I'm struggling to write about Skeggy. What to say about a perfectly executed ride which does exactly what it said on the tin, in perfect conditions that's over much quicker than expected?
So much.
Everybody did, I think, ride to Skeggy. Not everyone returned.
4:30am is a particularly unsociable time to get up on a Saturday morning - even more so when TSK has been at work till 11pm and then comes home and fidgets but then I didn't even notice him get up and go to sleep in the spare room at 1:30am to give me some quiet time.
We were too dozy to speak on the way to Alfreton. We missed the group start, still faffing in the car park. I left my heart rate monitor behind and soon realised I'd left my brevet card behind. For a short time I was annoyed at myself but then everything would be fine, no one would care and I would just collect receipts along the way.
A group of three riders passed us. Two, in red, said, "Mornin'" as they passed. "Mornin'" I said back to the first guy... which kind of passed to the second... then as the third guy in Grey/blue came past, I said, "Mornin'". He stared at me... and rode off. OK then.
I only had one info-control which TSK conveniently read from his card and I watched the miles tick down on the screen on the Garmin. I dislike info controls. I'm always paranoid I'll miss them. This one was, "The name of the house after the level crossing". The road approached a level crossing but did not cross it. I looked around apprehensively as TSK said, "Not this one" and then the road ran alongside the railway before crossing the next level crossing. I need not have worried about missing it. A busy crowd of people were scribbling, "Station house" (predictably) onto their Brevet Cards. We decided we could remember that and kept on going.
The first control was in a lovely cafe in Newark. I'm used to riding all day to get to Newark from Sheffield but this time we were there by 9am with enough appetite for cake and coffee. I met a guy who was doing his first 300k and we set off just behind them, catching them up through Sherwood forest. We mused about how much sunshine we were to get that day, under the grey skies. Then looking in my new dynamo light which, I had just noticed, acts as a little mirror on the world behind me, I noticed a large patch of bright blue sky spreading across my vista.
Somebody asked me about my bike forks - they're rather special - I did my best to answer with some authority. They seemed satisfied and continued on, better informed.
After this point, TSK decided to go on alone. I advised him that I would be plodding out my own pace and he was welcome to join me or leave at any point he chose. After a short ride up a hill together, we parted company and I bounced between my new first-timer friend and riding lonesome.
I accidentally made an extra checkpoint stop at Navenby just because. It had a cafe which was decorated exactly the same way as one I had seen in my reccee on the internet on Friday. I went to the cash machine to get a receipt and the machine said it was all-out... even more confirmation for my brain that this was a checkpoint so I went and bought an apple in the McCalls. Then restarted my Garmin and noticed that I was still 15 miles short of the next checkpoint.
Oh well, there were miles of Fenland riding to do next and I seemed to need the apple and chowed down on it heartily, discarding the core at the actual checkpoint 15 miles later.
The Timberland Fen was enchanting, Timberland village even more so.
I didn't plan to stop in Woodall Spa unless it was lunchtime. I arrived there at 11:30 and given that I'd just eaten an apple, I didn't need to stop. I could use the opportunity to gain some time. It almost felt like cheating as I rode past hoards of cyclists holed up in sweaty and steamy cafés. I locked my bike to a road sign, popped into the Co-op and bought a cereal bar and a chocolate bar for later and rode away again.
I religiously followed the Garmin for a couple of turns, enjoying the woodland and then the countryside and then became suddenly confused as it redirected me to make another turn towards Woodall Spa 2 miles away. I furiously zoomed out. The blasted thing had sent me on a 4 mile loop completely off-course - all because I turned the wrong way up the high street in the village. As I rode past a couple of riders going the other way, I realised it had then over-shot the route, leading me into Woodall - presumably to pick up from where I left off! I u-turned, caught the other riders up as they stopped at the toilets and then, when they caught me up later, oh how we laughed about my 4 mile detour.
Now I had to remember to add 4 miles to all my distances on my directions!
As I turned in Miningsby, I was caught up by a genteel man who pointed to the road sign and said, "Mavis Enderby what a wonderful place name. I'm so excited that we get to ride through Mavis Enderby". He was good enough to point out that after the next climb was a long descent whose "surface degrades rapidly". I exercised suitable caution but it looked like it had been somewhat repaired since he last saw it and the clear skies meant it was free of any slipperiness. I left him somewhat behind as I took the next series of turns but then at Old Bollingbrooke he left me behind as I followed my route into a little lane, only to find that I was off course. Whoever plotted this route either took a wrong turn or popped into the pub in Old Bollingbrooke for a pint before continuing as the route did a U-turn outside the pub before continuing on the main road through the village. I caught up my friend a few moments later who had reached the bottom of a steep climb and been wondering just exactly how I got so far ahead of him already. To be honest, we didn't get to notice Mavis Enderby as we were engaged in some lengthy discussions about audaxes we had done and places we had ridden and his hillarious story about a drunken person throwing a freshly bought kebab at him in the middle of one of his longer audaxes.
After Mavis, there was Spilsby Hill to enjoy. A long miandering climb that was almost a relief after the flat fens. Coming down the other side was fun and then the descent clearly continued gradually for many miles as I suddenly felt like I was on absolute top form - or had a tail wind. My genteel friend passed me again, warning not to do this road the other way for its deceptive gradual uphill. I did not see him again.
I passed another couple on the next climb. She was obvious by her billowing green and yellow jacket and green and yellow rugby socks to match and she was pushing far too high a gear. He rode steadily along in a red, white and blue knitted jersey.
After I passed with a "hello, are you doing OK?" they caught me up at the next set of traffic lights. "Is your mudguard bamboo?" she asked. "Yes," I explained. "I decided Titanium was a natural material so I aimed to build my bike with all natural materials" and pulled a comedic face. She was amused that titanium was about as natural as any material.
The next control was "Skegness" although not actually Skegness, but a cafe just outside called "Poppies". We were sent "around the back" so as not to get "in the way" and appointed three tables by the back door which strangers had to share so that the "other customers" could use the remaining tables. It sounded unfriendly but in fact was outstandingly efficient as orders were taken in bulk across groups and delivered upon, payments taken on an honesty basis and riders dispatched all checked in and fed. It was very welcome as by 1:30pm, I was well over-due my lunch.
In the new compact community of sharing tables with strangers, I ate my baked potato and we exchanged war stories of Audaxes and holidays gone by and discussed the gpx file of the route. The couple I had passed earlier were from Sheffield too. I shared a pot of tea with three people I'd never met. We all empathised with the guy who had lost his bank cards and money somewhere between a cafe in Woodhall and a bench on the fens and had used the last of his mobile phone charge making the call to his bank to cancel his card. Another rider had lent him a £20 to get through the day. He had added 20 miles to his journey, retracing to search the wooden bench and surrounding area for his cash. Suddenly my 4 miles didn't seem so bad.
The officials took one of my receipts from an earlier control and stamped it instead of my brevet card then text'd the organiser to let him know.
As I left Poppies, the two guys who had witnessed my Woodhall error were just departing, "Right, let's see if I can find my way out of this one", I said and they laughed at me as it was a simple right turn onto the main road.
We crossed the "Welcome to Skegness" sign and then, avoiding the mele and carnival that was the funfare, out-of-season caravan sites and drinking alley that is Skegvegas, turned North to wind our way through lanes and streets around Ingoldmells, Chapel St Leonards and finally into Sutton on Sea.
The guys in red asked me about my forks then rode on, fully informed.
All the time hearing but not seeing the sea was kind of disconcerting for a swimmer but after 105 miles of riding, the trip over the massive sand bank that protects the villages from the weather and the waves seemed frivolous and all of the villages I've just mentioned are not the kinds of places you want to leave a bike locked up out of sight to avoid getting it sandy whilst you go for a paddle.
To match the area, the little road that ran along the non-sea-front was pitted and potholed. The guy ahead of me was doing a lot of standing on the pedals, proceeding quite slowly. I pulled up alongside with the familiar, "how you doing?" greeting that becomes appropriate at this point. "I'm just admiring your forks," he said. "I bet, you look like you're doing a lot of standing up on this surface". I span out the same platitudinal schpeil, hopefully leaving the enquirer feeling like they were better informed.
Thankfully Sutton on Sea was a little more tempting and I arrived on the high street, immediately noticing my mistake in Navenby.
"The Coast Cafe" had identical decor to "The Corner Cafe" in Navenby and the village almost identical layout. Turn left and continue to the village square where you can park your bike opposite the McCall newsagent.
A couple of other riders were eyeing my bike. To detract from any further questions about my forks, I reversed to the cash machine, took out £30 and a receipt, remounted and started riding, cracking into my nose-bag to find my date and nut mix and started chomping.
Sooner or later, the guys caught me up. "We were just admiring your forks". I'd seen these two before - one in white was wearing a "H Middleton" jersey and speaking with a Wirral accent. The other, a demure gentleman wearing yellow and with an ankle which had obviously been horribly smashed some time ago. We talked briefly before they surged ahead.
The next checkpoint was Horncastle. By now I was starving. Whilst my Poppies baked potato was substantial, I could have eaten it twice but didn't fancy the apple crumble and custard many of my compatriots had scoffed as I feared the sugar slump that would come after it.
Thanks to my Friday research whilst I had been on holiday, I knew exactly where the chip shop was in Horncastle and there was a square outside where I could lock up my bike. My progress was lightly hampered by stopping for a kiss with my husband, just on his way out. A multitude of riders were stopped outside the co-op but I had my eye on real food, big food and the team inside the chip shop were encouraging riders to come in for a water bottle top up and giving away free chocolate to audaxers.
The weather was so beautiful, I sat on the steps of the war memorial to eat my chips whilst observing my fellow riders engaging in conversation with the local gentleman of challenged intelligence / alcoholic tendency who also clearly was/had been a keen cyclist before he had, one assumes, taken a severe blow to the head.
I heard his incredulity with the first pair of riders he talked to as he proclaimed, "but that's a 69 inch gear!". If you're a non-cyclist reading this, be reassured, whilst I know what he's talking about, I don't actually understand the gear inch system either, it's kind of like someone telling you that they're driving at 24 furlongs per minute. You recognise it as a unit but have no idea whether it's fast or slow. You have to be a keen keen cyclist to get it (and usually born in the 1950s).
As he talked to the second pair of cyclists, further incredulity spread, "Alfreton, you're riding all the way to Alfreton?" He was beffuddled, they left and he came to talk to me.
I tried to focus on what I was doing, anxious to be away. I listened carefully as he told me everything he'd just learned. He admired my bike, my light, my Garmin and told me that he nearly won the Isle of Man tt races once. Thank GOD he didn't ask about the forks. I made my excuses and left. I was against the clock after all, although by now, 2 hours ahead of my planned schedule. "Those guys are going ALL THE WAY TO ALFRETON" he said, "I know" I answered, "I'm on the same ride". He looked at me like I'd stolen his innocence and wandered away, muttering, "All the way to Alfreton..." and shaking his head.
On the way to Lincoln, I caught up with H Middleton and the chap in yellow. "Chips are working" I said. They were impressed by my recovery. Me and H Middleton took turns on the front but we kept dropping the guy in yellow. Every time we slowed up to wait for him, we got carried away chatting, rode faster and dropped yellow again. H Middleton decided to wait for Yellow as they'd been riding together all day and I admitted I was riding outside myself by accident so we all reigned it in and rode together all the way to Lincoln. I talked with H Middleton whilst I was on the front and then dropped to the back to talk to Yellow. I found out that H Middleton was the name of a club in Ormskirk and wondered if it had anything to do with firends from back in the Northwest. Before I knew it we were in Lincoln, the final checkpoint.
Yellow and H headed straight into town and I continued to follow the route - a rather pleasant bike route along back roads and over pedestrian flyovers and riverside paths that avoided the worst of city streets.
As I back-tracked having found myself on the wrong side of a river, I saw the blue grey jersey of the chap who had stared at me in the morning. Keen on one-up-manship and setting first impressions to bed, I waited for him to make sure he didn't miss the turn that I had missed. He was thankful but then sat silently on my wheel the rest of the way through town. At the retail park where I'd spied my bike-accessible McDonalds, we rode through the carpark together then went our separate ways. Again, it was nice enough at 8pm that I could site outside without my jacket on.
I'd been dreaming of a chocolate milkshake but the machine was broken. I didn't fancy any more food so settled for a smoothie, having been upsold by a teenager who thought I wanted a cold drink (because it's so hot outside) instead of a protein rich sugar fest. Sadly the smoothie was light on protein and high on cold and I left most of it. Thankfully I'd ordered a double-espresso to keep my cafeine levels up though. With a plethora of other riders to keep my bike safe, I was happy to use the toilets before setting back off up the road behind pink stripe riders.
The route out of Lincoln was up for debate. There was the route that I usually take - a pleasant one along the river which is initially surfaced and then not - or the official route. The two are inter-changeable up to a certain point and apparently the route used to use my riverside path. I opted for the official route as I fancied something different. I also got myself on the cycle superhighway (give or take side road interruptions). It was here I passed the pink stripe riders looking at the map. In a moment of uncertainty I wondered if I'd made the right choice but, remembering I felt like something different, I ploughed on.
After a short distance I really started to doubt the route as I joined the A57 and 60 mph vans passing and saw a sign that said Sheffield was 20 miles away - actually closer than the finish point of the ride at this point! Thankfully though, I turned off onto minor roads but I was still lacking in company. Surely the pink stripes should have passed me by now.
Some time later I turned my lights on as the sun started to set and settled onto the tri bars to batter out some lonely miles. All of a sudden there was a flurry of activity as pink stripes passed, followed by yellow and H Middleton then the two red riders and blue/grey jacket and I let out a whoop of "Full team!" as red shouted, "jump on!".
I jumped in behind grey/blue jacket who dropped back - to talk to me this time! "Is your mudguard bamboo?" he said. "Erm yes".
Conversation over.
We forged ahead in a massive pack until finally me, yellow and H all blew off the back and resumed our group of three all the way to the Dodworth Toll bridge where we admired the red sun setting into the Lincolnshire wolds like a Japanese painting.
"How are you doing?" asked Yellow. "Well, my backside is aching I said, "but I'm about 90 minutes ahead of my planned schedule so I'm happy with that. I thought we'd be back at midnight."
"What time do you think we'll be back?" he asked.
I did the math. "About 10 - 10:30. Depends if I stop on the way back".
"Are you planning to stop?".
"Not really, I could stop at Ollerton but I think I'll just keep going, I've got plenty of food on board".
I did a few turns on the front and then eventually it was H leading out with me and yellow struggling for mid supremacy on the hills. It was nice to have people to ride behind, rather than me towing the stragglers in. Finally, I decided that H's pace was too high and dangled off the back then got separated just short of Ollerton.
I toyed with the idea of stopping but locking up and going inside was only going to make me reluctant to come out again. I fancied salty food and realised that I had a protein bar which was packed with salty peanuts and that would do. I ate the picnic bar that I'd bought in the morning and through Sherwood forest treated myself to a packet of loveheart sweets that I'd bought in the sale after valentines day. They cheered me up immensely and the concentration of eating them from the soggy plastic packet without dropping any litter kept my mind off my sore backside.
As the rolling hills picked up the more we approached Derbyshire, I made some adjustments to my front light fitting, tilting it up to give me better advance notice of potholes. I was trying to make sure it didn't dazzle oncoming motorists and to be honest, it's best angle on the road for me, didn't look good for oncoming traffic but I left it there tentatively to see if anyone flashed me or tried to dazzle me back. Thankfully they didn't and I spent the rest of the ride very happily enjoying the reassuring glow and a sound feeling of being in a warm goldfish bowl as I was surrounded by a perfectly round pool of light.
Beyond Mansfield Wood house I could not remember what came next. I got excited as I drew into a town but that turned out to be Sutton in Ashfield instead of Alfreton. I enjoyed immensely the bike route alongside the A38 which took me on the other side of the fencing from a dual carriageway with fast-moving cars. I got excited about the town at the end of the A38 but that was South Normanton instead. I finally remembered to eat the salty peanut bar and felt better.
Finally I was onto a descent that I recognised and I remembered that Alfreton is at the top of a bloody long hill. It took all of my effort to mash up that and then I was there, back.
I threw my bike in the van and grabbed my kit whilst the guys in red welcomed me back. Then I headed inside to check in. TSK was waiting for me. He'd only been back 30 minutes (though I suspect longer). Pink stripes were already back. I'd got my tea by the time Yellow and H Middleton walked in, closely followed by blue/grey jacket who had all been sucked in by the golden arches in Ollerton.
A few I'd not even seen all day came in after us. I saw nothing more of the guy who lost his wallet and a couple called in to say they were still in Lincoln at 10:30pm with little chance of making it in on time. I guess this was the lady from Sheffield and her partner.
I shoved tea and malt loaf in my mouth like there was no tomorrow then bundled myself into the van to be driven home.
My official finish time was 16h:24m, 4.5 hours faster than The Dean but a completely incomparable ride with only 1000m climbing and impeccable weather. By the time I finished I had 3.5 hours float, mostly due to me taking very limited rest stops and having done an incredible prep job on this particular route, knowing exactly where to get food at each stop, planning what I wanted and when and what the options were for achieving it if things went well or if things went badly.
Again, and unbelievably, I enjoyed every single moment. Met some lovely people. Was humbled and charmed by their friendliness, both quiet and chatty. The audax community is a sweet one.
Next up? May: to be decided, based on recovery from this. Possibly I'm going to defer a 400 till after TAW and revert to 200 as a bit of a taper. Before that though is the Norton Weekend which is going to see me doing a ride out to Shropshire for camping fun. Now that's going to be a weather gods type of weekend.
Get your praying boots on.
Sunday, April 15, 2018
Friday, April 13, 2018
Garminge
I got a new Garmin last week and took it out for a ride on Saturday. A little ride as I was still recovering from Newport 200k but a hilly ride nevertheless and I threw some speed at it to make it count... and because I had a massage appointment to make in the afternoon and didn't want to turn up all sweaty.
I watched my heart rate, mostly because I am interested in increasing the length of time I can ride over zone 3 in any particular day.
On this particular day though, I sat royally above zone 3 most of the ride. Which was odd. Even on a 23 hour ride, I only managed 90 minutes above zone 3 and though my wrist monitor was not picking up most of the peaks, I didn't expect them to have been that numerous or long in duration to make much of a difference... and they'd still be caught by the zone 3 radar.
Back home I've checked the new zone settings onthe new Garmin - in theory they should be those of an average 45 year old hag.
And my own person settings on my Sports Track Ap...
Of course, now that I have properly syncd the computer, it's not quite right, they match. Cue one average hack.
Which led me to check what they should be:
On simple percentage theory.
So at the low end I'm giving myself more HRs to play with but when I hit the zones I've been trying to improve, I'm setting my limits a little too low.
I've gone back to basics and using last weekend's ride to calc LTH (It wasn't really a hard enough ride but hey ho, at least it has reliable recent data) we get LTH = 175.6. At least, that's what I was blowing going up the steepest section of Mam Nick, in control and sustained for 5:41 with a bloke dangling off my back wheel who eventually couldn't hang on. So I'm average. Which is actually slightly fitter than my settings on my ST software.
I studiously recorded the date that I set these - 16th March 2016 - when I was taking qualifying rather seriously, overcookked myself and left little motivation available for racing with, if I'm honest. I used to set these based on Cyclo-cross performance when I'm doing all my racing but actually, I'm probably not as fit as I am when I'm in the middle of a triathlon season or late summer mountain biking - and those heart rates were set before I discovered Alps and bike packing and rediscovered long distance riding and Oh so much water has gone under the bridge!
Before that, my heart rate settings were also depressingly low... those of a 49 year old, though in the year I was recovering from a PE, not surprising.
So there you go. For some reason I down graded my max HR to 169 and gave myself a HR age of 51. Not that there's anything wrong with 51 year olds but I'm not one. So today I'll change the clock again. Recalibrate myself... and find out just how much time I can spend in a new zone.
The thing is, now my head is spinning. Am I fitter than I thought I was, or not? I'm fitter than I'd claimed but just average but I'm happy with average, if average is fit... I mean most average people don't give a shit what their heart rate zones are right? Which means I'm average for a fit person and as someone who's generally presumed myself to be below average, that's in improvement. My endurance at higher zones is less than I thought it was... but all that time I was in a higher zone on the flat, I wasn't really.
Changing numbers doesn't make me fitter. In fact, it proves I've been training less hard! I'm not going to recover any quicker, even though my predicted recovery times will probably now be lower.
When I do set out train hard though, it will at least mean something - not nothing.
I watched my heart rate, mostly because I am interested in increasing the length of time I can ride over zone 3 in any particular day.
On this particular day though, I sat royally above zone 3 most of the ride. Which was odd. Even on a 23 hour ride, I only managed 90 minutes above zone 3 and though my wrist monitor was not picking up most of the peaks, I didn't expect them to have been that numerous or long in duration to make much of a difference... and they'd still be caught by the zone 3 radar.
Back home I've checked the new zone settings onthe new Garmin - in theory they should be those of an average 45 year old hag.
Of course, now that I have properly syncd the computer, it's not quite right, they match. Cue one average hack.
Which led me to check what they should be:
On simple percentage theory.
So at the low end I'm giving myself more HRs to play with but when I hit the zones I've been trying to improve, I'm setting my limits a little too low.
I've gone back to basics and using last weekend's ride to calc LTH (It wasn't really a hard enough ride but hey ho, at least it has reliable recent data) we get LTH = 175.6. At least, that's what I was blowing going up the steepest section of Mam Nick, in control and sustained for 5:41 with a bloke dangling off my back wheel who eventually couldn't hang on. So I'm average. Which is actually slightly fitter than my settings on my ST software.
I studiously recorded the date that I set these - 16th March 2016 - when I was taking qualifying rather seriously, overcookked myself and left little motivation available for racing with, if I'm honest. I used to set these based on Cyclo-cross performance when I'm doing all my racing but actually, I'm probably not as fit as I am when I'm in the middle of a triathlon season or late summer mountain biking - and those heart rates were set before I discovered Alps and bike packing and rediscovered long distance riding and Oh so much water has gone under the bridge!
Before that, my heart rate settings were also depressingly low... those of a 49 year old, though in the year I was recovering from a PE, not surprising.
So there you go. For some reason I down graded my max HR to 169 and gave myself a HR age of 51. Not that there's anything wrong with 51 year olds but I'm not one. So today I'll change the clock again. Recalibrate myself... and find out just how much time I can spend in a new zone.
The thing is, now my head is spinning. Am I fitter than I thought I was, or not? I'm fitter than I'd claimed but just average but I'm happy with average, if average is fit... I mean most average people don't give a shit what their heart rate zones are right? Which means I'm average for a fit person and as someone who's generally presumed myself to be below average, that's in improvement. My endurance at higher zones is less than I thought it was... but all that time I was in a higher zone on the flat, I wasn't really.
Changing numbers doesn't make me fitter. In fact, it proves I've been training less hard! I'm not going to recover any quicker, even though my predicted recovery times will probably now be lower.
When I do set out train hard though, it will at least mean something - not nothing.
Sunday, April 08, 2018
Having a little faith
I have to have a little faith here.
That things happen for a reason.
That I'm tired because I'm training hard.
That I have trained hard, despite how it feels.
That I have more in me to give in the next 2 months.
That I will recover in time.
That if I save weight on equipment and money on lower gears, I'll still be able to ride up hills.
That things happen for a reason.
That I'm tired because I'm training hard.
That I have trained hard, despite how it feels.
That I have more in me to give in the next 2 months.
That I will recover in time.
That if I save weight on equipment and money on lower gears, I'll still be able to ride up hills.
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Newport 200k Audax - a last minute dash in the RRtY challenge.
The Newport Audax is a "permanent" ride which means it can be entered on line and done at a time of the rider's choosing. The organiser is very... well... organised and as soon as we entered had emailed us our route sheets and gpx files and stuck the cards in the post so on Saturday morning we were set to go.
I took my carradice off my bike and put it in the ginnel thinking, I'd better not forget to pick that up - won't that be annoying.
I loaded my bike in the van, \TSK arrived with his and we struggled to get that one in then loaded the kit bags and set off up the hill.
As I drove up the road in the driving rain, I thought, "Shit, I forgot to pack my waterproof trousers". Still, I wasn't going to turn us back now, I'd just struggle through the day in my rain legs. The rain legs serve to keep the wet off thighs - the important bits and the bits that get the wettest in the rain. They do not keep the rain off the shins when riding through puddles, but I'd cope.
After 25 minutes of driving, I suddenly realised I had left my Carradice in the ginnel - as I predicted. It contained my rain legs, waterproof coat and my wallet and phone - not only everything I needed but also everything I did not want to leave in the alley way for the day, right next to the pavement. Without hesitation but with a lot of swearing, I turned back.
"Is this rain going to last all day?" I asked, using my error as a reason to seek my waterproof trousers whilst also trying to convince myself that more time driving in the rain now would equal less time riding in the rain later.
All I got in reply was "Yes," then a hopeful, "Do you want to sack this off?".
I thought about the four rides I've done so far, how lucky I have been with winter weather (The Dean excepted), the prospect of starting again and the prospect of finishing next winter. No, absolutely not.
Waterproof trousers and Carradice acquired, we headed back into the driving rain turning to sleet and then snow the further we went over the Snake pass. Happily at least we wouldn't be riding in that down in Cheshire!
We drove a lap of Handforth to park the car and as we did the rain came to a dignified stop. We dressed then headed over to the petrol station to start our ride from its designated start point.
To compliment my food stash I bought the obligatory salty crisp-based snack, opting for "Fish n Chips" as a small package to stuff in my bag for later. No point in double-bagging my receipts and buying my emergency mars bar here - I could use that particular token later. We both used the facilities and TSK got his receipt in the form of flapjacks.
As an excellent start, I was almost reversed into by a car as I fiddled with my Garmin then, Garmin still loading, proceeded to turn completely the wrong way.
We finally started our ride around 5 minutes after the clock on account of it suddenly being rush hour in Dean Row.
30 miles of fairly main roads went next - Cheshire main roads though. This part of the route is designed to get riders to a destination far away early in the day when the traffic is light so that they can conclude the day milling around on pleasant country lanes to get home. On any other weekend, we may not have been so lucky with our late start but with a lot of people away on holiday, even Saturday late morning traffic was not at all bad, plus we had a tasty tail wind.
Our first control was at the Hall Farm Cafe in Radway Green near Alsager.
Had we started at the normal time, this would have been a quick cup of tea and a scone and away but with our delayed start, we arrived in time for lunch and with oatcakes on the menu, who was I to argue?
Unfortunately the oat-cakes, though delicious and packed with fresh, tangy cheddar and mushrooms, were under-sized and under-accompanied by any further sustenance. We had more cake to bolster the experience and though our receipts put us in time, we left a little behind time.
Although for now we didn't realise it and rode lightly. We sniggered through Woore (arguing it should be forever twinned with Ware) and Ireland's Cross (gross political understatement) and Pipe Gate (parliamentary scandal involving underground services).
Through the crossover of our figure of 8 at Mucklestone and down through the lanes to Wales at last with our Newport stop 20 miles later, still a little hungry and needing a sit down from the romping pace the tail wind had pushed us to. We locked our bikes up and whilst I got out cash to furnish my receipt, TSK went in to purchase fruity cereal / yoghurt affairs and more coffee for his receipt.
We munched on, looked at our watches and, after a customer toilet stop, set off on our way again, confused as to why we were riding the line of the cut-offs, despite some roaring tail winds. To be honest, we'd not been trying too hard so damn that "morning" cafe lunch stop
We put down the hammer a bit now.
The hills were coming, the floods (run off from earlier rain) were growing and our long coffee stop in the morning had us struggling for time - and we were now riding into the head wind.
Floods are inevitably at the bottom of roaring descents right before turning back up hill. In the interests of dry feet, we stopped to almost nothing to minimise splashing and make sure no motorists were approaching to try and drown us in spray. Mostly it worked although TSK did have to face-off an Audi driver who wasn't going to relent with a quick swerve right into his path to stop him approaching any closer.
What it didn't do was help with the hill climb effort in the slightest and every climb was started from around 3 mph.
In Wheaton Aston it was time to deploy my emergency Mars Bar purchase then wait for TSK to do the rounds of the shop making decisions. I still ate some of the banana he procured though didn't I? I must've needed it because it didn't come back to talk to me again.
We'd made up a little bit of time but the struggle continued as I became determined to make enough time to cover a puncture or any other mechanical mishap that might put an end to my game. It was 35 miles to Wrenbury and finally the lanes improved. They were drier, less flooded and less covered in mud and gravel.
Whilst my inner cyclo-cross rider had loved it, TSK was struggling on his skinny carbon fibre bike. Even I had a minor breakdown when one particular pothole did for my stash of dried fruit and nuts and left the majority of the packet strewn across the road in the mud whilst I scrambled to dump the remaining contents of the muddy packet into my bike bag without spilling any or pouring in any drips of muddy puddle.
TSK went quiet at the back so we broke things up with a water stop in Audlem and then I single-handedly neglected to drink the water, instead opting to carry it over all the hills.
There was celebration as we passed the highest point on the ride (not very high) and then we rolled into the village of Wrenbury. A voice behind me said, "There's a beast in Wrenbury if you fancy a brew". He said Bistro but the Beast of Wrenbury stuck.
There were coffee tables and chairs outside the Spar / Post office so we went in there instead to pick up our receipt from the dedicated stop point. There was a coffee machine and hot sausage rolls which we consumed standing up indoors to warm up whilst chatting to the shopkeeper who had a quiet day due to everyone being out at the Jazz festival in Nantwich. At 7:30pm our hot sausage roll went some way to persuading my body I'd had dinner.
We were back on the bikes with good time in the bag now - almost an hour as I recall. It was a good job because on the first hill I suddenly realised my hill climbing legs were over for the day. The best I could do now was limp home and draft TSK for a while. I checked the route elevation to realise that I was at the bottom of a generally trending upward curve towards Wilmslow. Bollocks, this was going to be tough.
Of course, a ride in Cheshire is never as steep as it looks on a Garmin file and with the lights on in the fading background light, I hardly noticed most of the easy climbing as it was concentrated in a beam of silver/grey light and I spent most of the ride concentrated on a massive shadow of my ass / Carradice, projected by TSKs infinitely more powerful and aptly named Moon light.
Middlewich came and went in close company but without incident. Then back onto back-lanes through Church Minshul - routes we have done before and TSK knows quite well but me, not so much.
Most of this section of the ride was taken up by the intense concentration of attempting to eat my "Fish n Chips" crisps from my bike bag with gloves on - a feat I mostly accomplished including regularly sucking the salty grains off my gloved fingers not really trying to think too hard about where those gloves had been.
We got close enough to the finish for me to know that we'd done 120 miles (somewhere near) but I didn't have the logic to work out how far that was and look out for potholes at the same time so I relied instead on the ever-present glow of Manchester and the presence of low-flying aircraft which cheered me up a little and distracted me from my backside - now painfully suffering from a flat day of sitting down a lot and my toes, punched to pieces by regular pothole-related impact with shoes. Now how far was it from Ollerton to Wilmslow?
We passed through Alderley edge and onto the back-lanes to Wilmslow which I do not know as, when I lived in Manchester, the main road between Alderley Edge and Wilmslow was pleasant and traffic-free enough to still be able to enjoy and feel safe on a bike - oh how times have changed for that road is now full of four-by-four wielding clueless rich people who see cyclists as impoverished targets who need to be put out of their misery - if they notice them at all.
I wish I'd ridden those back lanes more in my youth as I would have known where I was instead of being spit out unceremoniously at the roundabout on the edge of Wilmslow right adjacent to the petrol station in a mixed jubilation of "We've finished!" and "I always wondered where that came out".
We hopped off our bikes and bought out various treats for the drive home - mostly involving chocolate milk and more salt-based snacks. As the local police parked up to pop inside for their evening feed, TSK and I packed our haul into Carradices for the short ride back to the Mercu where shelter from the wind and dry clothing awaited.
All eyes were on us as we set off down the road. Whether it was that age-old suspicion of cyclists or the awe that we were still out, riding at 9:23 pm... I hopped on my bike and promptly tried to shove my foot in my moving front wheel - much to the audible hilarity of the entire shop. "Jesus Christ", said TSK, "Don't get us arrested now!".
Further offences may have included public indecency as I replaced all clothing items for the drive home. Not to mention a lack of care and attention as I snaked us back to Sheffield full of the joys of spring and gobsmacked that, except for the odd drop of drizzle we had remained dry and happy all day. The only thing I can be dismayed about is the effort spent in taking all my waterproofs out for a lovely ride around Cheshire, Shropshire and Wales but then, can you imagine the consequences if I hadn't?
Lessons learned:
Split analysis:
I took my carradice off my bike and put it in the ginnel thinking, I'd better not forget to pick that up - won't that be annoying.
I loaded my bike in the van, \TSK arrived with his and we struggled to get that one in then loaded the kit bags and set off up the hill.
As I drove up the road in the driving rain, I thought, "Shit, I forgot to pack my waterproof trousers". Still, I wasn't going to turn us back now, I'd just struggle through the day in my rain legs. The rain legs serve to keep the wet off thighs - the important bits and the bits that get the wettest in the rain. They do not keep the rain off the shins when riding through puddles, but I'd cope.
After 25 minutes of driving, I suddenly realised I had left my Carradice in the ginnel - as I predicted. It contained my rain legs, waterproof coat and my wallet and phone - not only everything I needed but also everything I did not want to leave in the alley way for the day, right next to the pavement. Without hesitation but with a lot of swearing, I turned back.
"Is this rain going to last all day?" I asked, using my error as a reason to seek my waterproof trousers whilst also trying to convince myself that more time driving in the rain now would equal less time riding in the rain later.
All I got in reply was "Yes," then a hopeful, "Do you want to sack this off?".
I thought about the four rides I've done so far, how lucky I have been with winter weather (The Dean excepted), the prospect of starting again and the prospect of finishing next winter. No, absolutely not.
Waterproof trousers and Carradice acquired, we headed back into the driving rain turning to sleet and then snow the further we went over the Snake pass. Happily at least we wouldn't be riding in that down in Cheshire!
We drove a lap of Handforth to park the car and as we did the rain came to a dignified stop. We dressed then headed over to the petrol station to start our ride from its designated start point.
To compliment my food stash I bought the obligatory salty crisp-based snack, opting for "Fish n Chips" as a small package to stuff in my bag for later. No point in double-bagging my receipts and buying my emergency mars bar here - I could use that particular token later. We both used the facilities and TSK got his receipt in the form of flapjacks.
As an excellent start, I was almost reversed into by a car as I fiddled with my Garmin then, Garmin still loading, proceeded to turn completely the wrong way.
We finally started our ride around 5 minutes after the clock on account of it suddenly being rush hour in Dean Row.
30 miles of fairly main roads went next - Cheshire main roads though. This part of the route is designed to get riders to a destination far away early in the day when the traffic is light so that they can conclude the day milling around on pleasant country lanes to get home. On any other weekend, we may not have been so lucky with our late start but with a lot of people away on holiday, even Saturday late morning traffic was not at all bad, plus we had a tasty tail wind.
Our first control was at the Hall Farm Cafe in Radway Green near Alsager.
Had we started at the normal time, this would have been a quick cup of tea and a scone and away but with our delayed start, we arrived in time for lunch and with oatcakes on the menu, who was I to argue?
Unfortunately the oat-cakes, though delicious and packed with fresh, tangy cheddar and mushrooms, were under-sized and under-accompanied by any further sustenance. We had more cake to bolster the experience and though our receipts put us in time, we left a little behind time.
Although for now we didn't realise it and rode lightly. We sniggered through Woore (arguing it should be forever twinned with Ware) and Ireland's Cross (gross political understatement) and Pipe Gate (parliamentary scandal involving underground services).
Through the crossover of our figure of 8 at Mucklestone and down through the lanes to Wales at last with our Newport stop 20 miles later, still a little hungry and needing a sit down from the romping pace the tail wind had pushed us to. We locked our bikes up and whilst I got out cash to furnish my receipt, TSK went in to purchase fruity cereal / yoghurt affairs and more coffee for his receipt.
We munched on, looked at our watches and, after a customer toilet stop, set off on our way again, confused as to why we were riding the line of the cut-offs, despite some roaring tail winds. To be honest, we'd not been trying too hard so damn that "morning" cafe lunch stop
We put down the hammer a bit now.
The hills were coming, the floods (run off from earlier rain) were growing and our long coffee stop in the morning had us struggling for time - and we were now riding into the head wind.
Floods are inevitably at the bottom of roaring descents right before turning back up hill. In the interests of dry feet, we stopped to almost nothing to minimise splashing and make sure no motorists were approaching to try and drown us in spray. Mostly it worked although TSK did have to face-off an Audi driver who wasn't going to relent with a quick swerve right into his path to stop him approaching any closer.
What it didn't do was help with the hill climb effort in the slightest and every climb was started from around 3 mph.
In Wheaton Aston it was time to deploy my emergency Mars Bar purchase then wait for TSK to do the rounds of the shop making decisions. I still ate some of the banana he procured though didn't I? I must've needed it because it didn't come back to talk to me again.
We'd made up a little bit of time but the struggle continued as I became determined to make enough time to cover a puncture or any other mechanical mishap that might put an end to my game. It was 35 miles to Wrenbury and finally the lanes improved. They were drier, less flooded and less covered in mud and gravel.
Whilst my inner cyclo-cross rider had loved it, TSK was struggling on his skinny carbon fibre bike. Even I had a minor breakdown when one particular pothole did for my stash of dried fruit and nuts and left the majority of the packet strewn across the road in the mud whilst I scrambled to dump the remaining contents of the muddy packet into my bike bag without spilling any or pouring in any drips of muddy puddle.
TSK went quiet at the back so we broke things up with a water stop in Audlem and then I single-handedly neglected to drink the water, instead opting to carry it over all the hills.
There was celebration as we passed the highest point on the ride (not very high) and then we rolled into the village of Wrenbury. A voice behind me said, "There's a beast in Wrenbury if you fancy a brew". He said Bistro but the Beast of Wrenbury stuck.
There were coffee tables and chairs outside the Spar / Post office so we went in there instead to pick up our receipt from the dedicated stop point. There was a coffee machine and hot sausage rolls which we consumed standing up indoors to warm up whilst chatting to the shopkeeper who had a quiet day due to everyone being out at the Jazz festival in Nantwich. At 7:30pm our hot sausage roll went some way to persuading my body I'd had dinner.
We were back on the bikes with good time in the bag now - almost an hour as I recall. It was a good job because on the first hill I suddenly realised my hill climbing legs were over for the day. The best I could do now was limp home and draft TSK for a while. I checked the route elevation to realise that I was at the bottom of a generally trending upward curve towards Wilmslow. Bollocks, this was going to be tough.
Of course, a ride in Cheshire is never as steep as it looks on a Garmin file and with the lights on in the fading background light, I hardly noticed most of the easy climbing as it was concentrated in a beam of silver/grey light and I spent most of the ride concentrated on a massive shadow of my ass / Carradice, projected by TSKs infinitely more powerful and aptly named Moon light.
Middlewich came and went in close company but without incident. Then back onto back-lanes through Church Minshul - routes we have done before and TSK knows quite well but me, not so much.
Most of this section of the ride was taken up by the intense concentration of attempting to eat my "Fish n Chips" crisps from my bike bag with gloves on - a feat I mostly accomplished including regularly sucking the salty grains off my gloved fingers not really trying to think too hard about where those gloves had been.
We got close enough to the finish for me to know that we'd done 120 miles (somewhere near) but I didn't have the logic to work out how far that was and look out for potholes at the same time so I relied instead on the ever-present glow of Manchester and the presence of low-flying aircraft which cheered me up a little and distracted me from my backside - now painfully suffering from a flat day of sitting down a lot and my toes, punched to pieces by regular pothole-related impact with shoes. Now how far was it from Ollerton to Wilmslow?
We passed through Alderley edge and onto the back-lanes to Wilmslow which I do not know as, when I lived in Manchester, the main road between Alderley Edge and Wilmslow was pleasant and traffic-free enough to still be able to enjoy and feel safe on a bike - oh how times have changed for that road is now full of four-by-four wielding clueless rich people who see cyclists as impoverished targets who need to be put out of their misery - if they notice them at all.
I wish I'd ridden those back lanes more in my youth as I would have known where I was instead of being spit out unceremoniously at the roundabout on the edge of Wilmslow right adjacent to the petrol station in a mixed jubilation of "We've finished!" and "I always wondered where that came out".
We hopped off our bikes and bought out various treats for the drive home - mostly involving chocolate milk and more salt-based snacks. As the local police parked up to pop inside for their evening feed, TSK and I packed our haul into Carradices for the short ride back to the Mercu where shelter from the wind and dry clothing awaited.
All eyes were on us as we set off down the road. Whether it was that age-old suspicion of cyclists or the awe that we were still out, riding at 9:23 pm... I hopped on my bike and promptly tried to shove my foot in my moving front wheel - much to the audible hilarity of the entire shop. "Jesus Christ", said TSK, "Don't get us arrested now!".
Further offences may have included public indecency as I replaced all clothing items for the drive home. Not to mention a lack of care and attention as I snaked us back to Sheffield full of the joys of spring and gobsmacked that, except for the odd drop of drizzle we had remained dry and happy all day. The only thing I can be dismayed about is the effort spent in taking all my waterproofs out for a lovely ride around Cheshire, Shropshire and Wales but then, can you imagine the consequences if I hadn't?
Lessons learned:
- saving the TT bars for the headwinds - I ran out of shoulders later in the day.
- Whilst spinning up hills is efficient, I still need to balance it with some standing to avoid 120 mile bum.
Split analysis:
- 23.16 mile 13.5 mph HR 132
- 1 hour cafe break!
- 27.76 mile 14.2 mph HR 140 Lots of smaller hills to be blown up
- 32 mins Waitrose
- 8.9 mile 13.7 mph HR 143
- 7 mins shop stop
- 27.7 miles 12.3 mph into a headwind now & the big hill HR 146
- Audlem water stop 7:56
- 6 miles 11.5 mph HR 141
- Wrenbury post office 19 minutes of warming up
- 34.8 miles 12.1 mph HR 135
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
More off
My off has gotten more off.
No big plans now. Getting out of bed before 7:30am and getting to yoga was a major achievement this morning. I've tried to go running twice but now accept that it is not a possibility.
It is time to accept that this is a hard rest week.
40 miles on Sunday completely wiped me out again. I had some good hard runs at the odd hill here and there but there was nothing left again on Monday.
The rest is working its magic gradually.
I'm being strong and patient but I am so wiped out, that's not difficult.
I'm less moody than I've ever been on a rest period because I know I really need it. Because I am not feeling guilty about not doing one of three sports. Because I know I tried so hard that rest is not an excuse it is a necessity and because I don't want to tip myself over the edge.
I'm falling asleep writing this so it is really time to go to bed.
No big plans now. Getting out of bed before 7:30am and getting to yoga was a major achievement this morning. I've tried to go running twice but now accept that it is not a possibility.
It is time to accept that this is a hard rest week.
40 miles on Sunday completely wiped me out again. I had some good hard runs at the odd hill here and there but there was nothing left again on Monday.
The rest is working its magic gradually.
I'm being strong and patient but I am so wiped out, that's not difficult.
I'm less moody than I've ever been on a rest period because I know I really need it. Because I am not feeling guilty about not doing one of three sports. Because I know I tried so hard that rest is not an excuse it is a necessity and because I don't want to tip myself over the edge.
I'm falling asleep writing this so it is really time to go to bed.
Sunday, March 25, 2018
Off offity off off
I had arranged a ride this weekend.
After the panic of not getting in my March Ride Round the Year done, I entered the only 200 available to me, a plod over to Kirkby Steven from Clitheroe, including all the lumpy bits. It's the 200k I want the North West Passage to be (but in March, not February). It was also slated to be a beautiful day (as it is).
It looked lovely but the question rumbled, after last week, could I even manage it?
Throughout the week I rode to work, determined to work through a few niggles on my bike from last week. Cleats were moved (yes again) and the saddle hitched around. By Thursday, it still wasn't really all fixed.
On Friday, with this super-hilly event looming, I had a rest day and drove to work and promised myself I would have a day off on Saturday too.
I mooched about the house, tidying for a guest visiting - making up the spare room, finding things long lost and pondering the coming months. I packed my things for the Sunday ride, got the bike out to give it a clean and maintained the shit out of it. I now have all the gears back, the brakes are re-aligned properly and I've dropped the saddle a smidgen yet again. I don't know why because I was just supposed to move it backwards.
I had a nap, the friend arrived and then we chatted over dinner before all retiring to bed.
By about 10pm, I knew I wasn't going out on Sunday morning. There was no way and when the boy's alarm went off at 6:30 am, I slept straight through, saw them off at 7:30 and then fell back asleep until 8:59. There is no "clocks back" about this, to be honest, that's roughly the time I have been feeling like getting up a lot recently.
I like this little breathing space I have given myself. Despite spending most of yesterday getting ready for the ride, I gave myself time to reflect on what is important for me moving forward.
I will still try and achieve the RRtY with a 200k next weekend. TSK and I are already planning something, to email a man about a nice flat Cheshire 200. Strength and consistency need to take over though now, in readiness for TAW and tapering towards the end of May.
No more long nights in the office. There will be early morning rides again and then home to work on my strength and mobility. The tennis ball is my new best friend.
A few weeks ago I did a little bit of running, with the intention of doing local fell races again. Not competitively but just because I love the excuse of going out somewhere in the Peak in the evening, enjoying myself and then coming home knackered and hungry.
After a conversation about the Trunce last week, I realise the first one is tomorrow which gives me the perfect excuse for another mini vacation today.
It's beautiful outside and I have to get out, I know I do... but what I'm going to do is go and fidget in the garden for a bit and then maybe, just maybe, take my bike out and have a little ride on it, see just how comfy we can get.
Then, I hope above hope, next weekend can be a breeze, a pain and injury-free breeze.
After the panic of not getting in my March Ride Round the Year done, I entered the only 200 available to me, a plod over to Kirkby Steven from Clitheroe, including all the lumpy bits. It's the 200k I want the North West Passage to be (but in March, not February). It was also slated to be a beautiful day (as it is).
It looked lovely but the question rumbled, after last week, could I even manage it?
Throughout the week I rode to work, determined to work through a few niggles on my bike from last week. Cleats were moved (yes again) and the saddle hitched around. By Thursday, it still wasn't really all fixed.
On Friday, with this super-hilly event looming, I had a rest day and drove to work and promised myself I would have a day off on Saturday too.
I mooched about the house, tidying for a guest visiting - making up the spare room, finding things long lost and pondering the coming months. I packed my things for the Sunday ride, got the bike out to give it a clean and maintained the shit out of it. I now have all the gears back, the brakes are re-aligned properly and I've dropped the saddle a smidgen yet again. I don't know why because I was just supposed to move it backwards.
I had a nap, the friend arrived and then we chatted over dinner before all retiring to bed.
By about 10pm, I knew I wasn't going out on Sunday morning. There was no way and when the boy's alarm went off at 6:30 am, I slept straight through, saw them off at 7:30 and then fell back asleep until 8:59. There is no "clocks back" about this, to be honest, that's roughly the time I have been feeling like getting up a lot recently.
I like this little breathing space I have given myself. Despite spending most of yesterday getting ready for the ride, I gave myself time to reflect on what is important for me moving forward.
I will still try and achieve the RRtY with a 200k next weekend. TSK and I are already planning something, to email a man about a nice flat Cheshire 200. Strength and consistency need to take over though now, in readiness for TAW and tapering towards the end of May.
No more long nights in the office. There will be early morning rides again and then home to work on my strength and mobility. The tennis ball is my new best friend.
A few weeks ago I did a little bit of running, with the intention of doing local fell races again. Not competitively but just because I love the excuse of going out somewhere in the Peak in the evening, enjoying myself and then coming home knackered and hungry.
After a conversation about the Trunce last week, I realise the first one is tomorrow which gives me the perfect excuse for another mini vacation today.
It's beautiful outside and I have to get out, I know I do... but what I'm going to do is go and fidget in the garden for a bit and then maybe, just maybe, take my bike out and have a little ride on it, see just how comfy we can get.
Then, I hope above hope, next weekend can be a breeze, a pain and injury-free breeze.
Sunday, March 18, 2018
The Dean 300km Audax: The First Attempt
10 days before The Dean ride, pleasant 12 degrees C temperatures were forecast. As the week passed, the weather warnings started rolling in for snow and high winds but my determination was set. I duly blinkered myself to the forecast, hoping it would be over-stated dramatism on behalf of the Met. Marcus Scotney tried to dampen my spirits by sharing the, "windchill to minus 5" domesday scenario but I just packed more clothes.
We checked into the travel lodge on Friday afternoon at about 3pm. Plenty of time for faffing and it was rife. I hadn't had too much time to sort my bike out and a few changes that I had made in the week had not been ridden on yet. There was that annoying low squeaking sound that came from the front brakes from time to time but not often enough to remind me about. There were batteries to protect Garmins against the cold and food to pack and locks to sort and a saddle position that I hadn't really tested in anger.
The Travel Lodge was a steamy nightmare and not in a good couples relationship way. I gave up on TSK as a bed partner at 2am and crawled under the desk onto my roll mat and sleeping bag (prepared for such a scenario) to get myself a solid 3 hours sleep before the alarm went off at 5am. I was solidly grumpy when it did.
We hardly spoke two words to each other as we breakfasted dressed and headed to the start but it was only through lack of enthusiasm and no disrespect was intended. He asked, as we departed with the group, if I'd locked the car and I said I hadn't. He gracefully set off back to the car park to lock the new car as I rode along with the group. We were split at a merge off the roundabout and, getting dropped further back, I put in an effort to get around the only other lady rider and two men, onto the back of 6 or so other riders at "the front". After a few short minutes I concluded that the pace was too fast and dropped off. Maintained a pace for a while as the other lady caught me but she was of a mind to sit on my wheel rather than chat so I decided to stop, sort out my saddle position which was feeling a little crooked and wait for TSK.
He arrived, asking if I was alright as I tooled around with my saddle and we plodded along together for a while until he announced that he was diverting later in to Tewkesbury to buy some new cycling shorts since he'd neglected to pack any and was presently riding in boxers... and big fleecy leggings. I sent him on his merry way and proceeded to be left further and further behind.
As it started to snow I was met by two American accented riders asking, "Are you doing this crazy snowy bike ride then?" One was fully bagged up and looked like he'd been out overnight but no, they were riding my event and he'd just ridden up from Cambridge the previous day for kicks. They were late to the start. They also left me for dust.
Eventually I reached a rail crossing.
It was closed.
I looked.
No trains left, no trains right.
I checked the route.
And waited.
And waited.
I decided I had time to check out those brakes. To my frustration I realised that one of the front brake pads was sitting solidly against the brake disc. Not enough to make a substantial noise (except very occasionally with just the right pressure) but enough to have imposed a substantial resistance against the front wheel for the past 20 miles. I pressed the lap button to depress myself into finding out approximately just how much difference. Actually, 1.4 miles per hour of difference.
I'd averaged 10.7 mph (level crossings counted) and was presently running a risk of missing the time check for the first checkpoint. I got a wiggle on and then the snow got more serious. I resentfully relented to change my coat and put on my rain legs to protect my quads from the cold and wet. If I was going to be out all day, I was damn well going to be comfortable.
It was snowing so hard I resorted to putting my hood under my helmet - partly to keep my hair dry but also to add the peak to my helmet to stop the snow getting in my eyes as it blizzarded down. This was not light snow.
When it finally relented and I changed back into a lighter coat (but left the rain legs on to last the day) it was pleasing to see a gentle coating of snow all around making the landscape a whiter shade of pale and defining the Malverns in the distance which suddenly looked like proper mountains.
I almost rolled out the other side of Stow-on-the-Wold, swearing as I detoured via the Tesco for the guarantee of a quick Mars Bar and a receipt from the Kiosk and customer toilets. I was within 30 minutes of the time limit and a bit on the edge. Andrew had texted me to say he would be in the cafe in Newent as I was arriving and I should look for him there.
Onwards then to a new country and Newent, over the Welsh Border.
I crossed the river Leadon on my way to Newent... or rather the river nearly crossed me. Sandstone red water lapped at the road's edge and flood warnings hinted of what was soon to come. The water swelled under the limited bridge space, boiling from the other side like stale blood. As I thanked my way across the concourse which felt more like the Mont Saint Michelle sliproad than a B-road in rural Gloucestershire, a full-on fire engine roared the other way past me and I hankered down, shoulders braced to the rush of wind following it across the "bridge". Was there any more insane traffic this ride could throw at me?
I missed the "Welcome to Wales" sign - or there isn't one. In my rush to get away from Stow, I reasoned with myself I would need 3 hours to do the 38 miles. I then forgot all this and decided that the cut off time was at 11:30, not my intended arrival time. I spent the last 30 minutes absolutely burying myself trying to make up the time and avoid being late. I couldn't even get bottom gear and I powered up all the hills. There was no time for stopping now! I rolled into Newent at 11:28 and as soon as I arrived realised what I had done. I had made up 1 hour slack in the time periods but in doing so I had nearly destroyed my legs. TSK was impressed by my time. Me less so. He left, I sat down to my early lunch to ponder my life choices over cake and lasagne.
This time I got my papers out and had a proper look and a proper plan. My next stop was Chepstow - where one can chose between the town and the services 10km away on the other side of the Severn Bridge. TSK and I agreed that the services would be best as the bridge would be cold and windy and therefore we would not want to do it when cold, having just stepped out of a nice warm Chepstow cafe. It seemed like a good plan.
The ride into Chepstow was enchanting. Distant views of the Malverns, Highland Cow standing face into the wind on the hillsides above the Severn estuary, some icicle bushes - where passing motorists had splashed water into the bushes which had frozen into a labyrinth of inch long tentacles dangling precariously from the evergreen leaves. I continued to mash my way up hills in too-big a gear until eventually I decided I needed to stop and fix it.
As I huddled over my bike, a whippet came past and asked if I was OK. "Fine thanks" I said, "just messing with my gears". As I looked up I realised he was wearing shorts. I sent him on his way. Jesus, don't get cold, but thanks for asking, like!
The descent to Chepstow was close on Epic for the conditions and my hands turned to solid ice so I could hardly brake.
Then Chepstow hit. It was familiar from times I have dropped off TSK for the 600km Brian Chapman Memorial ride and brought back bad memories of another sleepless night in a hotel room that was too hot. I circulated the one-way system with a BMW that I was to see three more times in town as I bypassed the bypass clearly and he got stuck at light after light, frustrated by this blue cyclist that kept crossing his path.
Finally I climbed up the wall out of Chepstow. Still, there was warmth in my hands - finally - and then I dropped down to a dual carriage way again, saw the BMW one more time as I joined the bike path to the Severn Bridge and then the biggest challenge of the day.
The 40 mph North Westerly winds had struck and there was me, riding West / East across a fucking motorway suspension bridge. As I angled 35 degrees into the wind, riding exactly 1m from the edge of the bike lane to avoid colliding with the 2 inch twists of steel separating me from the rest of the motorway, the breeze blew a b-flat note through the eyelets of the holding bolts. No other cyclists were to be seen, just two stoic motorcyclists passed the other way, cautiously doing 10 mph past me. I held my breath, squealed just a little bit every time the wind tugged my front wheel taking me two feet closer to those steel ropes and each time I wobbled back violently towards the edge. The steel pillars and maintenance gurneys offering me occasional let up - but not much. It felt like I didn't breathe again until I got to the other side. No, I didn't breathe again. I laughed. I had survived it.
99 miles done, and I wasn't even suffering 100 mile bottom.
I couldn't quite believe it was 99 miles. It felt like lunchtime. Possibly because lunchtime is when I'm normally half way through a ride. Possibly because I ate a toastie and a large hot chocolate. The waitress asked if I wanted large, I said, "I'd say yes to anything you offer me right now."
Some riders were lurking in the corner, "I'll try anything once", I said, "but that is something I don't want to repeat in a hurry". They laughed. They knew exactly what I meant. When I sat down to eat I was shivering. I hadn't been cold outside but stopping indoors was doing nothing to warm me up sufficiently. Only the consumption of hot items was working. My rest stops were clearly necessary now.
I textd TSK. He said I wasn't far behind him and he'd probably wait for me at Waitrose at Malmesbury. I thought that'd be nice, as I ate my food but then I didn't want him to wait and miss the cut off and I didn't want him to think I didn't want him to wait so I didn't send a reply. I didn't want to miss out on my stop at Chepstow - I couldn't. I was really starting to need my break by then. The climb into Chepstow had been hard and the bridge harder.
I'd lost time on my way to Chepstow too. I was back to being 30 minutes ahead of time - although I'd ridden an extra 10km since the control to get to the services, I still counted myself as a little late when I left the services at bang-on the cut-off time. If I were to lose any more time to - for example - a mechanical or a longer stop, then that would be it for my day.
As I rode out of Chepstow services, the wind started to pull at the electrical pylons and cables, making whistling and whining noises. I plunged into the beautiful Forest of Dean, thankful of its shelter from the 40 mph gusts as the wind rustled the trees but not me. I shared a moment with a roe deer as we made eye contact across a clearing. Her eyeing me with intrigue and calm - ready to bound away if necessary but sure of her ability to outrun me and my mechanical device. She was absolutely right to be sure of herself as I hauled myself and my load up the hill.
Note to self - secure locks on audaxes may make me more relaxed but only serve to extend, not shorten, the time I spend in cafe's.
There were few vehicles in the forest which made it a very special place to be. In fact I wondered why there weren't more people around. Farmers don't stop for the weather though and after exiting the forest I had my third scary traffic encounter for the day as I squeezed into a high-sided verge to allow a tractor carrying two hay bails on spikes to pass precariously close, shedding the loose straw from his load out of the trees and onto my head. That's it, I was done with traffic.
Soon I was fighting my way up to the Somerset monument, staring at my Garmin OS Map as the reality of a chevronned climb (that's >14% or 1 in 7). I made a deal with myself that if I rode this I could walk up Hackpen Hill later when it got dark and was snowing. It seemed like a good deal and just as I was about to slalom it to take the steepness out, a motorist obliged and kept me on the straight and narrow.
I had reached the top of the world for a while. I swore at the monument before commencing my down hill to Malmesbury and hoping the rain would hold off. It didn't and by the time I was joining a folorn looking TSK, it had started to snow again. I inadvertently left my glove outside and joined TSK in the cafe for dinner - which turned out to be quick but insignificant (cheese and bacon pannini) and a desperately needed fresh fruit salad. It's amazing how a day subsiding on scooby snacks suddenly encourages a healthy desire for vitamins.
We left Malmesbury control dead on time again. I was happy I now had a navigator to follow - I'd already made a few minor navigational errors on my own. Whilst I had quickly spotted them, retracing my pedal strokes, even a few tens of metres was time-consuming.
I also let myself go in terms of planning and effort though - not knowing when we had to be at the next control or how far away it was, I stopped pushing myself nearly as hard. That said, with it snowing and the effort I'd already put in to not much gain, I don't think I could have gotten more out of myself. I always had it in the back of my head that Hackpen Hill was to come and for that I would need all of my energy.
We left Malmesbury in the dark and snow, now eating into our time to do the next stage as we were well after the cut off time when we left. We were onto familiar territory now and as we passed through the back of Wootton Bassett I was drawn top stop by the old house, take a look at the place but we had no time. Instead, we had those climbs. The approach to Broad Town hill went remarkably well. Even the climb went well. The drop off the back was fine.
TSK gave me options - do we really want to do Hackpen hill? As the snow came down around us, I resolutely dismissed the option of riding into Swindon to get on a train to Oxford. I'd battled hard to get this far and wasn't prepared to throw in the towel yet - time cut offs or not. At least the experience from this 300 would inform the next.
Even Hackpen hill was fine but as the tyres started to slide out from underneath us in the snow which was now settling on the road, we both got off and walked to the top.
The ride into Marlborough was familiar. Flashbacks to 10 years ago, watching santa arrive at the golf club in his helicopter to bring all the rich kids their Christmas presents. We dug out some food to eat - TSK initiated it and I ate crisps wearing gloves which largely amounted to me stuffing my face into the open mouth of the packet and forcing as many broken crisps into my gob as possible without dropping them on the floor. A passing pissed woman exclaimed, "OH MY GOD BIKES!" in the darkness whiwch I took as an expression of awe.
One climb back over the ridgeway into Sparsholt led us to the descent off the back into the Lambourne downs which was slow and un-enjoyable. In days gone by I loved these roads for the plentiful cornflowers, lavender and lush green fields of the horse race tracks, offset by bright white fences and dirt tracks across the side of the ridgeway. All I could see was darkness and flecks of white - mesmerising, sparkling but - essentially dull, repetitive and cold.
As I shimmied down the hill a little behind for some reason, I saw a bike on its side in the road. There were clearly two people and hoped that no-one was hurt. Thankfully, the downed bike was in a layby, the rider having just repaired a puncture and being ready to set off on his way. Knowing he was OK and unable to stop because of the cold, I continued - suddenly aware of how vulnerable we were. If I had a puncture in those conditions, I would not have been able to get going again. Even if I had managed to successfully change a tube without puncturing (my record for new tyres, even indoors, is not a strong one), I doubt my hands would have been good for much for a long time after and, given the shivering I had experienced at each of the last 2 controls, I was starting to have serious concerns for the rest of my body.
I pushed hard to reach Membury. I couldn't remember the cut-off time here but thought it was around 11pm. We rolled through the gate at 10:54 and crossed the grass directly to the petrol station. I hardly picked up my electronics off the bike - instead whipping up to the counter with my wallet and procuring a fruit juice and a receipt.
I then followed this up with an order for tea.
I couldn't actually eat anything and started to shiver again.
The tea went some way to warming me up but was too hot to drink and offset by the fruit juice out of the fridge. Now I started to feel sick too - properly sick. TSK ate a sandwich. I thought that was a great idea but just couldn't face it. Instead I went to the toilets and stood under the hand drier for an inordinate length of time. It felt good and genuinely went a long way to remove moisture from my leggings and around my midriff and lower back. I then had a pee, washed my hands and dried them some more for a long time before returning to finish my tea.
Before leaving, I shook out four heat pads - one for each glove and one for each shoe. I changed into dry socks and changed my wool jersey for a dry one.
As we were preparing to leave, the other rider with the puncture rolled by and into the main services.
We didn't see him again and assume he booked into the Travel Lodge there for the night. It'a good job I didn't realise this as I might have been tempted to do the same. Still, despite my temptation to call for a taxi, I did not. We dressed for success and I even changed out of my rain legs and into my long waterproof trousers to at least keep the wind off my whole legs now.
It worked. I rolled out of Membury feeling toasty warm. I downed an excessively sugary drink I'd made up and proceeded then into Stanford in the Vale where we had to collect the colour of a bench in the village as proof of passage before rolling out across the flatlands and back into Oxfordshire. It was an absolute pleasure to know we had no more major climbs to face. This walking through the snow was starting to get tedious.
Normally we'd avoid A-roads like the plague but at 2am the A 420 was practically dead. The traffic that was passing was not at all threatening, despite being confined to a single clear lane by the snow. Everyone gave us loads of room and riding here was much safer than risking a slide and a crash on deserted B-roads. Normally there's nothing quite like seeing your first road sign indicating the distance to your final destination. Sadly, when you're on the A-420, the first sign for Oxford that we saw still had 9 miles to go. 9 very long miles. Even then, when we reached the pubs and clubs of Oxford, the burger vans, the late night taxis, the Travel Lodge was still around 4 miles down a long and boring town road, now riddled with potholes and seams and slippery white lines hidden underneath the snow.
Our completion time limit came and went. Our guestimated 20 minutes late time came and went. TSK wanted to stop and get his proof of passage receipt earlier than the finish point - legitimate for this ride, but I could not stop. The prospect of spending two minutes in the cold with my body temperature continuously dropping was horrific and I continued to ride all the way to the hotel, pausing only to get a cash machine statement before crossing the road with the intention of falling into bed.
Of course this was when the real challenge began - out waiting the employee on the desk who was - possibly just intrigued - by what we were going to do with the bikes we wheeled onto the mat to drip and drop snow just like your average workman's boot. We semi undressed in the public foyer, took a stash of free newspapers into our room and then waited with another cup of hot tea for the boy to stop doing whatever he was going and at least go to the toilet / go to bed.
As soon as his back was turned we had bikes inside in a shot and safely stowed on opened-out newspapers to drip the night away. Although there was a slightly damp carpet, we didn't make a mark and left the place clean and tidy the next day.
We took it in turns to shower / stand by the heater then fell into bed at 3am. Propped up by life and the wonderful travel lodge policy which meant we didn't have to check out until 12, we slept until 9am then got up, loaded the van and drove home as soon as we could. Mainly to mitigate the time it would take our fatigued minds to drive through windy conditions and partly to out-run the potential mass exodus of business workers who are contractually obliged to travel on a Friday and a Sunday every week.
With only one driver change-over we surprised ourselves with our expedient arrival at home.
Have I spent the last two days recovering from an Audax-induced hangover? Hell yes.
Did I want to do another? A snowy one - no. Not doing that again in a month of snowy Sundays. It hurt. TSK agreed that I'd done 400km effort. Too big a step, too much risk if anything went wrong. Next time I'd just cancel.
A 300km - yes. I'm glad I've popped the 300k cherry. Keen to do another one because I know I can get inside the time limit given normal conditions, no minus -9 degrees wind chill next time.
I've learned lessons about what I can carry on this distance ride and still hope to make any time limits imposed. My big lock is not one of those things - though plenty of other stuff will still come with me for comfort levels. If we're going to call Audax speed training for long distance then let's do that. I can work on my load carrying capacity elsewhere. SO here's to Skeggy - hoping - for my next 300km event.
I'm looking forward to it.
Split analysis:
We checked into the travel lodge on Friday afternoon at about 3pm. Plenty of time for faffing and it was rife. I hadn't had too much time to sort my bike out and a few changes that I had made in the week had not been ridden on yet. There was that annoying low squeaking sound that came from the front brakes from time to time but not often enough to remind me about. There were batteries to protect Garmins against the cold and food to pack and locks to sort and a saddle position that I hadn't really tested in anger.
The Travel Lodge was a steamy nightmare and not in a good couples relationship way. I gave up on TSK as a bed partner at 2am and crawled under the desk onto my roll mat and sleeping bag (prepared for such a scenario) to get myself a solid 3 hours sleep before the alarm went off at 5am. I was solidly grumpy when it did.
We hardly spoke two words to each other as we breakfasted dressed and headed to the start but it was only through lack of enthusiasm and no disrespect was intended. He asked, as we departed with the group, if I'd locked the car and I said I hadn't. He gracefully set off back to the car park to lock the new car as I rode along with the group. We were split at a merge off the roundabout and, getting dropped further back, I put in an effort to get around the only other lady rider and two men, onto the back of 6 or so other riders at "the front". After a few short minutes I concluded that the pace was too fast and dropped off. Maintained a pace for a while as the other lady caught me but she was of a mind to sit on my wheel rather than chat so I decided to stop, sort out my saddle position which was feeling a little crooked and wait for TSK.
He arrived, asking if I was alright as I tooled around with my saddle and we plodded along together for a while until he announced that he was diverting later in to Tewkesbury to buy some new cycling shorts since he'd neglected to pack any and was presently riding in boxers... and big fleecy leggings. I sent him on his merry way and proceeded to be left further and further behind.
As it started to snow I was met by two American accented riders asking, "Are you doing this crazy snowy bike ride then?" One was fully bagged up and looked like he'd been out overnight but no, they were riding my event and he'd just ridden up from Cambridge the previous day for kicks. They were late to the start. They also left me for dust.
Eventually I reached a rail crossing.
It was closed.
I looked.
No trains left, no trains right.
I checked the route.
And waited.
And waited.
I decided I had time to check out those brakes. To my frustration I realised that one of the front brake pads was sitting solidly against the brake disc. Not enough to make a substantial noise (except very occasionally with just the right pressure) but enough to have imposed a substantial resistance against the front wheel for the past 20 miles. I pressed the lap button to depress myself into finding out approximately just how much difference. Actually, 1.4 miles per hour of difference.
I'd averaged 10.7 mph (level crossings counted) and was presently running a risk of missing the time check for the first checkpoint. I got a wiggle on and then the snow got more serious. I resentfully relented to change my coat and put on my rain legs to protect my quads from the cold and wet. If I was going to be out all day, I was damn well going to be comfortable.
It was snowing so hard I resorted to putting my hood under my helmet - partly to keep my hair dry but also to add the peak to my helmet to stop the snow getting in my eyes as it blizzarded down. This was not light snow.
When it finally relented and I changed back into a lighter coat (but left the rain legs on to last the day) it was pleasing to see a gentle coating of snow all around making the landscape a whiter shade of pale and defining the Malverns in the distance which suddenly looked like proper mountains.
I almost rolled out the other side of Stow-on-the-Wold, swearing as I detoured via the Tesco for the guarantee of a quick Mars Bar and a receipt from the Kiosk and customer toilets. I was within 30 minutes of the time limit and a bit on the edge. Andrew had texted me to say he would be in the cafe in Newent as I was arriving and I should look for him there.
Onwards then to a new country and Newent, over the Welsh Border.
I crossed the river Leadon on my way to Newent... or rather the river nearly crossed me. Sandstone red water lapped at the road's edge and flood warnings hinted of what was soon to come. The water swelled under the limited bridge space, boiling from the other side like stale blood. As I thanked my way across the concourse which felt more like the Mont Saint Michelle sliproad than a B-road in rural Gloucestershire, a full-on fire engine roared the other way past me and I hankered down, shoulders braced to the rush of wind following it across the "bridge". Was there any more insane traffic this ride could throw at me?
I missed the "Welcome to Wales" sign - or there isn't one. In my rush to get away from Stow, I reasoned with myself I would need 3 hours to do the 38 miles. I then forgot all this and decided that the cut off time was at 11:30, not my intended arrival time. I spent the last 30 minutes absolutely burying myself trying to make up the time and avoid being late. I couldn't even get bottom gear and I powered up all the hills. There was no time for stopping now! I rolled into Newent at 11:28 and as soon as I arrived realised what I had done. I had made up 1 hour slack in the time periods but in doing so I had nearly destroyed my legs. TSK was impressed by my time. Me less so. He left, I sat down to my early lunch to ponder my life choices over cake and lasagne.
This time I got my papers out and had a proper look and a proper plan. My next stop was Chepstow - where one can chose between the town and the services 10km away on the other side of the Severn Bridge. TSK and I agreed that the services would be best as the bridge would be cold and windy and therefore we would not want to do it when cold, having just stepped out of a nice warm Chepstow cafe. It seemed like a good plan.
The ride into Chepstow was enchanting. Distant views of the Malverns, Highland Cow standing face into the wind on the hillsides above the Severn estuary, some icicle bushes - where passing motorists had splashed water into the bushes which had frozen into a labyrinth of inch long tentacles dangling precariously from the evergreen leaves. I continued to mash my way up hills in too-big a gear until eventually I decided I needed to stop and fix it.
As I huddled over my bike, a whippet came past and asked if I was OK. "Fine thanks" I said, "just messing with my gears". As I looked up I realised he was wearing shorts. I sent him on his way. Jesus, don't get cold, but thanks for asking, like!
The descent to Chepstow was close on Epic for the conditions and my hands turned to solid ice so I could hardly brake.
Then Chepstow hit. It was familiar from times I have dropped off TSK for the 600km Brian Chapman Memorial ride and brought back bad memories of another sleepless night in a hotel room that was too hot. I circulated the one-way system with a BMW that I was to see three more times in town as I bypassed the bypass clearly and he got stuck at light after light, frustrated by this blue cyclist that kept crossing his path.
Finally I climbed up the wall out of Chepstow. Still, there was warmth in my hands - finally - and then I dropped down to a dual carriage way again, saw the BMW one more time as I joined the bike path to the Severn Bridge and then the biggest challenge of the day.
The 40 mph North Westerly winds had struck and there was me, riding West / East across a fucking motorway suspension bridge. As I angled 35 degrees into the wind, riding exactly 1m from the edge of the bike lane to avoid colliding with the 2 inch twists of steel separating me from the rest of the motorway, the breeze blew a b-flat note through the eyelets of the holding bolts. No other cyclists were to be seen, just two stoic motorcyclists passed the other way, cautiously doing 10 mph past me. I held my breath, squealed just a little bit every time the wind tugged my front wheel taking me two feet closer to those steel ropes and each time I wobbled back violently towards the edge. The steel pillars and maintenance gurneys offering me occasional let up - but not much. It felt like I didn't breathe again until I got to the other side. No, I didn't breathe again. I laughed. I had survived it.
99 miles done, and I wasn't even suffering 100 mile bottom.
I couldn't quite believe it was 99 miles. It felt like lunchtime. Possibly because lunchtime is when I'm normally half way through a ride. Possibly because I ate a toastie and a large hot chocolate. The waitress asked if I wanted large, I said, "I'd say yes to anything you offer me right now."
Some riders were lurking in the corner, "I'll try anything once", I said, "but that is something I don't want to repeat in a hurry". They laughed. They knew exactly what I meant. When I sat down to eat I was shivering. I hadn't been cold outside but stopping indoors was doing nothing to warm me up sufficiently. Only the consumption of hot items was working. My rest stops were clearly necessary now.
I textd TSK. He said I wasn't far behind him and he'd probably wait for me at Waitrose at Malmesbury. I thought that'd be nice, as I ate my food but then I didn't want him to wait and miss the cut off and I didn't want him to think I didn't want him to wait so I didn't send a reply. I didn't want to miss out on my stop at Chepstow - I couldn't. I was really starting to need my break by then. The climb into Chepstow had been hard and the bridge harder.
I'd lost time on my way to Chepstow too. I was back to being 30 minutes ahead of time - although I'd ridden an extra 10km since the control to get to the services, I still counted myself as a little late when I left the services at bang-on the cut-off time. If I were to lose any more time to - for example - a mechanical or a longer stop, then that would be it for my day.
As I rode out of Chepstow services, the wind started to pull at the electrical pylons and cables, making whistling and whining noises. I plunged into the beautiful Forest of Dean, thankful of its shelter from the 40 mph gusts as the wind rustled the trees but not me. I shared a moment with a roe deer as we made eye contact across a clearing. Her eyeing me with intrigue and calm - ready to bound away if necessary but sure of her ability to outrun me and my mechanical device. She was absolutely right to be sure of herself as I hauled myself and my load up the hill.
Note to self - secure locks on audaxes may make me more relaxed but only serve to extend, not shorten, the time I spend in cafe's.
There were few vehicles in the forest which made it a very special place to be. In fact I wondered why there weren't more people around. Farmers don't stop for the weather though and after exiting the forest I had my third scary traffic encounter for the day as I squeezed into a high-sided verge to allow a tractor carrying two hay bails on spikes to pass precariously close, shedding the loose straw from his load out of the trees and onto my head. That's it, I was done with traffic.
Soon I was fighting my way up to the Somerset monument, staring at my Garmin OS Map as the reality of a chevronned climb (that's >14% or 1 in 7). I made a deal with myself that if I rode this I could walk up Hackpen Hill later when it got dark and was snowing. It seemed like a good deal and just as I was about to slalom it to take the steepness out, a motorist obliged and kept me on the straight and narrow.
I had reached the top of the world for a while. I swore at the monument before commencing my down hill to Malmesbury and hoping the rain would hold off. It didn't and by the time I was joining a folorn looking TSK, it had started to snow again. I inadvertently left my glove outside and joined TSK in the cafe for dinner - which turned out to be quick but insignificant (cheese and bacon pannini) and a desperately needed fresh fruit salad. It's amazing how a day subsiding on scooby snacks suddenly encourages a healthy desire for vitamins.
We left Malmesbury control dead on time again. I was happy I now had a navigator to follow - I'd already made a few minor navigational errors on my own. Whilst I had quickly spotted them, retracing my pedal strokes, even a few tens of metres was time-consuming.
I also let myself go in terms of planning and effort though - not knowing when we had to be at the next control or how far away it was, I stopped pushing myself nearly as hard. That said, with it snowing and the effort I'd already put in to not much gain, I don't think I could have gotten more out of myself. I always had it in the back of my head that Hackpen Hill was to come and for that I would need all of my energy.
We left Malmesbury in the dark and snow, now eating into our time to do the next stage as we were well after the cut off time when we left. We were onto familiar territory now and as we passed through the back of Wootton Bassett I was drawn top stop by the old house, take a look at the place but we had no time. Instead, we had those climbs. The approach to Broad Town hill went remarkably well. Even the climb went well. The drop off the back was fine.
TSK gave me options - do we really want to do Hackpen hill? As the snow came down around us, I resolutely dismissed the option of riding into Swindon to get on a train to Oxford. I'd battled hard to get this far and wasn't prepared to throw in the towel yet - time cut offs or not. At least the experience from this 300 would inform the next.
Even Hackpen hill was fine but as the tyres started to slide out from underneath us in the snow which was now settling on the road, we both got off and walked to the top.
The ride into Marlborough was familiar. Flashbacks to 10 years ago, watching santa arrive at the golf club in his helicopter to bring all the rich kids their Christmas presents. We dug out some food to eat - TSK initiated it and I ate crisps wearing gloves which largely amounted to me stuffing my face into the open mouth of the packet and forcing as many broken crisps into my gob as possible without dropping them on the floor. A passing pissed woman exclaimed, "OH MY GOD BIKES!" in the darkness whiwch I took as an expression of awe.
One climb back over the ridgeway into Sparsholt led us to the descent off the back into the Lambourne downs which was slow and un-enjoyable. In days gone by I loved these roads for the plentiful cornflowers, lavender and lush green fields of the horse race tracks, offset by bright white fences and dirt tracks across the side of the ridgeway. All I could see was darkness and flecks of white - mesmerising, sparkling but - essentially dull, repetitive and cold.
As I shimmied down the hill a little behind for some reason, I saw a bike on its side in the road. There were clearly two people and hoped that no-one was hurt. Thankfully, the downed bike was in a layby, the rider having just repaired a puncture and being ready to set off on his way. Knowing he was OK and unable to stop because of the cold, I continued - suddenly aware of how vulnerable we were. If I had a puncture in those conditions, I would not have been able to get going again. Even if I had managed to successfully change a tube without puncturing (my record for new tyres, even indoors, is not a strong one), I doubt my hands would have been good for much for a long time after and, given the shivering I had experienced at each of the last 2 controls, I was starting to have serious concerns for the rest of my body.
I pushed hard to reach Membury. I couldn't remember the cut-off time here but thought it was around 11pm. We rolled through the gate at 10:54 and crossed the grass directly to the petrol station. I hardly picked up my electronics off the bike - instead whipping up to the counter with my wallet and procuring a fruit juice and a receipt.
I then followed this up with an order for tea.
I couldn't actually eat anything and started to shiver again.
The tea went some way to warming me up but was too hot to drink and offset by the fruit juice out of the fridge. Now I started to feel sick too - properly sick. TSK ate a sandwich. I thought that was a great idea but just couldn't face it. Instead I went to the toilets and stood under the hand drier for an inordinate length of time. It felt good and genuinely went a long way to remove moisture from my leggings and around my midriff and lower back. I then had a pee, washed my hands and dried them some more for a long time before returning to finish my tea.
Before leaving, I shook out four heat pads - one for each glove and one for each shoe. I changed into dry socks and changed my wool jersey for a dry one.
As we were preparing to leave, the other rider with the puncture rolled by and into the main services.
We didn't see him again and assume he booked into the Travel Lodge there for the night. It'a good job I didn't realise this as I might have been tempted to do the same. Still, despite my temptation to call for a taxi, I did not. We dressed for success and I even changed out of my rain legs and into my long waterproof trousers to at least keep the wind off my whole legs now.
It worked. I rolled out of Membury feeling toasty warm. I downed an excessively sugary drink I'd made up and proceeded then into Stanford in the Vale where we had to collect the colour of a bench in the village as proof of passage before rolling out across the flatlands and back into Oxfordshire. It was an absolute pleasure to know we had no more major climbs to face. This walking through the snow was starting to get tedious.
Normally we'd avoid A-roads like the plague but at 2am the A 420 was practically dead. The traffic that was passing was not at all threatening, despite being confined to a single clear lane by the snow. Everyone gave us loads of room and riding here was much safer than risking a slide and a crash on deserted B-roads. Normally there's nothing quite like seeing your first road sign indicating the distance to your final destination. Sadly, when you're on the A-420, the first sign for Oxford that we saw still had 9 miles to go. 9 very long miles. Even then, when we reached the pubs and clubs of Oxford, the burger vans, the late night taxis, the Travel Lodge was still around 4 miles down a long and boring town road, now riddled with potholes and seams and slippery white lines hidden underneath the snow.
Our completion time limit came and went. Our guestimated 20 minutes late time came and went. TSK wanted to stop and get his proof of passage receipt earlier than the finish point - legitimate for this ride, but I could not stop. The prospect of spending two minutes in the cold with my body temperature continuously dropping was horrific and I continued to ride all the way to the hotel, pausing only to get a cash machine statement before crossing the road with the intention of falling into bed.
Of course this was when the real challenge began - out waiting the employee on the desk who was - possibly just intrigued - by what we were going to do with the bikes we wheeled onto the mat to drip and drop snow just like your average workman's boot. We semi undressed in the public foyer, took a stash of free newspapers into our room and then waited with another cup of hot tea for the boy to stop doing whatever he was going and at least go to the toilet / go to bed.
As soon as his back was turned we had bikes inside in a shot and safely stowed on opened-out newspapers to drip the night away. Although there was a slightly damp carpet, we didn't make a mark and left the place clean and tidy the next day.
We took it in turns to shower / stand by the heater then fell into bed at 3am. Propped up by life and the wonderful travel lodge policy which meant we didn't have to check out until 12, we slept until 9am then got up, loaded the van and drove home as soon as we could. Mainly to mitigate the time it would take our fatigued minds to drive through windy conditions and partly to out-run the potential mass exodus of business workers who are contractually obliged to travel on a Friday and a Sunday every week.
With only one driver change-over we surprised ourselves with our expedient arrival at home.
Have I spent the last two days recovering from an Audax-induced hangover? Hell yes.
Did I want to do another? A snowy one - no. Not doing that again in a month of snowy Sundays. It hurt. TSK agreed that I'd done 400km effort. Too big a step, too much risk if anything went wrong. Next time I'd just cancel.
A 300km - yes. I'm glad I've popped the 300k cherry. Keen to do another one because I know I can get inside the time limit given normal conditions, no minus -9 degrees wind chill next time.
I've learned lessons about what I can carry on this distance ride and still hope to make any time limits imposed. My big lock is not one of those things - though plenty of other stuff will still come with me for comfort levels. If we're going to call Audax speed training for long distance then let's do that. I can work on my load carrying capacity elsewhere. SO here's to Skeggy - hoping - for my next 300km event.
I'm looking forward to it.
Split analysis:
- 18.18 mile to the level crossing 11.3 mph HR 141!
- 6 minutes stuck at the bloody crossing and messing with brakes
- 26 mile 10.6 mph HR 139
- 26 mins going through Stow
- 35 mile 12.6 mph HR 141
- 52 mins cafe lunch stop
- 35.3 miles 11.1mph climbey bit to Chepstow HR 120
- 40 mins tea stop
- 27 miles 10.4 mph HR 131
- 32 minute Waitrose stop
- 22 miles 10.2 mph HR 132
- 7 minutes crisp stop in Malbrorough
- 11 mile to services 8.8 sorry mphs HR 120
- 39 minutes rewarming stop - shouldn't have!
- 12.72 miles 8.6mph to last info control
- Finally, a 1 minute stop
- 17 miles to finish. 8.8mph in the snow. HR 113. Just about given up.
Total time: 21:20. Riding time: 18:17 ish
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