more bins to be sustainable but the principal is still charming.

I had to pinch myself at this point and remember that last time I rode this route in the opposite direction I found myself in a less-than welcoming area filled with bad-lads throwing something (I didn't stop to find out) at eachother, wearing hoodies and masks (before the days of the Covid).  I just thanked my stars that cyclists are invisible and rode on through, hoping they wouldn't give chase (because I was knackered and wouldn't have stood a chance in a sprint).

This time around, my excellent e-navigation skills seemed to have worked the trick at avoiding any potential confrontation with the dark side and I pedalled on proud of the great work I had done.  I didn't mind that the light was fading, I would carry on until I dropped, then find somewhere nice to stop... at which point, most places would be nice places to stop.

I skirted the edge of Saddleworth moor this time, my aim being to plot the route entirely on legal PRsOW and not across the Pennine Way footpath.  I wanted it to link, not hop about so I dropped into Denshaw then climbed up to the Ram Inn to join the Pennine Bridleway part way up.

Before leaving the minor roads, I checked the map.  Maybe Denshaw was where things got scary last time... maybe not.  I risked it and Denshaw turned out to be an OK little village.  The close passes on the A road were a bastard though and it was all I could do not to give up and ride on the pavement.  I was wearing bright orange, a bright blue lid and had two red flashing lights but it didn't work for me and I was relieved to get off the road, onto the PBW and go in search of the ghosts of children. 

Their spirits clearly blew through me as I heaved the bike through the gate and I realised my saddle clamp was incredibly loose.  I fumbled for the allen key in my bag and tightened the bolt up as my body, sweaty from the climb, cooled down in the breeze.  The sun had completely gone but the after-glow was still enough to ride by with the slight assistance of my dynamo light which was now dead due to the lengthy stop.

Around the corner, I relented, got a mat out to sit on and donned leg warmers and my waterproof coat over the top of my gilet to warm up a bit.  It was instant respite and the dynamo fired back to life as soon as I started the downhill to Piethorne reservoir.

Having just decided I was OK and could keep going and should make the most of the twilight whilst it was still there, I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to sleep.  A slight paranoia that something nasty would be waiting for me in East Manchester made me think that sleeping with the ghosts of children might be easier than dealing with whatever was "down there in the valley" - the spirits of living children. 

As soon as I'd left the noise of the Manchester road behind, I started to keep an eye out for any shelter that might be about.  I was still pretty high up and the temperatures were dropping, the elevation would put paid to any concept of a cozy night.  Still, I didn't really feel like descending - and definitely not into "civilisation".

Whilst the car noises had faded, ahead was the rushing of water.  Just as I'd decided I didn't need to get closer to that, a few walls appeared.  There were no other structures around - huts, cabins, shed or shelters but a path through the grass which led to a series of very gently sloped "terraces".  I could be hidden from the road and the main track, overlooking the reservoir and Manchester lights and away from noise sources.  It might've been exposed to the elements but the breeze here was marginal and coming from what would be my "back" if I camped facing the view.

I laid my bike in the grass, made it an integral part of my pitch and set up the Tarp and groundsheet.  I seemed to have my head at the downhill end but was beyond caring.

Had a wee, changed clothes and crawled into bed. 

As usual I lay awake for a while - drifting in and out of snooze and adapting to the noises around.  The tarp moved occasionally in the gentle breeze but there was no wildlife noise to wake me.  I could see the plough from my bed and if I turned my head I could see the high-rises in the city centre lit up in red lights.  It was all far enough away that nothing seemed to move.

I shivered a little but at 2am got up for another wee then went back to the warm cocoon and fell soundly asleep until the sun woke me up at 5am.  It was still below the hill behind me but was illuminating the clouds in the sky above the ridge where the plough had been last night. 

It was 5am and the skylarks were starting to sing. 

Piethorne Reservoir with Manchester behind

I sat in bed and ate 2 pieces of malt loaf and the ginger cookies I'd saved from yesterday to the sound of the water gushing over the fish pass that I could hear last night.

I dressed without getting up then finally, reluctantly let down my mat and enjoyed the luxury of the groundsheet leaving me a dry bivi bag to pack up and somewhere dry to kneel to do so.  The tarp was not so dry.  A heavy dew had saturated it and when I packed it into its stuff sac, water oozed out the seams of the bag.  Well this would be a good test of how dry stuff stays in my bar bag.

I finished dropping down the hill to Piethorne reservoir as the sun popped up from behind the hillside.  It was all just too overwhelmingly beautiful.  It was an obvious push up the other side since I'd got nowhere near warmed up and it was steep and rocky. 

My camp spot - half way up the slopes on the opposite side of the valley

I stopped for another wee and the second breakfast of the day on a wall overlooking the reservoir before heading for - what I assumed would be East Manchester. At 6:55 two other mountain bikers passed.  The second, an old chap on an e-bike stopped for a chat and to check I was OK.  "Just having a second breakfast".

"Oh! You were up early then?... "

It was 6:55 and we were in the middle of nowhere.  I think we were all up early.

A fox, up early and hunting for birds on the wall.

When I told him I was going to Todmorden he checked I was taking the canal and nodded approvingly when I confirmed, then he walked on down the hill, "now he'd lost his momentum".

First stop was the pass under the M62 - threshold motorway crossing.  I realised I'd ignored my route yet again and stuck to the downward pointing farm track instead of labouring up a 30% grassy slope at the back of the farm that cut off a corner and led to the Pennine Bridleway.  The farmer was out exercising his dog by the river. 

I contemplated turning back but a) couldn't be arsed and b) decided it would be nice to see Hollingworth Lake in the daylight.  Last time I did the route I sat with some other BearBoners outside the pub and ate my dinner.  The campsite was full of tents and caravans but this time the water was flat and serene and there was no-one about but a few early morning joggers.  It was quite nice but next time it would be good to do the Pennine Bridleway a bit more and at any other time of day I'd take avoiding the crowds over anything else.

In Littleborough I admired the floral displays and little boats, all honouring the canal and the lake, then dropped onto the canal for the flatish trudge into Tod.  It's not that flat in that there are plenty of arch bridges and lock gate climbs to complete.  Again, it was still relatively quiet and passed quickly on what could have been a very busy day later on. 

If this is the Great Glen Way of the Northern Myth route then it knocks the socks off the Scottish version for scenery.

Before I knew it I was in Todmorden and feeling a little guilty about it being so easy along the canal but things were about to change. 

I photographed this massive wall because I found it amazing.  At the time I hadn't even noticed the beautiful clarity of the reflection.

When I plotted the route from the comfort of my sofa I threw an extra sting in the tail.  Rather than flipping on and off the road between Tod and Mytholmroyd, I added some extra off-roading to the North side of the Calder Valley.  Having remembered this, I started to doubt my ability to finish this ride within the day and suspected I'd be crawling out of my bivi on Monday morning to roll over the TPT into work.  That was OK though.

Street art, if you can ignore the union-jack flag-waving bullshit in the background.

Some of the route I had done before, and some of it was new to me.

The first climb out of Tod was definitely new.  Straight up the hillside on an old pony track.  It had me pushing from the bottom and even if I could have ridden it, physically, my tyres would have spun out on the slippery cobbles.  For every 2 steps up, I slid back half a step. 

It was worth it though.  I popped out of a woodland to a tiny fishing pond. A large tunnel tent was pitched there with one guy sitting outside, face to the sun.  We nodded in acknowledgement and I sat by the pond to indulge in third breakfast of the day.  A half cheese sandwich and the left-over onion Bhaji. Nom.  Tadpoles bounced off the shallows, desperate for their little legs to grow so they could get out of the water.

We carried on up to the top.  Somewhere along the way I remembered the route from before.  A climb up a hill that I ended up retracing last time and going around.  Either I'd forgotten to re-route it or the path's useage has genuinely changed over time.  Anyway, this time I persevered, ignoring an angry-looking mower-man who probably assumed I'd give up past his house and come whooshing back down.  He just made me more determined.

At the end of the lane I passed someone in a poncy SUV thing doing a 3 point turn and trundled past them calling, "thank you" as they waited for me to pass.

Sure enough there was a footpath sign at the bottom but I was committed.  I rode through hip high nettles and lifted the bike over a couple of narrow stiles and then joined the bridleway proper.  I must find out where it comes from.

On the moors, my Garmin started playing up.  It froze in the middle of a field so I really couldn't tell where the path was that I was supposed to be taking.  Eventually I gave up, saved my ride (thankfully it was on 99.2km, making for easy maths) and got the spare unit out of the bag.  This doesn't have OS Maps on but at least it's relatively reliable. 

The bad news was that after pushing through tussocky grass, I wasn't on the path and the path was on the other side of a wall with a barbed wire fence.  I found a low spot and lifted the bike over - getting good at this now.  The wall was too big so the bike was set down where it had to be - balanced precariously between the head tube and two spokes of the back wheel resting on a wooden post.  I followed and lifted my baby down.  We sheepishly acquired the track and the road.

Dropping into Hebden Bridge I knew it was time for 4th Breakfast.  Suddenly cyclists appeared from everywhere and one stuck to the back wheel of my bike as we descended the road.  He didn't see me looking left and right as we rode along the high street and clung to that wheel like it was his ticket to heaven.

Eventually I recognised a pub where I have seen hundreds of bikes lined up outside before.  There were people outside with drinks. I did a hasty hand signal to pull into the side of the road, only to hear a "Uh, oh, sorry" from behind.  Clearly someone was upset that his train was stopping and a little bit embarrassed about being such a wheel suck.  "It's ok", I said, "I was cafe-hunting".  He tootled off to do his own ride with a little wave.

As there were no other bikes about, I called out to the waiter if it was OK to park up and grab a seat.  "Sure, sit where you like".  I locked the bike to a barred window and took a large table next to it.  A face wash and a full camelbak from the bathrooms felt amazing.  Mashed avocado with spinach and tomatoes on toast was amazing.  Coffee and orange juice...you get the picture.

I considered a second round but it was a bit expensive and I had work to do.  I decided to replenish my supplies in the Co-op instead and leave the group of 8 who had just arrived to take over a second big table.

At the co-op, a young lad had been posted at the door to advise everyone they don't open until 11am.  It was 10:50.  It wasn't a race and it was a glorious day but I couldn't be arsed to stand about for 10 minutes so I started riding, figuring I'd get something in Mytholmroyd at 11:10.  I didn't stop.

Up on the moors above Mytholmroyd I enjoyed the views over Stoodley Pike - the way I'd come last time.  It's always busy up there on a nice day so I was glad I'd avoided it this time.

The next town was Ripponden where I was blasted at by boy racers who weren't going to let a bloody cyclist pass them on the downhills - despite the need to wait for their mates in other cars.  They then all blasted past me on the way up the other side of the hill - not that I was going fast up the 20% climb.  It was a short but horrible duration of road riding but soon over as I turned onto a tiny road that inched its way straight up the hillside before turning into a dirt trail.  Perfect.

Some bouncing about the edges of Huddersfield then over the Meltham where I had really started to think about the ride home and how many hills I had left to do. 

Last time I'd slept in a wood in Holme then climbed over to Meltham for breakfast but I couldn't for the life of me remember the climb between bed and breakfast, or what was after Holme.  I thought I'd passed a sign for Holmfirth... did that mean I'd passed Holme, I couldn't remember. 

I carried on the push out of Ripponden, rejoined the mother of all road climbs - which I remembered from the ride last time.  I'd been dreading it all day as it was a never-ending descent last time.  This time it went up and it would take me forever to climb and it would be hard.  Thankfully though, I'd re-routed around it and near half-way I turned off onto a nice flat byway which doubled-up as a farm track to a number of properties. 

Half way along, I realised I wasn't where I thought I was.  I was, in fact, only back at the M62.  I needed a rest. 

I sat on a wall, overlooking the valley and the reservoir dam at the head of the valley - over which the M62 makes its way.  It was far enough away that I didn't notice the traffic noise.  Instead, I dangled my feet over the edge and, after eating a sandwich and my remaining banana, gorged myself on sweeties that I'd packed for emergency measures late at night and actually, not yet touched.  There was a bit of a breeze and I was feeling fragile so I stuck my coat on and basked in the sunlight hitting the black fabric.

I got climbed on by an errant labrador and had a nice chat with its owner, a local structural engineer who laughingly told me about his dog's invasion of a neighbour's barbeque and how it regularly escapes.  I tried not to roll my eyes and was secretly jealous that he lives here.

The end of the bridleway met a B-road which crossed the M62 in a slightly less romantic format than my last visit but then on my last visit I spent a good 45 minutes trying to make this crossing work for me including some hike a bike through the undergrowth below the reservoir.  I was glad I stuck with the easier option although it would have been nicer to ride some of the lesser bridleways rather than the big byway I chose.

I now had the climb up the other side to do.  I could see the transmitter mast of Holme Firth to my right and decided it was definitely behind me.

Honley tower and Emley Moor

In my efforts to improve the off-roading on the route I zig zagged across the moors, constantly changing direction and perspective and confused myself.  Lovely river-crossings and reservoirs abounded between wide open byways, dodging transit vans towing trailers with diggers and families out for a walk.

I convinced myself I was on the last climb before the drop down to Dunsford Bridge and the TPT home and my spirits lifted a little - I was going to do this thing.

I reached an A-Road.  To my right was the summit - pretty much.  To my left was Meltham.  I could have ridden to the summit easily from here on an A-road then taken another A-road to get quickly home... but I hadn't come here to ride A-Roads. 

To the left, I could go to Meltham, turn off, follow the route along the bridleway and not only get home the nice way, but have a new route with less climbing AND drop into Dunsford Bridge.  Tempting as the easy life was, I selected my choice of following the route.  I just didn't realise how far down Meltham was.

I dropped into it like a stone, constantly expecting the bridleway to appear part way down the hill but it didn't.  I just kept going... a l l   t h e   w a y   d o w n.

Finally I turned off and rode the beautiful bridleway back up again as far as I could before getting off and starting to walk. 

Half way up the climb though, my body was flagging again.  I had to stop at a gate to hoof the thing open.  I shoved my bike through and it wobbled, I wobbled and we staggered across the grass.  I really needed a sit down.  I really needed a sleep.  So soon since the last sit down.

It was warm and sunny but a little breezy so I put my coat on again and lay down with the hood pulled over my eyes.  I think I actually drifted off for a bit before I heard footsteps on the path coming towards me.  I decided to wiggle my feet and fidget a bit so they would know I was still alive and not passed out.  They had a little laugh with me - they had been slightly alarmed. 

The coat was too hot so I took it off and lay back down as the grass shielded me adequately from whatever breeze was blowing.  I listened to the bees and ate more sweeties.  It was OK though, I was nearly home.

Finally, I felt well enough to move again and the rest had done me good.  I stomped to the top, got back on and rode to the summit.  There wasn't a great view from the top though, the message was: you've still got to get over Holme Moss.  This is not done yet.

I crossed the road, instantly knowing I was on the cart tracks down to Holme where I'd slept last time. It led down to Marsden where I flipped across the road before even considering food and set off back up the other side of the valley.  I just wanted to get home now.   I followed the reservoir road and again, the route took me up a Footpath and there were lots of walkers around.  Bollocks, hairy bollocks, how have I done this *again*?

It was too hot so I found myself a bench in the shade to have a think.  I dug out the original Garmin with the OS Maps on to find myself an alternative bridleway route out that didn't involve riding home on A-roads.  a bit of zooming revealed that in some point in the last 13 years, the route I had plotted had been a fully-fledged Byway.

I re-traced my tracks to the ominous looking fully welded bar gate with extra welded struts across it and gave it a shove.  It opened freely.  The route was clearly a pony-track - cobbled and wide enough to tow a cart up.  We set about the trudge.  Eventually it widened up into the Ramsden Road - which I would have reached had I just stayed on the reservoir road but there you go - that's what a sugar-free brain can do.  I rode bits, I pushed bits.  It was such a short part of my journey but it felt so epic.  It was already getting on for 6pm and so most of the people I had just seen were all heading home.  I had this place to myself again.

One thing was reassuring, in a few miles, I had to reach Dunsford Bridge.  I slogged on and took no prisoners on the descent.  I was starting to struggle to pedal and then, there it was - I've never been so happy to see a car park.  A couple of rides have ended at Dunsford bridge but this time I knew I had made it.  Dinner would be waiting at the other end of the TPT.

I almost skipped past a bloke with a touring bike, calling out, "I've made it!" as I bunny-hopped the metalled drain and stormed off down the 3% descent like the trains of yore.

The whole way home as per my previous post my backside and ankles ached and it was, I promise, a bit of a slog.  After a fair bit of walking the climbs on a big wide open smooth trail, I did my fastest descent out of Wharncliffe woods over the rocks and tree-roots because I wasn't using the brakes for anyone. 

The ride through the trees between Oughtibridge and Hillsborough was a joy in the lowering sun and even Hillsborough was obliging as no-one pissed me off which is good because I had neither the power or co-ordination to punch anyone in the face.  One close-pass on the A57 on the way to my house had me screaming "Thiiiiiirrrrrrrteeeeee" at the speeding driver as he roared by and then just to top it off a Transit van felt the need to pass me on the wrong side of the bollards just as I was turning off anyway.  Apparently he wasn't braking for anyone either.

Only 20ft up the steep road I waved for the oncoming motorist to proceed towards me because I was getting off to push.  I literally sauntered up the whole hill, stopping to rest from time to time.

Cy from Cotic was walking his dog down my street.  We had a very brief chat - I don't remember much except for the words "too long", "too hot" and "too hard".  I do remember telling him where I'd camped and he didn't sound impressed.  I'm not sure he knows where I'd been.  I'm sure he rushed home to look it up on the map.

Sure enough, when I got home the first word I heard was "Stew" and the first word I said was "yes".

I had the challenge of unpacking wet gear before showering - odd given the conditions but that's what you get when you camp on a moor after two weeks of rain.

As a 1.5 day trip it was simply wonderful and could only have been improved by some more icecream stops and a little more co-ordination on the footpath avoidance.

100% will do again.

Northern Myth - the Morning after

I have to be a little careful with my training plan about being complacent for long distance. 

In theory I should be consistent - steadily building up to big rides.  Nothing to put me off the plan, moderate weekends lead to successful weeks.  That's how I've been working...but this weekend I couldn't resist.

A brief window of good weather, an opening for my July bivi and a need to ride somewhere for a whole day.

Last weekend, a plan was hatched for a route I've been working on since last year.  I originally did it from work, finishing at home and stayed out for 2 nights.  This time I decided it was doable from home and back in with 1 night out and the same-ish distance.  In credit to me, where last time I left at 5pm, this time I left at 12 pm (lunchtime), so basically I have shaved 19 hours off the time it took to do.

Self-congratulations aside, that is not what this post is about.

Big rides on the mountain bike are big rides on the body.  They need accustoming to and that's not something I've been doing in my training plan to date.  Whilst I'm not going to go out there and ride a full 550mile week in training, 60-70 km isn't good enough either.  The last few weeks have shown that. 

My bivi rides have been short, my day rides have been short.  Punchy, but short.  So yesterday all my contact points with the bike were in trouble by 6:30 pm.  It didn't help that the last 25km are all on a railway line - so a long, slightly bumpy, sitting down slog. 

My ass hurt on the saddle, my ass hurt to get up off the saddle and my ass hurt to sit back down again.  This was slightly caused by it being at slightly at the wrong angle but also it's so very harsh and my bum has got so very soft.  Changing the angle on the saddle isn't easy with my bag in place so when the saddle clamp came loose at the top of Saddleworth moor in the dark, I merely tightened it and rode on what I'd got instead of twiddling about to get things right.  Perhaps that's what I should have done but it was soon bedtime and there wasn't really a problem until 19 hours later when things started to ache like hell.

My poor feet were suffering similar levels of hurt but for them there was no let up except for sitting on my sore arse and doing nothing with my feet.  My feet hurt when I stood, when I sat, when they were clipped in, when they were on the flat side of my pedal (in fact I found, surprisingly, they hurt more on the flats than they did in the clips). 

By the time I got into Wharncliffe Woods, I did most of the downhills sitting side-saddle on my bike with as little pressure on my feet as possible, which leads to the remaining contact point - hands / wrists.

Now I've got serious bling in the handlebar department so hands aren't ever really an issue for me so far and my wrists weren't screaming last night like everything else but this morning they ache and they're weak.  I also admit that yesterday evening my arms and upper body were getting ready for a big long rest.  On the railway trail I felt like ducking onto the aero position (except the ass wouldn't let me) and the closest respite I could manage was riding with the heels of my hand on the tips of the handlebars and my arms rotated outwards to get some respite from the normal pedalling position.  This worked but after only 189km, getting up today and doing it again?... not so sure. 

The only relief I can take is that, over the shorter distance, this ride is HARD.  It's not quite Peak 200 hard or BB200-2019 hard but it's still fucking hilly.  It doesn't quite have the bogs of the HT but it outstrips the elevation by 6m/km and due to Covid, there were probably as many rest stops as the average HT - one shop, one breakfast - the rest was carried.

So the point of this post is to remind me not to be complacent about the big ride. 

To update my plan for training this out because without the big ride I'm not going to finish. 

This thing isn't possible on some short, fast, hard, well thought out training rides - although they will hep, it needs big fat monsters in there to spoing my joints, batter my soft skin and harden my ligaments into something representing a distance machine. 

When I train my body changes shape.  Through lockdown my shoulders and  back have weakened through less mountain bike miles.  This morning I found dimples in my knees where muscles have tightened and maybe fat has gone from where it used to sit.  I don't know and I don't care how aesthetic it is, I only care if it makes me go further - and possibly a little faster. 

So there we are, reminder set down.  Reconfiguring the training plan is a tomorrow job for when the brain works.  Today, I have to sit at a desk and sound clever.

Pah!

Week 7 - Wood, trees, what?

8 weeks ago I realised I was in trouble.

The event I'd been training for, and everything else around it, was cancelled due to Covid.  Following a short recovery period of doing nothing, I was falling into bad habits, eating at my desk, not training and generally gaining weight and losing fitness fast.

I needed a plan.  The old plan (which went up to 25th May) went in the bin and I drafted a schedule to get me through to a rescheduled race (still on as far as we know), the 3 Peaks (now cancelled), the rest of the cyclocross season (tentatively cancelled), a race I couldn't ride before (but might be able to now) and a race I should have entered yesterday (but whose entries have now been delayed till later to see how it goes).  Finally, my plan came out of the other side of the 'cross season, into February, March, April and next year's May event. 

Pretty heavy stuff.

But damn it worked.  I've not stopped training.  It took me a while to get going and consequently I missed a few sessions.  That shows how much I had lost.  I was looking at this plan which seemed tame at the time and thinking, "How the hell did I use to manage this?"

After week 4 I had started to catch up on the sessions I'd missed which was really satisfying.  My approach of using short runs (strictly short) to keep running through my bike training meant that I could manage a 3.5km run and then a bike ride to catch up on something I'd missed.  When I finally did catch up, the feeling was amazing.  The sessions were just starting to get hard again and so keeping on top of them became essential - and I'm managing it. 

It makes me stop working at the right time.  It makes me get up early.  The benefits to my mental health contribute further to those associated with the exercise itself - which are already massive.

I occasionally am overwhelmed by the urge to tweet furiously about the benefits but fear it would just be boring to most - so it's retreated here, to my lair.  To what was - originally - purely intended as a training diary for me.

So be it daily, or weekly, I'll try and be here from time to time.

And this weeks thoughts - how is it Thursday already?

I was supposed to train on Monday but a bikepacking trip at the weekend took more out of me than expected - because I took all the things.  So I rested Monday instead and have been riding / running ever since.  That's all well and good but I still have an intervals session and a 6km run to do and my Parents are coming on Sunday for dad's Birthday so, I have to do Sunday's session on Saturday on a straight-through basis.

At least it's raining this morning so I can sit in a chair until it's stopped and I can climb on a bike this afternoon.  Again, an excellent excuse to stop working.