Bear bones Winter Event. Pleasant Valley Sunday.

A pub on a Friday night? I haven't done that by design for a long time. I took a half day's leave to give me packing and driving time and we managed 2 pints, unfortun­ately missed chatting to Verena, met Ben, Sam, John and chatted with Reg and Andy and my travelling partner Landslide.

A few of my companions tried to persuade me to join their groups but haunted by a lack of training - so far & a desire to not slow anyone down (including myself) I turned down the offer of a yurt and a pub and cafe ride to moans of "What are you going to do between 4:30pm and 7am??" My response: "that's what lights are for!". I've become accustomed, no, enamoured, of riding at night.

The Wynnstay inn is run down but affordable and held together with warmth and the enthusiastic care of Pauline, landlady who looks after everyone - and I mean everyone and everything. She left Highgate in London in 1984 and the only obvious remnant of the big smoke is a hint of the queen's English - though she speaks and understands the Welsh crowd at her public bar.

My blood sugar couldn't handle the beer so at 3am I was sat on the stairs eating chocolate buttons to get rid of the nausea. Once I'd got a hangover my stress levels dropped. When I realised the weather was mild and wet for now, I downgraded my sleeping bag (ignoring the overnight forecast) and sat around in the community centre too long drinking tea and chatting but it was all in the name of avoiding the rain on my ride. I started (after 3 lashing showers) at 11 am. My first checkpoint was at the bottom of the Pennant valley.

I had to stop on the way to remove my waterproof trousers & change into lightweight gloves when I started to melt with the sunshine that was flooding into the day.

• • •

My kit packed away surprisingly easily until I realised the reason. I had forgotten my big coat and any form of lunch to keep my energy levels up through the day.

I reckoned I'd have sufficient to sustain life just long enough to get to Mach for dinner and I could stop and brew up a dehydrated meal if I got desperate.

 

I had a chat with a man trying to unearth a telegraph pole from a flowing stream then turned tail and headed out behind BB Towers. 

 As I rode up the track on the Eastern flank of the valley behind my friends' house for the first time, I realised you only make the mistake of using the path on the West side once in your life. As I pedalled smoothly up the wide forest track, my mind cast back to the WRT in 2019 when I carried my bike up a scree slope, after I fought my way past nettles, brambles, tussocks and gates overgrown with grass (but still bolted in three places).

I had a pleasant valley wee, reassured that most folk had left by now and gone the other way.

After that it was time to take on a much longer slog onto the moors to visit three checkpoints in succession. I had plotted a very uppy downy route to take in Bugeilyn but the forum gods advised against it & I used Landslide's alternative route to dab in and out of checkpoints without losing too much elevation. First off the North of Glaslyn and the nature reserve. It is high and it is wild up there.

On the way it started to rain. I looked out for some shelter to scurry back into my waterproof trousers and change my gloves but the only things on offer were 4 scrawny yew trees battered by hundreds of years and some corrugated steel sheep pens.

The steel was mostly embedded in a mound of earth on the leeward side so I used what I could as shelter and planked myself down on my sit mat on the grass and faffed with my boots. 5 minutes later I pulled my hood sinch tight around my glasses against the hail, thankful I stopped when I did.

After a seeming age of picking my way across heavy and tussocky bridleways, swearing at the sheep it was already pleasant to have the respite of the road for a few hundred metres. Two riders crossed it ahead of me from a different direction but I couldn't catch them and they certainly couldn't hear me over the wind. We all turned off for the checkpoint and from my vantage above I captured them admiring the view before the long, steep descent.

 It was very steep and I soon caught them up where they started to walk. I couldn't get my dropper to drop so I walked sooner and soon realised that for the out-and-back I did not need to take my bike down the hill with me, only to have to push it back up again. 

The rider at the back noticed I was walking bike-less, checked I was OK with a thumbs up (yes) then descended into the rain.

I enjoyed the scenery, then ran back to my bike terrified I'd taken my eyes off him for 5 minutes. Of course I'd travelled further than I realised and every empty tussock was agonising until I finally saw the outline of handlebars in the fawn-coloured grass.

Back on the moors I pedalled over to the next checkpoint on the mines around Penycrobren to the South side of Glaslyn nature reserve.

At the bridge crossing the ford over the reservoir I held my breath as I tipped the bike up on its back wheel and literally walked the plank, balancing myself and my 20kg bike over the roaring, raging torrent pouring over the dam and onto the broken concrete 4 feet below.  I had zero chance of recovery if either of us went in and my heart stopped for a moment as a gusty sidewind struck us mid span and we wobbled heavily before regaining our composure and teetering to the final leap out of the roaring torrent.

Alongside the Lyn, seemingly devoid of any nature as the wind rushed across it and buffeted me sideways or head-on, slowing my progress to very little. It was another out-and-back on my route that Landslide had  chopped away, saving me from Bugeilyn and cutting off some distance before deciding on going for the pub option ride instead. 

 

I dropped into some farm buildings located by the headworks of a mine and enjoyed the rushing torrents of water between crags and trees before backing up to the buildings with what remained of the daylight to sit on a rock out of the wind and eat half a pot of honey roast peanuts for my late lunch.

On the way out I topped up the camera with some photos of valleys, waterfalls and sheep so my Welsh vibe was real.

Finally I reached a descent which was fast and fun right up until the moment I overshot my turn off by 200m and had to retrace up hill. Something creaked in the trees and for once it was neither my knees nor cranks. A large, single rook swirled overhead then returned to the darkness for cover.

I felt uneasy as this wasn't my route plot.   I'd forgotten to refresh my memory or check out what Landslide proposed so I had no idea where I was going or where the next point was.

I soon realised I was going to scatter the sheep I'd just photographed "all the way over there" as I pushed my heavy bike up the hill through their midst.

The route chosen for me cut straight up the grassy bank to my left then eventually contoured around the hillock to my left. On the map it looked easier to skirt the other side of the Cairn since the "path" was non-existent any way, it seemed mostly harmless to smooth the route. I started grasping at straws and nearly found myself at my first fence crossing of the day when I mistook a fenceline for the trail in the already-failing light (how was it getting dark already?) and tussocks.

Thankfully I realised my mistake in time, completed my circuit of the cairn and then stumbled upon something resembling an old cart track that was actually probably my route for as long as it lasted before degrading back to sleep field. I slalommed between the ewes - a careful balance of not disturbing the flock and not falling off and reached the track and its inevitable locked gate for the first lift-and-climb of the day.

• • •

The route soon turned again but thankfully this gate wasn't locked because I was already pissed off with locked gates and could have quite readily stormed into the nearest farmhouse, grabbed a rifle and shot all of the occupants in the house without question. 

I set off into the dusk riding just on my dynamo light for as long as I could manage.

There were a few more positive gating experiences until I reached the final straw - a friendly gate marked "Mach 6 bike route" That had been super-imposed by a much less friendly rusty steel pipe gate with a big steel box and padlock over the top. Fucking fucksticks. Thankfully no barbed wire on the fence but I managed to drop my bike onto its handlebars on the fence rail so that all of its weight was on my garmin.  The one remaining flange on my Garmin and the Garmin mount shattered leaving me with a Garmin dangling on a piece of string.

Thankfully I recently added a Moloko bar bag to my Jones bars and stuffed the device under the bungee cords next to my Spot so I could read my map for the rest of the ride-albeit sideways and between the strings.

• • •

Around a corner on the forest track I startled a very handsome little snipe standing in my lane before it fluttered away.

I finally garnered enough speed on forest tracks to make the big light worth while. At some point in the evening I stopped to take one last photo before the light went and realised I was (not surprisingly) really rather hungry. Except for my peanuts I'd eaten an ancient SIS energy bar and a gel - packed 5 months ago for such emergencies.

It was past 5pm.

A look at the route profile on Garmin included a long descent, a little climb and another long descent. I'd been promising myself it was all downhill to Mach "soon" but my poor progress and a late start meant Mach was not just around the corner but a whole half a day away on-route.

 

After I took my photo I started to notice rude signs. "No access except for permit holders". "Anglers only" "No Entry! CCTV" . They were very bright and shiny. I had made it to "Angler's Retreat". I remembered this from the map and I also remembered that nearby there was a water crossing where I had simply hoped there would be a bridge. God. I really was not in the mood for my feet to get any wetter. I had waterproof socks on but my feet had sweated in them for 6 hours and as the temperature dropped I could already feel my damp feet getting chilly when I stopped.

I stopped by a sign claiming the mountain lake as private and consulted the map. I had a lot of route to go to Mach but also if I abandoned the route in a bit, there was a bridleway going straight North that went directly to Mach. I could get dinner after all and I wouldn't get shot by angry fishermen. I'd continue for a bit and make my mind up at the junction. Out of the darkness a tawny owl swirled up from the field below. I managed to focus my headlight on its belly as it whorled away to find another hunting ground.

On I went until the Garmin piped up "off route". I'd just passed another flourescent sign and a gate. Please tell me my route isn't through there. Half expecting to be accosted by night fishermen; half expecting to drown in an epic river crossing - or worse get stranded between both.

I think Andy is wrong - I'm not a stress bunny - I'm a drama queen (especially when hungry).

I checked the map. Sure enough, my route went that way and it was also my quickest route to Mach and dinner. I decided it would be best to give it a go and deal with any consequences if and when they arose. What's the worst that could happen? A grumpy exchange with a fat bald man with a flannelette shirt and a big rod.

As I approached the lake, I gave them their due. It was a lovely looking lake but I didn't linger as I was distracted by a light ahead. I turned off my headlight so as not to draw attention to myself and aimed to pass quietly without disturbing anyone.

I think I made out two people and a tent in the darkness but I was so concerned about looking innocent and not getting bollocked by anglers that I didn't even think they would be friendly bike packers. Sorry for being ignorant-whoever you are!

• • •

I was so grateful to them though for sewing the idea in my tiny brain.

My mind flipped back to the pub, "What is there to do between 4. 30pm & 7:30am?". I had the answer:

• Cook food
• Eat
• Pitch a tent.
• Drink
• Sleep
• Had I been really desperate, start writing this up on my phone

The temptation to eat then lie down in a sleeping bag for a very long time was super high. 12 hours sleep? Luxury. I pedalled away from the lake on a sweet bit of single track but instantly fell in love with a tussocky bit of grass without any slope in a fire break in the forest.

• • •

I lay the bike down and on closer inspection found a rare flat spot in the tree line where there was just enough space for a tent pitch and cook spot between the trees. I was hidden from the world and the wind and felt so secure I didn't even care that there were no scrawny trees to tie my bike too.

The tent went up first in case it was needed and I unpacked all my stuff then I brewed the water and sat out on my mat to eat before having a last wee and retreating to my tent.

Right on cue the first rain shower came and I grinned insanely with the self satisfact­ion of someone who isn't out in it any more. I made a point of letting it go and won.

• • •

By the time I'd eaten and made myself comfy in the tent it was 8:30pm There might have been a tiny notebook in my frame bag but I couldn't be bothered to get it and was perfectly content after my efforts and a late night last night to lie down, listen to the trees and gently drift off.

I woke up many times in the night, shivering. Even when I eventually found the will power to go for a wee (which usually makes me feel much warmer), I was shivering again within an hour. I cursed myself for switching sleeping bags but getting up or riding my bike was not a tempting option given the snowy hailstones that kept falling on the sides of the tent like a million hissing grass snakes in the night.

• • •

I'd found a pair of foot warmer pads that I was saving for the morning but since my hips and thighs refused to warm up under fleece leggings, Paramo, liner bag and quilt, I resorted to sticking the foot warmers to my leggings, then - when that didn't work - to my groins to warm the blood in my Femoral artery. At one point I stuck them straight on my skin (you're not supposed to) until I woke up 20 minutes later in pain (the next night I had little rectangular pink marks on my legs).

The heat pads did the trick and I woke naturally in the morning. Thanks to my hideaway and the eventual realisation that only bike packers, not anglers, would be anywhere near in these conditions, in that shit, I didn't bother with an early alarm and let myself sleep in until just before dawn. When I got up for a wee, light was just breaking at 7.  

When I found my little note book in a pouch in the bag there were also 2 fresh sachets of hand warmers so a pair went in the boots and a pair were saved for my gloves.

I managed to ration my water overnight. I'd been sipping. It was easy not to guzzle long mouthfuls of ice cold water. I had enough left to brew up my porridge and coffee. My new porridge experiment was a hearty success. As planned, when I re-emerged from the tent to pack up the dawn had well and truly happened and the sky was silvery and cloudy.

I finished packing and pushed the bike back onto the trail.

• • •

My old porridge plan was only ever enough to get me through loading the bike but this time, when I got to the Mach turn-off I was already committed to stick to my plan for a tour of the South Dovey Peninsular and two more checkpoints.

My commitment was further enforced by the appearance of some very satisfying downhill with grass up the middle and trees overhead so I had to hang off the side of my bike and limbo my way through. It was only interrupted by a fallen tree. Not from last night but certainly from last December's storms. It was only to be expected after such an excellent start to the day but I got around it with reasonable ease following a dirt bike track that went before me.

When the downhill track ran out, rather than leading back up, the Garmin suggested I turn right on the unpaved road. Through the proper bridleway gate I soon realised that this was my river crossing on the route plan.

The unpaved road was a little less paved than expected but about as good under wheel as a path through a field can be. After I drew my eyes away from the amusing bus stop I was more excited to see a gate leading to a bridge that crossed the stream ahead.

Sure, it looked like it went straight through the forest garden of the house on the other bank of the river but a quick glance on the map showed the house was riddled with bridleways above it and to the right.

I pushed my bike out from under the tree swing and passed several odd-looking wooden buildings balanced atop stilts like bird hides. The gate to the bridleway was locked (of course it wouldn't be that easy) and when I got through it I realised I'd gone the wrong way and had to turn tail and go straight back past the house. Much to my relief, despite the warm lights in the living room, there was no-one around and I just sneaked through the unlocked gate, onto the road and on my merry way.  When I closed the gate behind it was Blaeneinion Beaver reintroduction scheme - which I assume explains the hides to watch beavers a-beaverin'.

They'd clearly picked the right valley for wildlife as I stopped to photograph fieldfares on a wire (and failed), I instead snapped (badly), this bird stomping around in the long grass.

The road was an uppy downy joy alongside Einion (onion) valley or the Artists valley, where the mountain water burst ice-blue over the rocks, occasionally right next to the road, occasionally 40ft below the lung-busting climb I'd just been sent up. I managed to ride them all.

Faced with choice between Ford and turn-off I took the turn-off only to realise I'd skipped the carpark for the Eonion valley mines infoboard.

The other entrance to the carpark was via a perfectly respectable bridge so I stopped for a read.

 

Before the bike and I were spit into the Irish Channel, the route took me down to the E..onion river where I disregarded all the properties I'd just passed and sourced myself some wholesome welsh mountain river water before climbing up to and across a road onto the lovely path,

I can see the sea!

At the top of the path was an even lovelier viewpoint over-looking the whole Dovey estuary and Cadair Idris that was still underneath cloud cover. 

 

 

Now I could smell the breakfast, however my route had other plans.

I dropped down to the nice big road that could have fast-tracked breakfast but instead I followed my route onto a minor road and then onto a Bridleway. "Explore Dovey" promised the plaque on the gate. The sun was shining and birds were singing. How could I refuse?

Within 10 minutes any traffic noise from the big road was gone and forgotten and a big old oak tree presented a flat spot and a carpet of leaves on which to park my sit mat, pull out my stove and brew up second breakfast and coffee or more specifically: last night's desert and coffee. Dehydrated apple and custard never tasted so good.

• • •

A choice of route ahead led me to take the upper route where I enjoyed the company of a chaff whirling and croaking above the crag. The Garmin said I was off route but quick deduction told me I'd soon be back on-route. For a while I told myself I wanted to stick with the chuff and the crag but I was missing a checkpoint so I backtracked, calling myself "silly" all the way down the hill whilst sneakily enjoying it. The fun doubled up with a bit of forested single track which eventually decayed into pushing up something too narrow and overgrown to ride without snagging a pedal and being catapulted 30ft off the hillside. Still, it was better than the muddy track at the bottom made up of puddles and round rotting logs.

It was the only checkpoint I didn't photograph, boo.

• • •

At the end of the track some old hall-style buildings were eye candy for the road ride to my final excursion past a smallholding where I was swiftly put right by the owner when I strayed off path and accidentally towards the veg patch. I thanked her for the directions and we waved happily to each other as I cursed the footpath sign hidden by the long grass just at the point when all your attention is on fastening the big, awkward gate and she probably cursed the "bloodymountainbikers who can't follow perfectly good signs".

• • •

Thus my eventual arrival in Mach at 1pm, 19 hours later than planned, to eat some "real food" from the Spar sitting on the step of the toilet block in the car park as it seemed to be the only place in Mach I could get out of the wind. Everything looked shut and one look at "the Wynnstay" pub there put me off the idea of hauling my muddy ass inside a respectable establishment.  From what I've heard the welcome was not a good one although I could have made an effort with the White Lion.

The pay-as-you-go toilet was locking people in so a steady stream of folk were thankful for me stopping the door open with my rucsac while I ate my lunch in a never-ending queue for the toilet.

Every time I finished a piece of food the Loo was occupied so I started eating something else.  Still, I met more people there than I would've done in the pub.

Eventually I let the door go, jumped on the road, cast recklessness aside and plotted an easy road ride back to the finish in time for tea. My adventurising was done and I now know how easy (or not) it is to get home from Mach the quick way.

Whoosh

Christmas Week.

Monday

Despite the heavy missle going on outside I was extremely motivated to get out for an overnighter. I ambitiously packed my bivi bag, plenty of dehydrated food and two coffees. I checked the weather. My phone was set to look at the weather in Dent as I had been cautiously pondering a YD 300 winter attempt. 

Despite me knowing I wasn't in Dent, I dressed for 3°C cycling and packed my new down klymit mattress.

After all the faffing loading my bike and making lunch it was 11:30 by the time I left the house and I was already a little hungry. At 11:45 I pulled up at my local duck pond, sat under the fir tree and ate all of the lunch that I'd just made, watching a female duck splodge about in the reeds.

Canopy

I spent a considerable time packing up to leave as the lovely mat of pine needles I'd sat on was held together by a glue-like mixture of duck and heron poo along with occasional chunks of (what looked like) small dog poo. Every leaf I picked up to wipe off the poo also had poo on it. I left my lunch spot still with poo on my gloves and rucsac, hoping the mizzle would wash it off.

At my regular faff spot I had to stop again to remove a wool layer. I cursed my weather check as my fleecy leggings started to get damper on the inside than the outside. My legs were getting tested. I've recently changed my bottom gear on my training wheel to make me try harder on the climbs and I forgot to switch it out before heading out on a loaded ride. I was pleasantly surprised that I still managed to ride most of the climb up to Bingley Lane. After a brief interlude with traffic I had the place to myself again. Sheep watched me pass their fields without lifting their heads from chomping the grass.

I cursed and slow-pedalled through the puddles as I realised I forgot the gaiters that stop the splash back heading down between my waterproof trousers and socks.

• • •

I pulled onto the Byway at Rod Side and a man walking a tiny terrier warned me about the "people in four-by-fours". Damn. Assuming he was the last person I'd see up here and I was going to stop for a wee.

Through the gate I could neither see lights nor hear engines. Warning: over-helpful men.

Previous 4x4s had, however, made a complete hash of the track. Not satisfied with the grooves in the landscape they've already crafted they have started to carve new lines, hit rocks, got stuck, made more mess and twated (and upended) my favourite gatepost. Poor farmer.

I considered continuing down the muddy descent beyond the farm as my primary goal of the day was fun and traffic avoidance. I didn't want to see what the idiot 4x4s had done to the descent though so followed my usual line past the lodge.

• • •

Given that both the farm and lodge were shrouded in mist I took the opportunity to dive in between two birch bushes for that wee and to put my wool layer back on for the descent. The over-gearing was already taking its toll and I struggled to stand up again.

At the road junction my big gloves went on for the descent. It was a day for changing layers: Conserving body heat and keeping things dry from sweat or rain.

My main aim was to get to Fairholmes asap but I didn't want to go straight there. In the end I decided to suck up the extra traffic and do Summer Pastures as I hadn't been in ages and it's always quiet. Today it would be especially quiet.

• • •

I had a record number of safe and respectful passes on my way there. The climb up was short-lived until all the excess layers had been removed again and the warm gloves packed away for later. 

These sheep were really used to having people around and sometimes I wondered if they were ever going to move as I slalomed my way slowly through the flock on the 1:6 climb.

The farm dogs did not notice me pass until I changed the gate in the murk... and don't 2 runners show up when you've gone to the effort of carefully closing the latch?

Up on the moors I was alone most of the time. I pondered going to check out the hills for lunch spots in future but the thought of navigating through the fog wasn't appealing and I might be up there for some time.  Reccying anything in fog didn't seem wise so I kept going.

Mentally I was congratulating myself on knowing this track by heart until I realised I was following former quad bike tracks and most of the mtb tracks had disappeared. A slight diversion got me the right side of the dry stone wall. I contemplated returning later for my sleeps as I'd often fancied staying up here and the cloud would be perfect cover.

There's a very attractive looking bomb hole-though it's right by the trail. This time it was occupied by a rotting sheep carcass - erm no thanks.

At the end of the crossing, audacity got the better of me. My body had clearly warmed up to the bike. My brain had come out of its shell and generally, wherever I pointed the bike and pedalled hard enough, I cleared stuff. I set about riding the descent with gusto - hoping for a PB with this new found form - but failed on the big slabs when my bottle went on a drop off and then I realised my downhill endurance is not there yet and I had to go slow so I could sit in the saddle and rest my calves from time to time. An excellent excuse for some more Northerly excursions before May.

• • •

At the bottom of the hill, back on the valley road, I was met by people, so many people. I threaded my way between walking poles, dogs and strollers and ended up taking to the muddy footpath and leaving the road to the people on feet. Finally the cloud turned into actual drops of water falling from the sky so I tucked into the shelter of the dam tower to cram myself into waterproof trousers before the cold, fast descent to the cafe. Still, I beat all the foot-people to the queue at fairholmes. Pie, peas, gravy and tea were demolished. Cake - both eaten and stashed. I was joined in the shelter by one too many people for covid comfort but managed it by shuffling around my rucsac for a little bit of social distance and stuck to watching the chaffinches and cheeky robbins stealing crumbs.

I had to pack up my bag extra slowly to avoid an interested hiker man loitering around my bike, brimming with questions: the answers to which he would inevitably not understand or, worse, would lead him to declare me "brave". Some people relish these conversations. I prefer to avoid them as I have become bored of other peoples opinions on the subject of "my idea of fun". 

As I delayed declaring possession of the object of his desires as long as possible, he could not bring himself to assume that the only cyclist and the only bicycle in the area were an item and once his companion had emerged from the toilets he had to leave but not before I had carefully walked to the bin with every morsel of litter from my lunch - instead of banging it in a pocket until later - like I'd normally do.

Soggy gloves back on, I set off to the other side of the valley. The dam was finally over-topping. At my last visit it had been kinda low. I felt the need to pop over and experience its enormity and of course test out the Panorama mode on the camera. 

The pause gave me time to realise I hadn't yet topped up my water. I had enough to brew up dinner and breakfast but only if I didn't drink anymore. I soft-pedalled back to the cafe's water tap.

One of the volunteers stuck his head out the door and said "looks like you'll be looking for a campsite".  

Good deal for a bath?

Knowing the company I was in and every chance there was a Park ranger in earshot, I stuck to the "just training" line and he seemed unimpressed yet sated that I was actually heading home for a hot bath and some BBC 1. 

I loaded 3 litres of water into my rucsac and wondered if he really believed me.

I rumbled off a second time but didn't get too far before bumping into John Brierley - a friend from triathlon days. Someone I don't mind talking to about bikes and I admitted my night out "under the stars" was looking less and less likely. 

I wasn't 100% sure what to do next. It was too early to camp. I decided to go as far as slippery stones and decide. 

There was Cut Gate or lapping back to Fairholmes and going on somewhere else from there.

Cut gate would, admittedly be in poor condition and I should not: but I'd like to see how last year work is holding up in the winter weather. Naturally my overnighter instincts, against all reasoning, dragged me further and further away from the people and up on onto the moors. The first hurdle being a stream crossing where my trace upstream to find a narrower spot brought me up on a very sweet, flat bivi spot I'd never previously noticed but it was only 5pm and I wasn't too sold on lying down for 12 hours.

The up-push was tough but not terrible. 

At the top I realised my problem: on the rough stuff I just couldn't see very far ahead to pick any kind of line so I pushed on until things improved under wheel.

Soon enough though, came the messy, boggy bit I'd forgotten about. Suddenly my distain for e-mountain bikes was refreshed as this stretch of moorland has been torn up by a hundred motor-propelled tyres that would not have otherwise been there. As I pushed my heavy loaded bike I recognised I was part of the problem - although a much lighter part.

I thought hard about retracing my steps. It was the environmentally conscious thing to do. Did I really want to battle through thickening cloud, side winds and night time temperatures? Was it safe to? I wasn't in a race, I didn't 'have' to do this. But still the "retreat is not an option" message spoke louder than the others. I trudged through the cross-winds on the lookout for a pee-spot where I had the nerve to actually undress. Just below the summit I decided I needed to take the opportunity and found the perfect sheep trod to get out of the wind and away from the main track. It was a pleasant spot but not quite flat enough and still not late enough. 

A few hundred grams lighter, I felt much happier although I still couldn't pick out a line longer than 5ft through the boulders so I carried on hiking for what seemed like an eternity. I imagined my husband looking at the tracker at home and trying to decipher what kind of madness and difficulties had me progressing at only 3 mph.

I contemplated backtracking but that would leave me on the wrong side of the hill I had already climbed 2/3 of the way over. I kept pushing.

At some point a decision was made to go home for the night. Only the apparition of a new and very attractive dry shelter could have swayed me to overnight and I knew there weren't any. I'd risked bringing the bivi without a tarp & it did not pay off. I'd have nowhere to leave my wet kit without it getting much wetter over night.

• • •

The decision gave me a new lease of life. Wet feet were no longer off the cards and I could take the most attractive route home and be back at a reasonable hour for dinner.

Gradually boulders turned into a fast running stream and I took occasional opportunities to ride a few metres at a time. The summit lumps and bumps alternated between firm-and-rideable, loose stones and bog but finally the rideable paving appeared. An occasional drain was overwhelmed by water volumes. I flitted between risking puddles and pushing from one dry tussock to the next to avoid the deepest flow. Where the trail was rideable I rode every available inch. 

As technical problems appeared from the mist faster than I could anticipate them, I committed to them with gusto and, as frequently happens with the Cotic, I came out the other side upright, incredulous and giggling.

Up turned to down. I rumbled past the resurfacing works and cleared more rock drop-off than I care to mention until I finally remembered the abyss that was no longer visible off the edge of the trail.

For a short while I mused over the bridleway to Midhope Stones and a road ride home but the hills were more terrifying than the easy but muddy TPT.

• • •

I dropped down to Langsett. The climb up to the woods was not clearable on these gears and I had a quick chat with a couple disappearing into the darkness with 2 spaniels as I pushed up the slope.

It was a soggy Trep who crossed the Woodhead Road and span quietly past the cottages. I pondered changing my gloves but the next section could be strenuous - even if it is a flat ride through a field. 

I was right not to bother. About half a mile of battling a squirrelling bike to keep the tyres on a 4inch narrow mud slip between the clumps of reeds. One false slide can deposit the rider sideways into a 2ft deep icy drainage ditch. It took me all my effort and concent­ration to stay upright.

I breathed a sigh of relief through the gate at the bottom, styled out the "slip road" on to the TPT and only then, under the cover of the railway bridge, did I dare dig my phone out from the depths of my rucsac to message home that I'd be back for dinner before putting my thick gloves back on to get nice and toasty. I do love having that one pair of gloves that makes your whole body feel like you've just stepped into a warm room.

I really appreciated it because the TPT is not a strenuous ride until the last bit through Wharncliffe. First I had a good 40 minutes of pedalling downhill at 3% gradient.. There was some uncharacteristically vigorous pedalling going on and finally I started to really appreciate the fleece leggings I had sweltered in this morning.  I felt the slightest wetting out on my coat sleeves and my goretex trousers started to fall down, meaning I had to stop a few times to hitch them up and prevent a little rain patch forming on my back.  I'm hoping this will ease off once I've lost weight again.

Just as I thought all the excitement was over, spinning through the junction outside Penistone I caught an edge to the tarmac submerged in mud and tatted my right calf muscle fully square on with my pedal whilst travelling sideways. Four letter words were said.

That left me soft pedalling for a bit until I decided it was safe to shift again.

I'd forgotten how long it takes to get home from the TPT. The Climb from the stables was dreaded but still, I managed to ride it tired and over-geared. I think my legs are actually stronger than I give them credit for.

I missed the junctions in Wharncliffe woods twice!! as I didn't see them coming in the glow of my light rebounding off the fog.

Finally after more than an hour I dropped into Oughtibridge, fought my rear light on (then wiped it so it was actually visible) then wriggled my way through the smudged Christmas lights of Hillsborough to the Rivelin Valley. After fighting my way up so many hills I resigned myself to pushing up the short, sharp slope to home.

I was so tired I wasn't even embarrassed to be caught pushing my bike by Rick who was just moderately impressed or horrified by the state of me - I'm not sure which. 

Given the time it took me to get home, the remainder of the evening was consumed by, bike washing, Kit and boot rinsing  pouring myself into the bath, consuming copious quantities of couscous and falling asleep in front of the TV. I've been somewhat berating myself for starting my training journey "behind" this year, on the wrong foot, late. Investigations show I am 1 month ahead on longest rides and this time last year the next Sunday session I posted was, "Gym before it shuts for lockdown" and a whole 3/4 of my training tools disappeared from my schedule.

I've spent this week watching Emily's return to progress on the festive 500 and yesterday enjoyed this comment,

" ... but in 6 months time it will be warm and dry and the sun will still be high in the sky. The roses will be blooming... and I will be riding uphill... watching the sweat beading on my forearms and feeling the strength blossoming in my legs. It sounds like another universe at the moment but it will be reality soon enough."

12 months ago on my similarly aborted 60km ride into the Peak fully loaded last year, I said

"I still look at the HT as a potentially impossible feat at this time of the year, when 65km knocks everything I have out of me. When the sun has been gone since 3:40pm it's really difficult to contemplate going out again after dinner - especially during these Covid times when that dinner has been carried on your back for 40km and eaten under a hedge in the darkness.

The extra knowledge I have though is that it will come... like, so long as I start now. 

Note to self: stop fucking slacking off!" 

I love that I'm culturing some of that mindset - even if Emily is substantially more positive in outlook.

I guess it's interesting how knowledge of what can happen changes from year to year. Now I know that the HT is possible, that legs will turn and everything will live happily ever after. I just need to foster the positivity for Scottish weather. 

Felicitations. A ride of Peaks and Troughs

Most years I try to take a break for my Birthday or at least a day off. When its just before Christmas its nice to mark the day for yourself and not spend it shopping for other peoples' Christmas presents. 

Usually I fail to have the day off either work or Christmas shopping. 

This year, with my birthday on a Friday, Landslide and R I P decided (inadvertently) to throw me a Christmas ride. We did lateral flow tests and planned to meet at Grindleford at 1:30.

I planned to ride out but mostly got distracted by birthday stuff and packing. Of course I rolled out the door with 2 hours to get me there and decided to mostly take the roads except for crossing the moor. It was my fastest riding of the weekend.

I know I was rushing but it was reasonably warm leaving the city. I was down to wearing 2 baselayers and thin gloves and carrying a bag full of coats.

In a fit of last-minute decision making I routed via Houndkirk then instead of descending to Grindleford direct, I headed towards Longshaw to blag some lunch on the way. The timing was so tight I got sick of fumbling the lock on their crap bike stand and raced off in a huff.

Reality sunk in. There was a wistful temperature inversion with the bottom of the valley filled with fog and our meeting place was in the cold, cold valley below.

I put on my coat and big gloves and took a deep breath and set off down the wrong descent.

• • •

I got half way down before realising my error leaving me to huff across the valley between Froggatt & back up the hill, through Grindleford village then up the other hill to the station.

I was 15 minutes early so locked up, ordered myself a burger and settled down to wait. 10 minutes into their ride I persuaded the boys to take a sit down and a hot drink with me. Reg had driven over & Landslide discovered his train didn't exist and had an equally harrowing sprint over the hill.

We followed various tracks, trails and lanes over to Eyam where Reg was ticking off historic water troughs and stopping intermittently at the tea rooms. He was disappointed to return at 3:45 to find them closed for his third visit that day.

Along the way we picked up misty scenes.

 I rode a combination of new and familiar trails, though honestly it was hard to tell as the fog got thicker and I was perfectly happy just following wheels.

At 4pm Landslide called pub and we locked up our bikes to the petunias at the Barrell inn for 3 well earned pints (well, one each).  We restricted ourselves to one because it was time for this:

Where Reg and I had a middle-aged moment with technology leaving Landslide to get to the end of the trail, get bored and come back looking for us.

We shunned another loop before dinner, riding up to the pub where we'd (other people, not me) booked ourselves a table to make sure we weren't disappointed.  TSK met us there on his road bike as he had stuff to attend to on Saturday and was heading home after dinner.

Two courses, more beer and banter ensued.  A chat with the landlady and more beer.  Yes, delaying tactics were at work.  TSK headed home and it was 10 when we left the pub for our designated sleep spot - brought on by the arrival of the brass band who elected to close the sliding door on the bar to keep the heat in (and out of the stinky bikepackers snug on the other side of the otherwise draughty corridor).  We considered closing our own curtain, dragging the bikes in and setting up camp under the tables.

Our actual camp site was cosy and convivial.  We found shelter from the thick fog that was condensing so heavily, all trees were raining.  The much joked-about full moon made an appearance in the middle of the night, brightening up the scene outside our shelter so going for a pee was easy with nature's sink providing a grassy handwashing facility.

For once I slept reasonably soundly except for about midnight when a gentle sneeze came from outside our camp as both my fellows slept soundly around me.  Deer or ghost? We will never know.

With a low chance of being disturbed, we had a luxury lie in till 7am, brewed up from our beds and sneaked away without detection.  

Time to connect with the Monsal trail which we did using something marked on my map as a "traffic free cycle route" but on the ground as a footpath.  Never mind, no-one was out - or out of bed, for that matter.

There was one squeaky moment crossing a narrow bridge over the flowing river and scrambling up the other side but thankfully we're all sufficiently hardy to make it and I'm now strong enough to actually pick this bike up loaded.

It was so pleasant for me to finally be on the Monsal trail in daylight after a short winter season of getting there after sunset.

More lanes took us down, eventually to Calver past a group of highland cows enjoying their breakfast sleepily.  I relate.

not actually eating, just resting her head.

Reg sneaked off through Calver past the cafe leaving me and Landslide wondering where the hell he was going.  I was overjoyed to find he wasn't taking us to the rubbish coffee shop but the much better one I didn't know existed because it's on a  main road.

Two course breakfast and a bottomless coffee WIN.

Around the corner we dropped Reg off at the road back to his car and Landslide and I set off up the bloodybighill to Calver Gap where we managed to avoid more coffee and ride back along the foggy crag which was all relatively quiet and serene and only gained in gravitas and solitude what it lost in scenery.

 

The walkers were jolly and appeared suddenly from the fog. In Longshaw we reverted for lunch but realised we'd already over-eaten and instead took the opportunity to wash hands, drink tea, warm toes and snooze on the table for a bit longer before braving the ride home.  We were tired out.

Landslide went the quick way home - as did I - but we live in different places so we went different ways.

Of course, as soon as I reached the top of Houndkirk my body announced it was hungry and couldn't go further without a snack but that was OK because I'd been carrying a bag of crisps and cake since Friday lunchtime so I ate my limited lunch and pointed my way home again through the crystals.

After Wyming Brook my interest was momentarily peaked by a bit more offroad riding but not enough to hike up Fox Hagg so I freewheeled down the A57 to Rails Road then rode up the nice easy Byway to drop into the allotments.

The pigs were up for some scritching so I shared my sharon fruit leftovers from last night's picnic and we were all happy.

At home I fell into the bath, made a large puddle on the bathroom floor which I mopped up with towels left heaped in the laundry basket on the toilet then fell into bed and went to sleep until TSK came home from town and I apologised like a snivelling drunk who'd been out all night on their birthday and made a mess. Oh.

Le Plan

Every year that I commit to racing I like to have a training plan. In my triathlon days I subscribed to Joe Friel's notion that there's only one thing worse than a bad plan and that's no plan at all.

With long distance racing its often been more of a flexible list of good intentions - I've treated it as an indicator of where I should be each week rather than a definitive set of must-do sessions. I still don't have a perfect plan but this year I seem to have improved my ability to make it into something relevant most days of the week.

I try not to get too worked up about missed sessions because the important part is being happy riding my bike - or whatever else I've chosen to do. This doesn't always work out. For instance, I've had a particularly productive turbo session today and it has been like a gateway into the future.

I improved my fitness. I got the fast twitch muscles moving. I spun my legs around in circles. I got the Waltbike app working on my phone. I got my music playing on a new phone. I got the measurements sorted on the Watt bike so next time I can just walk up to it and get going faster.

I learned I increased my mobility afterwards (which I wasn't expecting). 

I learned I need to remember a sweat towel and a dry bra for the walk home.

It was about a quarter of what I had planned for the day but nevertheless it felt great and I will still feel great tomorrow instead of feeling smashed.

• • •

Still my brain will punish me against the plan but without the plan I am nothing.

Then I remember next week is a rest week or as I call it - an opportunity to catch up on all the hours I've missed this week.

You see, I'm tricking myself because by planning nothing in my rest week I can have four more sessions just like todays, still be ready for next week and the mathematician in my brain can be silent and consider itself well and truly caught up.

• • •

I learned that at this point there everything to be gained from a quick spin at intensity or just turning the legs. No harm in getting out just for a couple of hours and I learned that there 25 weeks to go which means the next 4 weeks are baseload.  It feels less important.  Before this kind of racing my longest plans were 20 weeks long.  HT is 6 months away and I don't even know if I'm in yet but I start here, I try not to flogg myself too much and we start chipping away.

What's important is to ride and love riding, run and run freely. Breathe.

Adventures in Pemberley. Of sunsets, beasts and failed bonfires.

 “Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds 

 My adventures in bike packing for the 2021-2022 season were finally ready to begin.  On Saturday I set myself the task of sorting out all my electronics for the weekend and it took me all day to find elements of my set up that had long since fallen into disarray.  

On Sunday the struggle continued and I finally left the house at 1pm.  A bit earlier than last week... baby steps and all.  

By the time I realised I'd left my camp pillow at home I was at the woods already and didn't intend to retrace my steps.  I'd just have to hope it was going to be warm enough tonight to not need my insulated coat as well as my sleeping bag.

The weather gave me no excuses this week.  After messing about in my own valley on the rough-stuff (I was only imagining a short ride), I was pleasantly surprised to find myself at Redmires reservoir in time for the sun starting to dip and the water beautifully still.

People stagger towards the reservoir with cameras and binoculars. Even motorists are polite and calm.  I swing up to the Causeway. I haven't been here for so long.  The final approach to Stanage pole silhouettes a small family group enjoying the sunset but I think they're worth a snap.  I'm just disappointed I didn't catch the outline of his flat cap.  Too Yorkshire?

 Mist floated in the valley and a grouse croaked in the tussocks.  I looked on over my future home (which obviously I will turn into a massive refuge for everyone to use).

I whooshed down Stanage as the sky turned ochre and bounced off the crags and the bracken.  An army of photographers in camo gear were stalking something in the woods but it didn't sound like they'd had much success.  I was finding gold by the trailside.

My bladder was doing it's usual response to the coffee I'd drunk 3 hours ago so I decided to ride up the hill towards the public loo instead of carrying on down to my first stop at the reservoirs (completely forgetting about the toilets at Heatherdene).  Still, the mistake was disguised as achievement as I cycled past this gorgeous holly-bush flushing in the setting sun.

 

Since I was halfway to Burbage edge, I thought I'd give that a go in the sunset too.  Halfway along I pulled up a boulder and positioned myself to consume biscuits and chocolate with the last of the sun's effort whilst boulderers and runners headed back to their vehicles.  I felt smug knowing my day was not over.

Some boulderers stayed around for the moon-rise, hot on the heels of the receding sunshine.

I realised the need to get moving so continued to Longshaw past the closing cafe and onto the estate grounds where it would have be rude to neglect the final blush over Shatton moor with the reflection in the lake before tackling Frogatt and Curbar in the dark.

 I managed not to fall off in front of giggling teenagers on Curbar - which is an achievement only guaranteed by the lack of giggling teenagers on a chilly November evening.  I enjoyed the sparkling lights spattered below.  The luring sight of fairy lights in a gigantic world.

I marvelled what the hell the light pollution was coming out of Calver village then realised it was the beastly Chatsworth estate and was suitably incensed.  I'm sure Mr Darcy would have agreed.

There was nothing left to do but descend to Chatsworth to take a closer look.  I think the lazer light beam might have been turned off by the time I got there.  I certainly didn't notice it.  You can pay £14 to go and look at it if you like but I took it in from the other side of the hill, after slogging my way across the grounds on the sketchy bridlepath.  The fog on my light caused a light display similar to that of travelling at warp speed through the milky way in the Starship Enterprise.  Apologies for the blur - the erm... stone wall kept wobbling. Still, the pic is kind of worth it. No soft focus, that's the fog.

Through the wood then... what to do next?

I made a few navigational errors trying to recall the Peak 200 route - one of which ended in me fully going through a gate - bike and all - before realising there really was no path and re-tracing.  Still, now I found that bit of the route I had misplaced previously under a fug of fatigue.

I didn't want to end up in the Haddon estate at this time of night as I wasn't sure if I could get through and also was going to get me out of the way of where I wanted to be (which was able-to-get-home-in the-morning).  So I intruded upon Mr Darcy a little more and headed for the start of the Monsal trail.  That end of Chatsworth is very much about dodging the cow poo, then avoiding the "private" signs until finally there's a big push up a steep hill to the Monsal trail.  Just as I reached the top, a deep guttural growl emitted from the treeline next to me. 

It was the worst moment, topping out on the push, out of breath, not yet on my bike and ready to sprint.  I'm not nearly flexible enough yet to jump on over my saddle bag and survive without ending up a quivering wreck on the ground so I took to shouting "woah there", making my voice sound as big and scary (whilst quite terrified and incomprehensible) as possible.  I didn't hang around to find out if it was fox or dog but it did not pursue so things seemed safe.  I was also hungry so after finding a cutting which had trapped warm air and kept the fog out so I decided to stop and brew up and hope that the beast of Pemberley did not smell my dinner and come to investigate.

The fuel was to be another experiment.  I bought wood pellets like those which go in this little gadget and make stove along the lines of a nice safe camp fire.  I thought they'd be a cool toy for enjoying on one of my luxury bike rides.

Of course I didn't bother with the gadget and instead tried burning the fuel in my little Ti Stove - firestarter and all. Long story short, having burned 4 of my storm-proof matches and half my lighter fuel, I gave up, put the fuel back in its box and dug out the liquid stuff.  Of course at 8pm in the bottom of a railway cutting I didn't notice that everything was sooted up good and proper.

My other experiment was the 1000 calorie food sachets from Expedition foods.  After last week's lacking experiences of the 450 cal version. The water quantity stated seemed a little low so I used the last of the fuel burn to brew up a little more water to supplement the original dose - figuring there would be nothing bad about chicken rice stew. Unfortunately I also squished about 100ml of the extra water up inside my coat, fidgeting whilst waiting for it to brew.

The last bit of brewing was accompanied by me wiping the soggy mess out of my coat.  Fortunately the instructions were accurate and I'd brewed enough water and I wasn't disappointed with the quantity of food.  The quality of the food was that of a dessicated food sachet approximately as described on the contents.  It didn't taste of potatoes so it was an energy success that's useful to file for future reference.  I got another 3hours riding out of the night and didn't snack too much in bed.

Only when I came to packing up did I realise I'd not put the lid back on my camelbak and my remaining water stash had gradually been seeping out into the leaves.  I did the best thing I could come up with which was riding to Millers dale where the toilets are always open.  I drank the last of my water on the way which was essential having just downed 800g of almost re-hydrated food.  It's quite a long way to Millers dale when you realise your tyres have got a bit flat and your saddle keeps dropping down a bit.

Still, I made it, took a few minutes to enjoy the facilities and plan my route home.

I'll admit I was a bit spent and I couldn't afford to stop nearby because I had to be in work by 11am on Monday - preferably much earlier - so I had to get most of the way home before camping up.  I opted for the road interspersed with some good bridleways.  Then I made some foolish decisions to check out a route I'd done only once before, bailed and ended up in the bottom of Deep Dale.  An exercise not to be repeated... except for the horrible bridleway in and the equally horrible bridleway out through a hoof-trodden field filled with bombhole cow foot prints and a steep slope.  I have no idea how I didn't topple over the bars - even with the dropper down.  I had to hunt for the exit gate in the fog and turning my Exposure light on didn't help because that just illuminated the water particles in the air.  Once I found the 6 inch wide exit gate, I also found the tumbled down wall where other bikers (and presumably the majority of normal-to-only-slightly-obese people) had also entered the bridlepath.

Through a combo of lanes, the Pennine Bridleway and Limestone way and assorted other PROWs I arrived back at Peak forest then whooshed down to Bradfield and tanked back along the Hope valley bottom to a reliable spot I've used before.  A bit of a cheeky one by the trailside but it was 1am and no bugger was likely to discover me.

No photo this year and last time I used it I clearly took a last-minute shot before clearing up.  It is an emergency spot after all! Full disclaimer for my dysfunctional brain.

The bivi went up in record time and I set up everything for the night.  Then I got in and found the large tree branch I'd camped on top of.  I wrapped myself around it and moved my helmet to the other side so I could avoid the conflict.  

Despite my clothes and body being warm to the touch I shivered for (what felt like) about 2 hours, annoyed because I didn't want to wear my coat because my head was on it.  Eventually, whilst fidgeting about trying to spread out my spare fleece and windproof top over my legs, I found my spare wool top which I'd carefully tossed into my sleeping bag earlier.  I put that on then promptly passed out like a light.  The next thing I knew, it was 4:45am and someone was making their way through the gate next to my spot.  They said nor did anything and I fell asleep again.  I was tempted by a lie in but the second alarm at 6 had me awake and hungry for more food - it was 10 hours since my last meal after all.  

I packed up and rode over to the Ladybower Inn to push up the bridlepath that avoids the A57, all the while enjoying the scenery, the misted trees and trying to ignore the sound of rush hour traffic.  Eventually I stopped at the stream where the remoteness from the road and the noise of a small waterfall serve to drown out traffic noise and allow for a peaceful place to brew up.  

I prepared carefully and thankfully, what didn't seem to be enough fuel, was successfully eked out to produce enough boiling water first for porridge (that's serious dedication to prioritisation) and secondly coffee.   I was close to a breakfast of coffee and sweets but held out for the porridge.  I wonder if this is what Stu meant by growing up?

At the top of the trail there was another pleasant surprise.  A fellow overnight camper - on foot this guy - to pass the time of day with as he was heading out and I was reluctantly heading home.

On the final climb I nearly went out of my way to avoid those few extra cars but the drain on my time resource had me stick to the road as far as Moscar Lodge.  Close passes were few and far between for once and I even had a white range rover wait until it was safe to pass at a distance.  I must have been looking fat and wobbly.

The ride in across the moor tracks and Rodside politely delivered the final parting shot with a view through the unfolding fog bank over the shroud that covered the city in a blanket of grey.  Just a few peaks waved up around major heat sources in the city.  It was a freakish display which the camera only partially captured.

I dropped through the fairy glen, unable to commit myself to the road - or the steep road up to the house - I instead diverted through the woods on an easier climb - but reverted to walking anyway.  This was as much about being tired as it was dragging out the last of the weekend.

I got more out of myself by walking in on Monday morning, crusty, coated in soot and sweat and exhausted from 3hours 50minutes sleep than I would have had I spent Saturday night out.  I had my computer on and straight into work and meetings, paused at 11:30 for a shower and second lunch then departed for a micro-kip at 3:30 before working a bit late to catch up the day again for a Tuesday meeting task.  All in all it was one of the best cover-ups for an epic weekend I have ever masterminded.

Pleased with my comeback weekend at 70km in 12 hours with all the faffing that went on. Another 18 on Monday was icing on a very filthy cake.

Next time I'll not forget the pillow - probably just something else.

I rode out, poked about, ate dinner, ran away again

I've been training for 2 weeks now. The first 2 weeks I stuck to the plan until this weekend. On Friday my head fell apart at work and I did little work. The headspace fug continued into Saturday. I think it's alcohol induced having cooked with wine and drunk the rest between us. The weekend was spent planning motivations for adventures instead of having adventures; working on my bike, not sitting on it.

I took the important decision to ride the Cotic to race this year and spent Saturday transplanting parts so I could ride it and enjoy it and Sunday finding all my stuff and loading it up. The enthusiasm to go out camping outweighed the weather hesitancy and so I loaded up and rolled out at 4. I quickly realised I had neither the lights nor the plan to cope with a 4pm start. However the ride through the woods in the sunset was apleasure and I surprised myself by riding a short ramp I've not completed before. I've still not completed it but I got further up it than I ever have before.

With a bit of saddle position faffing I hit my road climb in time to put the lights on. I also took the opportunity to inadvertently figure out which of my Spot batteries were dead.

I hit the boulders descents cursed myself for tumbling down it Why? Why? Why? Then remembered it was dark and the bike was loaded.

I was tempted to just camp in the woods but instead headed towards Stanage then diverted to a disused building for a spot of dinner. I had new fuel to test so decided a concrete floor would be safest and most reliable. I didn't fancy getting buffeted about on Stanage or committing to the Derwent valley as I started to feel a bit rubbish and washed out.

Up on the open moor with the sun gone, the wind whipped through me so I stopped in the lee of a stone wall bridge to add layers. Huddled down there was the happiest I'd been in ages. Chilled out and a bit elemental and ferral but I wasn't going to camp right on the access track.  The wind also occasionally sneaked around the edge with a chill and threatened to blow everything away. I packed up and ventured back into the cold,  relieved by a sit in the grass and wriggling into new layers. Several hares watched me with hollow eyes as I approached and then disappeared into the darkness when I got just out of reach.

• • •

I made it up to the building and kept the lights on low so as not to bring attention to myself. There's only a couple of sight holes in the clouded-over glass that point towards the Stanedge Lodge but I was moderately nervous that the blazing roaring flame from my stove was genuinely too visible.

I burned a hole in my gloves and was genuinely relieved I wasn't under canvas or in a confined space. I'll give that fuel a miss in future! Despite the shelter from the wind the place was still cold and unnerving. Wind whipped through the eaves accompanied by eerie booms from fireworks in Sheffield. Critters from another world would not have been out of place scurrying through the long grass and tumbling down the chimney. I put on all my layers: waterproof trousers over my windproof shorts and thermal coat over my waterproof coat and tried not to set anything else on fire. I ate my dinner in the red glow of my head torch, concluded the meal was insufficient and resumed my plan of not bothering with a bivi this time around. I wasn't nearly knackered enough to sleep through the noises, graffiti and sense of confinement and not nearly driven enough to find somewhere suitable outdoors.

I loaded up all my cooking gear, risked removing my thermal layer and continued along the trail to its end. It was soggy in places requiring a push where I didn't have the grip on my tyres. The descent to the road was shortlived though. I tossed my bike over a fence without my lights on to avoid drawing attention to myself and cursed through impaling myself on barbed wire. It was a relief to be on friendlier territory & I was pleased to find one of my more regular farmers has finally given up on his nearly impossible gate latch and replaced it with a loop of twine. It was certainly enjoyable to be shoved all the way back to Sheffield by the howling wind while I relaxed and watched the last of the fireworks exploding green and gold above Stannington.

At least back on home turf I felt warmer again in the valley and had the energy left to tow my lungs and legs kicking and screaming up the offroad climb instead of subjecting my ego to the road pavement climb hike known as "my road direct".

I walked through the door at 9:30pm, chilled out and just a bit hungry but mainly content, that I made it out for my first (if what, somewhat abortive) loaded ride.