A Perfect World

There's a bare  space of a wall on the way down the hill from our house. Ironically, it's on the way into town. It's where a window has been bricked over.  Someone has painted a picture frame in the square and inside in tidy, stencilled lettering, written, "the best things in life aren't things".  Over time it has led to the mantra, "Experiences not Things" as I try to save my money for holidays, not stuff.

I have been pretty comfortable for a while now. I earn a reasonable amount of money. I live in a modest house with damp problems but I like where it is and I can afford to buy what I want. I take my job very seriously, I work very hard, sometimes too hard. I don't have to, but it helps, if I want to do well and earn more money. At the same time, I was unhappy. Despite my situation I couldn't afford anything major - the repairs to my house, a stove installation, a new Vanu. Why?

Because when I say, I can afford to buy what I want, I generally did. I moved a bunch of socks into a partially full drawer and weeks later, my sock drawer was overflowing again. I have 2 cycling waterproofs - summer and winter - in excess of £200 value and two less breathable ones that fit in pockets. I have so many sports baselayers I have nowhere to put them and casual tees are reaching breaking point.  There are then the two three windproof tops - 2 for running, 1 for biking as well as gilets and excessive levels of club kit for both biking and tri and duplicate items for fell running. The expensive Rapha fleece leggings I managed to buy with seemingly only one week of winter left to go and to my shame I finally own a mobile that costs as much as a PC.  I do much of this shopping in the depressing months leading up to Christmas, leaving myself wanting for nothing and leaving me searching to find somewhere to put all the stuff I get at Christmas along with the existing shoes and posh clothes I never wear because I don't really do socialising and most of my friends and family are now married and have their kids.  Work skirts and dresses that I don't wear anymore because trousers are most practical for site.

So if I've told you I am a bit broke this year. I am sorry. It is both a lie and true. I don't have any money but I have a lot of things I want... or I think I do.

Appart from the house, I don't have much debt. This suits while I have a company car. My farming background prevents me from getting loans. They make me feel a anxious. A lot. I watch them interminably until they go away, like they will ever change.

This year someone I work for told me that all the hours and effort I had put in were worthless. Where my big oaf of a predecessor was a leader, I was not fit. I have spent the back end of last year clearing up the shit that my predecessor and his "team" left behind.  The person who told me I wasn't getting a promotion did me a massive favour.

After I stopped crying (partially through disappointment but mostly through frustration) I decided that I could stand to work less, even if it meant getting paid less.  I went ahead and put in a flexible leave request. Women of my age are within their rights to request part time working to spend more time with their children. I have always said that I don't have children, I have bicycles. I have decided that I want more time to spend with my bicycles.

To my surprise, my request was granted and 30 days pay will be taken from my salary pro rata over the 12 months starting from February. The original euphoria: of trying to figure out just what exactly I might do with my extra 30 days leave - yoga retreats, days off before holiday to pack instead of wasting my time together with TSK in a grumpy cycle of hunt-the-tent-pegs, days off to recover from races, solo bike packing holidays... oh, the list.  It started to look like the ultimate backpackers adventure. Globe trotting fuelled by momentary lapses of working except not secretarial work in some dull office but a real job, my job, thrown in for good measure. It started to look like my dream.

Then the anxiety struck. Our HR outsourced. Doing something non-standard. First I get the letter to confirm my leave is signed off and to indicate the amount of money to come out of my salary. It's a significant amount - enough to take me below a threshold that I have become used to.  I reassure myself that this will be taken at source and therefore make a much smaller impact on my paycheck.

Next came the letter from the tax man telling me what I would be taxed on next year. I was confused because I seemed to be earning much more than I thought but that  is just my car and health benefits no?

Then my boss asked if I had heard from HR.  I refuse to get up hopes of a promotion after what happened last time so just say no, except for the leave approval, I've heard nothing. I hear nothing from HR for weeks.

As February drew on, y'know. That month. You've no money left because you used it to pay for January's credit card (Christmas) and you just went skiing so March will be worse and you HATE HATE HATE paying the bank anything because you're a farmer's daughter and the banks are scum but still you do a balance transfer for 12 months because it's cheaper than the credit card fee on the ski holiday which you'd have to pay for in March anyway and every year you insist you're going to save up for it but you never do.

Every time I went near a shop I deployed the mantra: experiences not things. Some things still happened but I did an ok job of managing them.

It was a little too late when I realized that, mathematically:

credit card bill > money I may or may not have at the end of the month. 

Still, I took an immense sense of joy from reducing my spending.  In my determination to spend less time at work, things got fixed, not replaced. I took great satisfaction from being at home doing things instead of going out spending and I aimed to ride my bike more instead of driving. This only transpired this week but, better late than never.

This is serious now though. What, I think, is the point of all that extra time off if I can't afford to go on my long list of holidays. Cheap trips aside, I still have to get to the Alps twice and potentially a ferry to Rotterdam and maybe Canada too. Never mind all those great things I want to do with the house.

So it was with great caution that I opened my pay cheque yesterday and with great relief that I discovered that only 1/12 of my present pay has been docked. Not 1.5/12 as I expected or worse, as implied by HR. The hint is that the deduction is small because I am being paid more. Somehow I have landed a small, unconfirmed promotion. Who knows?

Anyway, it seems my lifestyle is safe with its expectations of Alpine holidays and skiing but also the quiet and inexpensive UK excursions and, I have to say, my new found enjoyment of thriftiness.

And so, still looking forward to holidays and home refubishments and maybe I will save something so I don't feel permanently broke and who knows, one day we may stop living in a puddle and have a lovely wood burning stove to suit.

Luxury in small doses - Necessities in large doses

Saturday - travel plus run 5km

We booked a fairly budget ski holiday this year.  OK OK, last year we lucked out where Neilsen were "testing out" a new luxury spa hotel and had upgraded all guests for free to extra large balcony rooms.  This year we were in a "standard basic" hotel for the same money.  But this year we booked the airport hotel and valet parking for our 4:30am start and bloody hell did we enjoy it.  Drop the car off for strangers to manage, big comfy bed, posh meal, saunter through the airport.  The downside? By the time we arrived at our resort we had been in climatically controlled environments for 24 hours - hotel, airport, plane, bus.  Ugh. So we went for a run.

Just as we were going out the hotelier advised us of a pedestrian walkway that routes all through town.  Perfect!  Traffic free running, past a castle then a turnaround and retrace our steps to the hotel.  Snowy, crisp, beautiful and kudos from our rep who couldn't believe we'd been out for a run after our 24 hours (including 6 hours sleep) of travelling.

Sunday - St Christina - 23 miles downhill skiing.

Everyone walks to the lift on the first day right? Chiampioni cable car and skiing.  Getting the leggies back, remembering to do my boots up, stuff like that... oh, and looking for some tree runs.  There may have been a little wading!  We started to hanker after walk routes.

We moved upto Col Raiser to knock off all the runs in the area, played on a slalom route and had coffee and cake in the sun where we decided to call it quits after a lot of staring into the distance and wondering if we could hike it to Alpe de Susi, which we could just see over in the next valley.

We roamed into Ortisei ski area for the 10km run from top to bottom which was a dream and then headed back to Santa Christina.  Screwed up our efforts to hop onto snow for a hike back to the hotel and ended up walking down the hiking route in our boots before catching a bus from the central bus stop back to Selva Val Gardena.  

Typical that our boots were the muddiest in the boot room.

Chicken with chips last night improved into the best tasting Carpaccio since the vineyards in Penticton.  The aroma of horseraddish.  It was AMAZING.

Unfortuately it was a promising start and I didn't really get that mouth-watering excitement about any other dish all week.

Monday - Ortisei and Mt de Susi 32 miles including a bunch of cross country

Took the bus back to Ortisei then the cablecar to Alpe de Susi.  On the first lift we saw a 'cross country map as we sidled overhead on the chair lift so we skied to it and skinned off across the plateau to Saltira hut for a coffee then on to the main cross country area.

As a ticket man was checking passes (you need a different ticket for cross country which we weren't about to buy on top of the 500 Euro's we'd just spent on downhill lift tickets) we continued by on the walking path, figuring they can't stop you walking on a national park footpath for free.  We debated whether to stop at the mountain restaurant for early lunch at 11 but it felt too early so we continued.  

Like an oasis in the desert, after 30 minutes we crested a hill to find one of those perfect hiker cafés lurking just out of sight.  Delicious food for less than 20 Euro.  

Back on the trail we lurched towards impressive looking towers with the intention of skiing around and beyond if we could but there was no way!  As my toes started to burn from an injury I picked up in the (now lost in time) snowy UK winter of 2015, I began to dread the return journey to lifts, downhill and afternoon respite.  Just as TSK started to complain about his back, we crested a hill and again, like an oasis, found a lift and downhill routes all back to civilisation... well, the rest of the Alpe de Susi area.  

We returned via lift to Ortisei and bus back to the hotel where we slept all afternoon... me with my foot in the air.

Tuesday - Sella Ronde downhill 27 miles including lifts.

Sella Ronde was on TSK's repeat list.  I must've been really tired from the previous day's effort because I followed him around like a lost puppy and, TBH, a lot of the scenery was lost on me.

...I don't know why

There was a lot of queuing, it being half term, and a lot of shoving so I didn't enjoy the lifts at all.  A lot of people we talked to said they were going to attempt the whole Ronde route on Thursday when their kids were in ski school.  We immediately vowed not to do anything touristy on Thursday which was a bugger since I had my eye on the hidden valley route again.

Castles in the snow.

I guess in retrospect it's sweet that I spent Valentine's day paying more attention to my husband than the view.

Our neighbours in the hotel dining room took the time to leave little chocolate hearts at everyone's place.  

Sweet touch!

Wednesday - Vallongia cross country ski 13.4 miles

Someone let me get on the bus before suggesting that we walk back the way we've just come and buy lunch.  Someone (me) ignored that person and continued regardless.  Still, we had a bag of sweetened pineapple, a few nuts and a bit of chocolate - what could go wrong?

Set out on our "easy" walk up the Vallongia - after a few downhill routes to get there.  Avoided ticket man by following the path again.  We were so much more confident this year on the skins and the snow was hard packed, meaning we didn't have to break trail and half walked / half glided across the open fields, into woodland and beyond the places we recognised from last year.

We skied out on to the open plateau, far from any other nordic skiers and finally, around 12:00 approached a small patch of sunshine which was finally braking the frozen valley sides.  A Norwegian stopped for a brief, pidgin English chat and said, "This weather is just for us".  Little did we know that outside our valhallah, the rest of the resort was basking in +6 deg C temperatures.  

The Norwegian warned us that "beyond there is a point where you have to return".  He skied away and we sat under a tree, in a small circle of dry pine needles and ate our pineapple chunks and nuts.

We continued into the steep ascent that lay beyond the plateau.  Further than we went last year for sure.  The path narrowed and I wondered about the ski down.  No room for turns or snowplough through the trees and not enough snow to support a good tree-run ski.  It was getting a bit sketchy.

So we chucked our skis off the trail into a snow drift and continued on foot. Unfortunately we then topped out onto another plateau.

TSK spotting the view

Frozen

 I insisted on continuing enough to photograph a frozen waterfall and secretly berated myself for not buying that lunch before we returned to our skis to strap them to our rucksacs for the narrow descent.

Me, rekindling the relationship with my mountaineering rucksac of the 90's.

Once back on the flat, we slid and glided back to the parking area of the cross-country ski area.  We will have to return another year to develop this route further.

in the meantime, we enjoyed ice crystals as fine as moth wings.

We ate lunch in tee shirts on the sun deck of the (now open) nordic ski centre before heading off up the steep sunny side of the valley to walk to Dannoi.  The snow got thinner and more tennuous and we took excuses to walk on foot, not skis, up to the ruin of the Wolkenstein castle (fort) before giving up on skis completely, strapping them to rucsacks and descending to the Skiway which was being regenerated with snow brought into the resort on a truck.

We nodded reverently at the driver of the pow-machine as we slid the remaining distance down to our hotel.

Thursday - Val di Fassa 50mile ski downhill

Val di Fassa is a tiny ski area off the main Selle Ronde with a few hotels at its extreme.  I agreed to go ski there on the basis that we wouldn't have to ever stay there in the future.  If it turned out to be amazing I could always reconsider.  It seemed like a good easy day.

As anticipated, the Thursday rush on the Selle Ronde was in full force and the two final lifts to get into Val di Fassa were excruciating.  Lifts that seem to be made for the elderly - cable cars that dock at the speed of a cross-channel ferry and slide away on their travel even slower to avoid disquieting those less steady on their feet..  

However, once beyond these natural cattle grids, the Valley was dreamily quiet and it really was very beautiful.  

Amongst the beauty we found a mountain restaurant offering healthy veggie pasta and demolished fig and beetroot pasta dishes before going on to ski the entire area in two hours.  We must've been shifting some though as we covered a total of 50 miles (including lifts) which is my furthest ever travelled on (or with) a pair of skis by 12 miles.

The great thing about short days is they end in bars, with hot chocolate, with rum in.

Friday - last day blow out ski mountaineering to pic de Comica

Andrew agreed it would be a nice idea to finally ski from our door so we hiked around the corner and joined the path 30B.  We skinned for some time around the suburbs of St Christina until we emerged at the Valentine's day castle and spent a good 30 minutes trying to get off the path onto the piste and then off the piste onto a path.

More uphill hiking - now at least on some kind of trail until we finally emerged at the Monte Pana lift area for lunch.  As a location for bunny slopes and cross country, there was just a snack bar but we were already pretty tired and wanted to get going so we stomached short espressos, microwave pizzas dolled up with fresh rocket and cherry tomatoes and french fries with a peach iced tea for sugar.

We walked around a path I'd skied down earlier in the week - mainly to take a look at goats that were bleating and dancing around in the snow.  We then acquired the 'cross country ski trails which led us to following route 30.  Sadly, this followed a road so we used cross country skiing and touristy paths to try and keep the best track of the road.

The forest trail we found was keeping us far more entertained than following the road itself so that's what we stuck to.  We knew we were off route but were having too much fun to care. 

When we popped out of the trees, I was still adamant on heading for Monte Susi to claim that we'd skied from our door to the most remote end of the resort.  TSK had other ideas and headed off towards Mont de Sura.  I was pretty annoyed but realising how tired he was, I followed and eventually conceded (once we rose above the scenery) that it was the smart move.  Monte Susi was on the other side of a steep valley and still some un-tracked distance away.  Neither of us would have been fit for anything if we'd attempted it and we would have been pushing the boundaries of sensible skiing, potentially descending the closed runs late in the evening when we were tired and the piste bashers are trying to do their job.

The consolation prize was that we would achieve a Col and I was pretty sure that on this day, no-one else had got this close to the towering cliffs that make up the skyline of the Dolomites.

We gained the ridge and walked on up to a wall of rock, mud, ice and a little snow.  It was pretty tenuous.  The route around it would have involved us skiing around a boulder field which neither of us was really up for.  I offered to go ahead and see if there was anything over the top for us to exit onto rather than lead him up something awful only to have to retrace our steps.

He nodded enthusiastically, I left my skis and took a run at the slope ahead whilst he caught me up.  The slither of icy snow narrowed to 6 inches so I used rocks and poles to scrabble through a few heart-stopping moments when my rubber-soled ski mountaineering boot toes refused to hold and my life dangled on the grip of a ski pole tip.  

Pic de Comica

Then there was the shin deep snow that my boots now punched through and finally I stood on the summit of Pic de Comica, not feeling at all amused.  There was no time to celebrate now, as I ran over the top to be absolutely sure there was no cliff face between us and the sweetly humming chair lift at the top of Mont de Sura.  Hurragh!  A clean run-out.  A short, non too technical off piste descent onto a lovely rolling blue piste.  

I ran back from whence I came, this time shortening my poles to minimum length thinking that, should I plummet down the rocky ice slope, I could at least attempt to use them like an ice axe. The side effect was, they put my body into the perfect position for down-hilling and I managed every step in control.  As I reached TSK I noticed two people bringing themselves up behind us.

TSK was persuaded that my description of the route ahead was easier than retracing our steps so far through poorly conditioned snow and coming away without the prize of the col - though I'm sure that wasn't at the fore of his mind.  I also mentioned the couple behind us in a hope that this would reassure him we had assistance available if we needed to seek help.

We strapped the skis to our rucksacs again and kicked and swore our way up the rocky slope, across the shin deep snow and finally up to the Pic.  

The two behind us had obviously decided better of our alpine trek and entirely disappeared from sight.  Perhaps I imagined them.  The sense of satisfaction was immense for me.  I believe it probably came later for Andrew.

Looking over towards Monte Susi, TSK prepares for the descent.

The downhill off the top was too thin, therefore disappointing.  The pride in sliding off the top of the highest point, right at the bottom of the massive Dolomite crags - all under our own power - was immensely satisfying.  We hadn't seen another person for 3 hours and suddenly we were silently dropping in from the backcountry to head to the base with the Half Term holiday crowds.

We dressed in downhill clothing and rocked up at our favourite hot chocolate spot to order more rum.  It was a day for being inside and eating strudel.

I can absolutely say that we totally nailed the last day.

Mickelden Straddle Fell Race - The "sensible" race

I've been trying to do this race for some years.  I think I entered it once and when the day came, I had a narsty cold and the weather was not good enough to accommodate 15 miles of bleuragh.  I attempted to enter it another time and probably found it to be full.  I have had years where I'm just nowhere near capable of a 15 mile fell race in February after a winter of hibernation and vicious cyclo-cross racing.

This year, we both entered early and we were both fit and healthy for it except for the slight hindrance, for me, that I haven't really done much running training for a 15 mile fell race - although that's what I said about last week's Tigger Torr 9.6 mile fell race which I finished remarkably well and concluded that pushing fully-loaded mountain bikes around Welsh hills for an entire weekend was perfectly adequate preparation for any fell race going.

I still wasn't convinced though.  I raced Tigger Torr so hard that it took me until Thursday to be able to walk down stairs normally and Friday to reacquire any kind of spring in my step but I said I'd show up and run it at a regulated pace.  I mean, I could definately do 15 miles at a  nice steady pace.  Then I discovered the cutoff.

TSK wasn't worried about it but I was a little concerned.  Last week it took me 57 minutes to do the same distance to the cut off.  This time I had 1h 10 mins on legs that weren't really that fresh.  Still, so long as I kept above 4.3 miles per hour I'd be OK.  I set myself a target of 5mph to allow for the faff - which often besets one of us on a race.

I gave TSK a lecture about the faff which he suffered from last time and reminded him he was racing.  Still, we both started the race in too many layers - he in a windproof and me wearing an extra teeshirt I didn't really need.

The race started on a rather tame forest trail and a LOT of people ran past me.  I wasn't going to get drawn into going too fast.  Every time I felt tempted to let rip, I thought of my ambition to be able to ride my bike on Monday... perhaps Tuesday... or at least do yoga on Tuesday.  I was going to talk to TSK as he came past but he never did and then I noticed his bright orange jacket ahead and I thought, sneaky bugger" but I let it go.  I was perfectly happy for him to beat me over this distance because he is doing a long distance race, not me.  He's been training for this, not me and I wanted to be able to ride that bike tomorrow.

I was thinking about it so hard I nearly missed the first turn through some trees before re-gaining the trail and the sharp downhill to the stream (taking it easy not to batter my legs) before the climbing begain in earnest.  After 2.5 miles I stopped to take the teeshirt off.  5 people I had passed on the last climb came by but then I ran back past them fairly quickly at my own pace.  The only problem was, I wasn't really paying attention to the way I was going.  I was watching my pace.  6.3mph had dropped to 5.6mph average and by the time I got to the top of the climb it had further dropped to 5.1mph and my calves were aching so bad.

Still, the moorland was upon us and flattened out.  Hopping across stones and climbing up peat hags to avoid bogs was still faster than trying to run up hill and checkpoint 1 at 5 miles was achieved in 58min:33secs.  The path was so attention-consuming that I forgot about my aching calves for a bit and set about the downhill to Howden reservoir with gusto, although still controlling the speed so as not to smash my quads and calves around like I did last week.  It was a much smoother descent and at the bottom of it I acquired a friend.

I met this older chap on the peak as I caught him up and commented how warm it was, he responded, "I'll say, I'm sweating like a pig!".  So harsh I was taken aback when down at Howden he turned out to be very well spoken.  We talked about Tigger Torr and he said he hadn't entered because of the online entry system and suggested that it might be a sign that he should retire but then I pointed out the beautiful scenery we were running through and asked how he could leave all of "this".

I think I might have swayed him.

We ran together - sometimes chatting and sometimes silent.  I enjoyed his company and his pace so much that I ran ahead to get the gates and he shut them behind us.  I was tempering my speed just a little bit.

We met the marshalls which then shepherded us up Howden Clough and the steep returned.  The first climb at least stretched out my calves and I was pretty surprised to see the guy continuing to tail me up the steeps.  We passed the runner ahead who had been intermittently walking then running off at a right lick, meaning we never actually caught him.  Clearly he didn't have much more of the run in him.

When we got out onto the open hillside, below Howden Edge I seemed to have dropped my tail and reeled in another guy, then a lady who I had been hoping was Andrew (in orange) but really wasn't.  We all stopped together at the path junction and I have to admit I had no idea how far along we were and almost took a wrong turn had it not been for a chap insisting we take the main path.  Much to my embarrasment, checkpoiint 5 was just around the corner.  I had to mask my embarrasment and hope that no=one had seen me stop to get the map out.

The people I'd passed had come back around me but once we were back onto the rocky bog my inner Dark Peaker took over and I passed everyone back as I skimmed across the stones, intermittently scrabbling up to the short heather above to avoid the really boggy slippery sections. It was much easier on my legs running on the tops since the heather is still only 20mm tall here.

I passed a woman who insisted on trying to leap over bogs where her legs weren't long enough and squealing and wailing every time she was submerged upto her knees and beyond.  I had to get around her and her partner who patiently waited, tried to keep pace with me for a bit to spurr her on then resorted to just waiting again.  The descent began and I ran faster and faster.  A quick glance at my watch told me there were still 4 more miles to go but damn I was enjoying this.

Delicate application of my hamstrings made me run much faster and... oh no, there was a path turning!  It said Langsett to my right but... did we come that way???

One of the marshalls, walking along behind me was looking at me earnestly.  No! Not an audience.  There was no-one ahead of me.  The man in a yellow jacket had disappeared.    Argh.  The map was still in my hand so I checked.

It was clear that the turning took me to the wrong end of Langsett and would have left me without check point 6 and therefore disqualified or facing a mile of retracing my steps uncofmortably before I was allowed to run another mile back to the finish.  Squeally woman's husband/partner came into sight and that was enough to stop me worrrying and send my scurrying off down the hillside at a speed approaching full-pelt - well, for a mile 12 effort anyway.  There was no point in taking care through the puddles now.  Mud went everywhere and so did my legs but it was worth it... right up until the point my left foot tripped over a stone and the resulting reaction in my right leg caused an excrutiating cramp to rip through my right calf muscle.  Ow!  I took a little more care.

A few little walks up hill and then the final spiralling descent to the river before climbing back up the other side.  I hazarded a look behind.  No one was there.  I had time in the bank to dawdle my way up the climb and even bypass the slithery path through the trees in favour of the bridlepath surface and space.  A marshal was surprised to see me coming from a different direction but I explained my reasoning and he said he respected me for my descision (I'm not sure he believed me).

There was about a mile to go and what should I see but the man in the yellow jacket walking.  I continued my pace and then he started running again and drifted away.  I kept to my pace.  He walked again and I closed in a bit.  This went on for ages, it seemed, until finally I caught him up and feigned a bit of fatigue.  I wasn't looking for a sprint, didn't fancy one but knew I could probably win it if it happened.

Sure enough, within sight of the finish we both had a bit of a go.  I shouldn't have, given my promise not to destroy myself but hey, you never know whether you're fighting for 124th place, or 99th place.  We propped ourselves up against a table and stretched.

We were given rescue ale and smiles and I went off in search of TSK who finished 4 minutes ahead of me and deeper into the hurt locker, having stayed in the same position for most of the run.

The organisation lavished us with sandwiches and wraps and tea.  When we picked ourselves up to leave, we could only hobble through the carpark.  Absolutely astonished at how quickly I disintegrated from, "Hey, this ain't bad, I'm doing OK here, I'll outsprint this chap" to, "ooh ahh, ooh, I can't move my knees, Ah! My ankles".

We peeled ourselves into clean(ish) clothes and drove home guzzling coffee along the way.  Presriptive long showers and baths were taken and then the bed... half an hour of lying on my back with my feet against the wall and the glow of endorphins and sweet sweet sleep.

I guess I can't claim I'm not ready for a 15 mile race any more.

14.61 miles, 2:58:28. El 723m
Overall: 175/192
Women: 20/29
LV40: 9/14 (making a habit of 9th).

Restless ness

It's been weeks since I did a rambling, what was this week post. January was a roller coaster of work and play. A fantastic month. I didn't have the time to sit down and write. I might have been recovering but was too fuzzy to do the things I had completed any justice until much later.

So January slid by in a jumble of sporting events and producing my first clean fuels energy installation at work.

Tomorrow it goes live and when everything is completely finished with papers in place and rubber stamps, I will be immensely proud of it with due credit to those who paved the way before me.

Sportfully, after Tigger Torr, my legs were done for. If I couldn't walk Monday, you should have seen me Tuesday. I was a walking joke. The  ministry of funny walks had nothing on me. With another race this weekend I became genuinely concerned about the state of my muscles and refused to leave the office or use stairs for 3 days.

You might think that this made me stiff but I felt like every time I moved I was doing more damage, so I didn't move except to go to bed, to / from the car and office where I used the lift.

On Tuesday I attended yoga class but made my excuses most of the way through. On Wednesday morning I did at least manage a swim, persuading myself that immersion in cold water and gentle movement were just what my legs needed. In reality, swimming 1km in spite of dragging my useless legs through the water behind me like a  deadweight was exactly the confidence boost i needed. To add to the restorative process, I added 5 minutes in the sauna... why don't I do this more often?

Today I finally walked down the stairs with my feet pointing forward and found a spring in my step. I had a tentative skip through the office to test things out then drove up to Middlesbrough where I have enjoyed another pleasant outing in the hills overlooking the city.

It was mercifully dry because I brought trainers. I  found the footpath behind the hotel and walked for an hour in the simple light of my head torch - sometimes even without that.

I found some great bivi spots but as a raging wind storm arrived I was moderately glad I had a hotel and warm meal to return to.

The exercise forecast for tomorrow doesn’t look good except for a day working outdoors in a howling wind. From there it's home and prep for Sundays race. That's going to be a completely different event. It's 15 miles. I am not ready for 15 miles of racing so I am out to enjoy myself. It will be the hair of the dog to last weekend's binge session. I am looking forward to surviving this one better.

Tigger Torr

Friday: Go swimming in the morning and am proud to knock out a whole mile.  Get outside and my hips are aching and I decide I deserve the massage that's overdue a week to recover from my christmas-holidays-training-and-race-fest.

I tell my physio just how much I'm looking forwards to my first running race since I grew new muscles in my legs and learned how to use them.

He asked what my race was.  I said I'd entered Tigger Torr.  He said, "Ah, this weekend".  Oh, well there you go then.

The results of my physio appointment were really positive.  The deep tissue massage I had booked turned into a slap-fest verging on the edges of assault as Marcus brought the blood to the surface to reduce the swelling associated with the massage and leave my legs "all zingy" (and pink) ready for Sunday's race.  My eyes were all welling and stingy by the time he'd finished.

Saturday: rested and made a pact with myself to properly *race* on Sunday.  I'm doing one or more a month for the next 6 months so I might as well start somewhere.

I got packed, I plotted a map.  I was ready.  There was a lot of waiting and then we set off and I breathed and I breathed hard.  So much for racing this thing.  I was well into my limits and streams of people were peeling past me until finally I hit mud and got into my stride within a group.

After the first road crossing we were faced with two options.  Many people went left and cut off a corner but they seemed to start to queue on the narrow track and so I stayed on the wide open path and cut my own pace along the corner.

Onto the moor now and half of the pack turned right off the trail and the other half continued on the wide open track.  This time I was surrounded by people going my pace and less of us seem to take the short cut route.  It is also a line I wished I had taken on the boxing day bogtrott so today seemed like good a time as any.

First checkpoint achieved after a subtsantial time wading through heather along a trod.  A few people ran past me as the group ahead slowly moved away but I didn't want to raise my game much at that point.

I exchanged a few places with a bloke in a pink teeshirt and bounded past a few guys coming off burbage rocks as my downhilling skills outweighed my slower pace.  They were still pretty good though.  Here's me: now mixing with people of my own ability!

We were all checking on a guy who had hurt is arm and for a moment I thought he was having a heart attack and felt guilty about not stopping but there were plenty of other racers around and he was still making his way over to marshalls, not *actually* collapsing in the heather.

We scrabbled up the muddy side of Burbage valley and over to Higger Torr then over to Winyards Nick without really noticing it to be honest.  Small changes in position didn't matter until this point when I looked at my watch and made the ridiculous conclusion that with 6 miles done, we only had half as much again to go.  Wrong - I'd only done 6km and still had 9km to go. I didn't realise this at that point though and resolved to keep going at the same pace - even to pick it up a little bit!

We got to the south end of the course at Burbage Bridge and then set off North again where we had the joy of cheering on other racers on their way down - where we could look up.  I shook hands with the marshall as I passed around them and then had the joy of discovering I was ahead of TSK - both of us confused as to how I had got ahead.  Still, there wasn't far to go so I had to keep pushing right?

Climbing off Carl Wark I saw Jen who is a twitter friend that I haven't *actually* *met* yet and is also wife to the nice man who slapped me on Friday.  I squealed a hello as I recognised some blonde hair behind a camera lens attached by a lead to a cantankerous beagle who was voicing his boredom of taking fotos of fell racers.  I should have stopped for a hug but I was sweaty and I felt like I was probably doing quite well and a hug may have been flippant, surprising and a little forward - given the sweaty! - even if she is a fellow runner.

Where we crossed Burbage brook and I acquired a tail through the slush who I then held up as I protected my knees going over the river scramble.  I was looking forwards to legitimately following the path that I'd accidentally taken on the boxing day bogtrott - for real this time.

It didn't disappoint.  My new muscles found routes from rock to rock through the heather and around the hill walkers, really not sure what was going on around them.  Now to venture out across Houndkirk Moor where it suddenly became blatantly obvious that the run was not going to be 10km long at all.

Still, I'd given it some to get here and I wasn't about to give up now.  I at least wanted to hold my place and we all plugged away through the bracken in a long, colourful line.  Occasionally someone came past and occasionally I raised my game and stuck with them until the next pack of people where I either stuck with it or faded into the group and waited for the next fast wave to catch.

We finally hit the Houndkirk Road again - that big wide open track and this time I chose the cut-through route because we were a thinner field.  As we approached the road I saw the change to teh route - no longer retracing our steps back to a short, flat run along the main road but instead, running through a small quarry.  A lady passed me and I complained that my knee was about to divorce me.  She said, "me too" and then proceeded to run away from me.

"It's just cramp in the little knee muscles" I thought and carried on running, trying to relax it into going away... but it stayed... and it got worse.  I hobbled a bit over the rises and then we were back on the road.  It felt like a good thing and I allowed myself to open up my stride a little bit and run fast.  As a fell-runner it pains me sometimes that I'm quite fast on flat roads.  It's like being a rockstar who's quite good at maths.  Cool but a little bit prim and proper at the same time.  Speeds hit 6.7 miles per hour and then we turned onto the Long Line Lane and a downhill.  My knees were hurting anyway so I just opened up.  The stride went long and I threw all regard for the condition of my legs tomorrow out of the window in favour of speed.

I kept hearing the woman behind me on my shoulder catching me up and every time I thought, "well if she comes past me at this speed, there's nothing more I can do" and she never came past.  Men did but I didn't care.   I just wanted to hold onto that ladies' place.  The speed hit 8 miles per hour.

For a brief respite we turned back into the muddy lower pitch of the rugby field and I looked up to see the wall of death - a wood chipped slope of around 5% leading from the lower pitch to the middle pitch.  I joked to the guy to my right that this was the worst hill of the race.  He hadn't looked up, he didn't see it coming, he went backwards with a groan and I never saw him again.

My knee was proper screaming now and all that time I could feel the next place runners breathing down my neck. It wasn't about women's places any more it was about all places and I finally opened up to whatever sprint I had left.  It wasn't much but it was enough not to let me be caught on the middle field.  I checked in then stopped my watch and leant on the shoulders of hte finisher in front of me - just in case my knee collapsed completely.

Over the line I caught up with a lady who I had exchanged places with several times and we'd checked on eachother as we passed by when she stopped to tie her laces and when I slowed down to drink from my Camelbak.

I also said hello to fellow tri club mates and waited for TSK to come in.  He had a nice run but not so good a race as he had battled with the faff.

We hobbled to our car, changed shoes and put on a dry top then drove home.

It was only later when I realised how well I had done.  I took 13 minutes off my previous time - despite the course being longer and I finished 15 places higher in my age group.  I was no longer in the second half of the women's pack but in the top third and just sneaked inside the middle third overall, having come in previously behind 300 other people.

There are things to be credited for today and none of them include much running they are:
Pushing heavy bikes up big hills
The favourable weather conditions - still cold but warmer than years gone by.
My Physio's incredible detective work (and no doubt the slapping)
TSK putting me into the inescapable carrot position.

9.56 miles 1:50:29 524m el.

A/G 9th/33
Women 31st / 94
224th overall of 380 finishers.
Much to my delight, I was the 6th Dark Peak women's finisher meaning that my time contributed to the Dark Peak ladies' B-team being in 6th place.

The best kind of sleepless itch...

One that has to be scratched by booking a ski holiday at 2:30am.

Church? or Chapel?

Prelude

I have tried, moderately, to write up this ride.  The fact is, it would be proper hard work to write it up accurately.  To describe this ride by any fact is doing it injustice for it was a mash of pedal strokes, mud splatters, sideways sunbeams, snowy distant peaks, raindrops in headtorch beams, snuggly tents and sleeping bags our of the storm, coffees brewed fresh in the forest, surprise shelters, friendly strangers, porridge, best friends for life, colourful sheep, mucky ponies, pub food, railway lines, stained glass, Gallic crosses and icy rivers.

Chapel?

Church?

OR 

Church?

OR...

Chapel?

Llanbrynmwair: a rainy school car park.  Other peoples: eating toast.  I’m given a bottle for my holy water and a half-bottle of red to take communion.  I am also furnished with a Lion Bar and fed tea and toast.  

I change into cycling kit then set about attaching bags to my bike.  A dry bag under the handlebars containing my sleeping bag, a frame bag containing dry leggings, wool tops and knickers (also woollen).  A bottle cage filled with emergency equipment – plasters, painkiller, savlon, a needle, a tampon (good for mopping up all kinds of things), thrush cream (good for all kinds of itches).  Finally, a saddle bag containing half the tent, dried food, down coat and booties, headtorch in a box with some cables and a battery and my mug / brewkit.  My winter addition is two “stemcells”.  They’re shaped like they hold a bike bottle and dangle off the handlebars.  They’re sturdier than it sounds and most accessible so one side contains a tool kit and the other, breakfast oats in a waterproof box and goji berry / walnut mix for munching on.

We say goodbye to the guys huddling from the rain in their van and head off in our coats.

1 mile down the road and I return to the car park and add my rucsac to my back containing 2 litres of water and my waterproof trousers, warm hat, dry gloves energy bars and camera.

We finally get properly underway at 10:20 and by 11:15 have marked off our first checkpoint

.

Further down the road, two guys go straight on as we turn to pick up a bridlepath over to the East.  Much to my embarrassment it goes straight up and I’m convinced that I planned it this way – no worries about a bit of hike-a-bike early on.  I can do easy riding later.  As we head further and further up the 30% slope I become more and more worried that the slope will never end or the path will level out into unrideable forest.  

TSK adding to the scenery

Thankfully, our efforts are rewarded with a spectactular view before the path levels out into an entertaining track through the trees which requires some concentration but is rideable.  

After 5 miles we descend into a little village to claim our Second church and we’ve almost caught a buzzard from the sky, seen an owl and been laughed at by sheep.

For a while we climb away from checkpoint 2 on roads and TSK is almost mown down by an oncoming motorist without any concept of what might be around the next bend.  Over the other side of the hill we descend for some time, eventually overshooting a turn-off onto a bridlepath.  Again we push our bikes up to meet the connecting path we should have taken and swear when we realise if we’d retraced further we’d have had an easy ride.  Still, the path in itself is avoiding some evil chevrons on some evil climbs on the road map so we’re happy, even when having to make up the bridle path because there’s no sign of it on the ground.  

The scenery outweighs the effort and I snap a picture in case the sun doesn't come out again.

We arrive in a village where there’s an open pub serving lunch.  

Just as our meal is arriving, another rider walks in and we catch up about where we’ve been.  The route over the tops by the wind turbines was no better, in fact sounds much worse, than what we’ve just been through so that’s reassuring.  

Filled with baked potatoes we return outside to discover we’ve locked up the bikes without bringing the key for its release with us.  I go indoors and make pretty eyes at the staff and the chef comes to our rescue with a pair of bolt cutters from the boot of his car.  Turns out his other job is a farrier.

Released, we set off on our third off road ride of the day.  We climb up hill a way before turning off onto a well defined path.  It’s not a great bridleway but there’s some path to it.  It doesn’t last long and soon enough we’re following something that diverges greatly from the direction we were *supposed* to take.  After some very cool downhill slaloms which would be better on skis than mountain bikes we find the track again, just as it disappears into a brackeny hillside behind someone’s house and we have to make 4 2-person lifts of loaded mountain bikes over barbed wire fences before slithering through more bracken to the track at the bottom of the valley.

This track then runs alongside streams and rivers which eventually culminate in one big river crossing.  Whilst all the others have been rideable, this one has a bridge – at least it used to.  The only thing that remains of the bridge are the two concrete blocks either side of the river that the bridge used to stand on.  The alternatives of pushing our bikes across open grassland overlooked by a big house versus retracing our steps up hill, leads us to remove shoes and socks ready for the paddle across the river.  As I’m moving to hang my shoes over my bars, TSK decides to lob his shoes over the river onto dry land. 

Unfortunately one shoe ricochets off the gate on the other side and slowly starts to make its way downstream.  I try and race after it but I’m already in bare feet and slow on rocks even during triathlon races, never mind in a Welsh river in January.  TSK wades in fully socked.  At least shoe number 2 made it and he’s able to make more progress in stocking feet.  The shoe gets momentarily caught on a rock, buying us time and he manages to catch it just as it gets unattached and recommences steady progress down the river.  He helps haul my bike out around the gate and I walk up the mossy slope in bare feet.

I think this is the happiest I was all weekend.  My feet were numb from the cold meaning I was free to “feel” the moss between my toes for I was cold enough not to feel pain but somehow I could still feel the mossy softness, the tickle of tiny fronds of green on my foot pads.  Then once the novelty of that wore off, my feet felt great again back in my wool socks and fleecy leggings.

We dried off, re-shoed and started to push our bikes out of the valley to get the blood flowing to the feet.

Bus house parked up at a local campsite complete with porch, deck and "pond feature"

Walking off the hill climbs

Pee stop

Once we’d accessed a road, we descended down again right up until we started going back up again and then, after some minor lanes and villages, we were in Corris.

This is not actually the church in Corris but it looked like a place of worship and was next to the cafe... by then we didn't care.

And there was a church and outside it were bikes because right next to it there was a  café and it was open and they sold us sweet potato muffins and coffee and life was good.  There were around 6 other riders in there and two leaving.  We assumed their seats then Andrew chatted as I spoon fed my brain to get it to work again.

Finally, Andrew insisted we go back outside and I dawdled as much as was polite.  We’d arrived in Corris way earlier than I expected.  Eventually I realised this was because my route-choice from Corris was an out and back and we would return there just 1.5 hours later after obtaining one more checkpoint and scouting out an overnight camping spot which was later rejected in favour of drier climes.  Andrew reliably informed me that Cadair Idris was above us (through the rain) and he (the mountain) seemed to be generating all kind of wet weather patterns which didn’t necessarily exist on the other side of the valley.  Stopping there, next to a river, did not seem like a good idea. 

TalYLynn Church

We dawdled a bit, thinking about a high mountain pass to the Cross Foxes Inn (which TSK had passed many times but not gone in yet) and going back to Corris.  I eventually reasoned that my plan after Corris was to get offroad and therefore the best bivi spots.

Head torch and silhouette

Where we did bivi shall remain a mystery for the protection of all those involved.  Let’s just say that me refusing to budge far beyond that place and Andrew’s reluctance to eat anything other than pub food meant that in the morning we were back at Corris, wondering casually if the café was open (it wasn’t).

So 12 hours had passed in which we had eaten in a pub, camped outdoors, got rained on all night, snuggled in our tent until dawn rose on account of it being too wet and windy to be drawn to anything else before 7:40am.

I didn’t sleep brilliantly but nor did I sleep atrociously.  I found that my wool top (now damp) being stuffed up my down coat to dry out was only making me colder but somehow when I spread it over my thighs (the only bit of me not covered in double-down) my body temperature improved.  2-man, winter camp tenting in the wet actually worked out and I think snow would have only made it easier so long as it made it less damp not that a lightweight tent can hold *that* much water.

At 7:30 am we packed up and were gone by 8:30.  We rode from Corris along a minor road until we found a forestry commission carpark, furnished with a brew-hut… I mean, infoshelter.  It would have made a perfect bivi spot but you win some /  lose some.  Coffee made on a stove outdoors is so much richer… if a little gravelly.

On the turn to our next pass that day, we met another rider coming down.  I was eager to move on and stay warm but Andrew chatted away as I fumbled with some stuff and then re-arranged the hand warmers in my gloves.  As I fiddled, Andrew asked, “is it steep ahead”.  The guy went quiet.  He was quite obviously gesturing something behind my back, like if he said it out loud I would throw some kind of womany strop and refuse to proceed.  Finally I got him to admit out loud that the climb was a bastard.  I didn’t mind.  It was early, I had miles in the legs.  We set off up the bastard.

TSK later said the man implied that we (or I) would be walking most of it.

It really wasn’t so bad.  OK, there were long sections of steep climbing but I had badass gears on my bike and only stumbled twice.  The first, when I needed to eat as I got the shakes – so I did and I walked whilst I ate because riding, breathing and chewing at the same time is not a skill I posses without choking. 

Once I’d got going again, I also had a wobble as I zig zagged across the road.  My front wheel accidentally turned downhill instead of up and I had to fight so hard not to let the bike take both of us rolling down the hill, that I knew I couldn’t get going again, even if I could get my leg over the bike top tube.  So I walked to the next lower grade section – all of about 10m before getting back on and starting to ride again.  I rode the rest with a mixture of determination, heavy breathing, tactical deployment of my new muscles and being a contrary bitch.

Over the top of the climb, the descent was justifiably insane.  As steep as the uphill, it lasted about 5 minutes (not an Alp) of whoop and some cautious braking, after which we were deposited on a main road - the other side of the hill we'd been debating riding over at 6pm the night before.  We turned North in search of Andrew's target for the day - the Cross Foxes.

This newly refurbished, posh (Telegraph and Guardian reported and recommended bijoux) pub/grill could not have done any more to make us feel welcome.  We left our bikes under the deck and cautiously climbed the stairs into the warm of the conservatory entrance where we dripped onto the slate floor and hung our wet gear over the back of chairs before perching our slightly (though not too) mucky bottoms on tall stools.  The waitress predicted our "hot drinks" order and brought us our food with a smile and friendly chat about where we had been / were going.

We looked nervously at the newly painted cream and pale grey decor, the superb scenic wall art and they stoked the fire and never once mopped the floor or tutted.

Reluctantly we left and formed a plan to head back to base so that we weren't driving home exhausted.  When we realised our legs just weren't in it, the plan was cut even shorter and we started riding over the main road climb back to the HQ.  It doesn't take my brain long to tire of long main roads so by the time the downhill appeared, I was ready for minor lanes and again turned off.  This time I was gambling on a track marked both as a permissive path and "traffic-free cycle route" but not a surfaced road.

I wasn't sure how sure-footed a track it would be but it seemed to contour pretty well and I needed to get off that main road.  It didn't disappoint.  Solid enough to ride all the way yet wet, silent, glistening and sheltered enough to be absolute bliss.  We met one black labrador and his human who had a lovely chat and some purple sheep.

And then there was road again - minor lanes and they crossed the major road and we set off back up the other side of this valley with a plan to zig zag back on ourselves up the valley side then head over into the final run-in to HQ.

In one last stab-in-the-back, just after we'd been distracted by a young shepherd trying to get his flock across the road with a petulant sheep dog and one errant sheep, about the time we were looking for the zig zag road, the Garmin crashed.  Except it crashed surreptitiously so that we cruised past the zig zag and rolled down a fucking big steep hill.  Only when we had reached the bottom did I realise the Garmin had crashed and when I checked, we had to retrace our descent right to the very top.  Not only that but in my frustration I overlooked the fact that we were around 1.5 miles away from obtaining our only checkpoint of the day and with that, we turned too early as well as too late.

The zig zag was bad news.  Not a road at all but a muddy track that went up the valley side at a gradient of silly... over 33% according to Mr Garmin.  We were dismayed.  TSK didn't want to ride, I mean push, it (and neither did I) but I didn't want to go on the main road either.  We hadn't come all the way to Wales to ride on main roads and I was convinced this road turned into the lovely yellow B road which took us directly back to HQ.  Where the hell did it turn into a yellow road? (Garmin puts a big pink line over the route so you can't actually tell what road surface you're supposed to be riding on).

I zoomed out so I could see the road behind the big pink line, briefly and concluded that we had no more than 500m of pushing up this hill before it evened out and turned into a minor road.  We made a pact to do it and I prayed to the Karma that it would pan out and prayed to OS that their maps were accurate.

The views were worth it.

It was so steep I reverted to counting steps in between rest stops.  At first, 10 steps.  Then 5 steps, and rest.  It was so far to the top.  We were both, only just, managing to stay upright.  Then there it was, the gates, the view, the why, THE TARMAC.  I took the picture, less for the view but more to exercise the pride in taking myself to such a tired place and coming out the other side better for it.

The muddy splodge on my bag is where the whole thing toppled over into the mud and poo.  Oh well.

Down to a farmyard and through flocks of pheasants then onto the main road again briefly before turning off onto my B-road which cut across an evil valley (this time just a rideable 8%) before following the path of the river (gently uphill).  After a while there were no more evil climbs on it and TSK just about forgave me enough to enjoy the solitude of the b-road since we saw only 3 cars for the next 7 miles.  We considered stopping in the occasional layby / grassy field to brew up more coffee and instant food but instead chowed down on the nose-bag residing in my stem cells and the odd energy bar, just to get us the last 5km into the finish.

Ian Fitz was back.  My life completed, leaving before him and returning after him and within seconds he had sewn the seed of my next bike packing adventure in May. 

The next group to return to base were over the moon to be almost the last tribe back and had a sprint to the line amongst themselves in which a fat bike won.  We didn't steal their thunder by revealing, to the others in the HQ, that this group had been in the cafe when we arrived in Corris on Saturday and in the pub when we returned there 1.5 hours later.

We ate more tea and toast and changed into civilian clothing for the long drive home then climbed into our car with the cow poo and sweaty clothing and took it in turns to drive shifts.  

More than anything else this weekend reintroduced me to the joy of being outdoors just for the sake of being outdoors.  Reminded me that not every trip is going to be a disastrous wash out (because for all the rain, this wasn't a wash-out).  It was enjoyable and basic and mainly, real.

I can't wait for the next adventure.

60 miles, 2500m climbing
29 hours on the run of which...
8 hours riding (allegedly)
10 hours sleeping / fidgeting
11 hours faffing, brewing up, peeing and eating