I signed up for the virtual highland trail but (unless
they’re counting pathetic little runs), I hadn’t actually started it yet. I’ve been thinking of riding the Peak200 as
part of this week’s holiday but actually, putting off doing so until after the
bank holiday weekend – just because I have an aversion to crowds, especially in
the hills.
The two thoughts collided as I lay in bed on Saturday evening
after a particularly lazy day.
The Peak 200 would at least get me on the board in the
virtual Highland Trail and the Sunday’s forecast was not set to be great but
not dreadful either. Overcast, some
rain, some wind – perfect Highlands conditions.
I made my mind up but didn’t get out of bed to do anything
about it so consequently it was a late start as I put all my devices on charge,
took the van out for a run up and down the motorway to make sure its engine and
battery were up to scratch after 8 weeks sitting still, just in case I decided
I needed to be rescued… and then I loaded my bike with some emergency bivi
stuff.
I spent a good half hour packing up all the sandwiches,
crisps, chocolate, cereal bars and fruit I might need for 24+ hours in the outdoors,
with refuelling stops likely to be shut or have long queues outside.
For all that I meant to do this ride at race-weight (no excess clothes,
no fuel or stove), I was a pretty hefty lump.
Homemade sandwiches don’t come in a convenient cardboard box to protect
them until they’re eaten and you can dispose of later. Homemade sandwiches will get the inside of
your new rucsac completely disgusting given half a chance so I packed
everything into a plastic box… then another as I made breakfast sandwiches and
another as I packed a bunch of perishables like cheese and tomatoes.
When I’d ridden a good 6 of the 8km to my starting point, I
suddenly realised I’d left my spare light on charge at home. It’s non-essential but supplements my dynamo
light when I’m not moving fast enough to get the dynamo light to work. The headtorch I carry is extremely light and only
really suitable for use in camp as it’s on a piece of paracord and is either
unstable or uncomfortable. Still, I
decided an extra12k, the climb up the hill to home and the even later start was
not worth the effort.
On the 8km out from home, I tightened pedal tension,
straightened out my saddle after a bike-topple last week and texted TSK about
the light situation. It was a faffy ride in but as I flew around the corner of
Onkesley lane, I put the pedals down – literally it goes straight up hill - but
then remembered to ease off as I had a long day or more ahead of me.
I generally tend to ride at around 10km/hr average and so
technically the ride would take me 20 hours if I were fresh all the way
around. Plus stops – of which I was
planning a limited amount means in theory I could be done within 24 hours plus
slowing down time. The BB200 took me 35
hours including a 6 hour sleep and a lot of dicking around with brews, camp
food and café stops.
Past the barky dog who was out for the first time since
lockdown and some other people walking dogs.
As they started fighting amongst themselves, I rode away – dog fights,
one of the few things that always reminds me why I don’t have a dog
anymore. On the top road, the dog
walkers caught me up again as I changed my clothing choices. The dog was fine. The forecast rain was a little late and it
was pretty chilly up on the top road of Rod Moor. It was the kind of wet air that you can
hardly notice but tends to accumulate and won’t dry out too quickly. I decided I didn’t need it on the descent to
the Ladybower. I put my waterproof coat
on and cursed myself for not packing baggy shorts to just add a layer of warmth
to thighs and knees.
Going over Ladybower was enjoyable.
I got off and walked when the going got tough
instead of trying to power up stuff for training.
I was in the long game and I like the long game.
I rode across the new trails smoothly,
picking the best lines for once instead of upping my boulder-hopping game.
I descended past the cutest daschund,
complimenting its owners on their dashing hound before dropping into the stone
bivi hut for my first lunch.
The more of
this backpack I can eat, the better.
As a pleasant surprise, the next mountain biker around the
corner was Colin Papworth, a friendly podiatrist who has, in the past, been a
big part of my Triathlon life as he fixed up my feet so I can actually run a
marathon. He was riding a new Sonder and
we had a good chat about challenges ahead.
I told him I’d probably forget him in this post so I’m quite proud I
still remembered.
Colin went on his way and I finished eating as much weight
as I could manage then packed my waterproof away again before heading over to
the other side of the hill to Ladybower reservoir. The crowds were massive here but everyone was
friendly and in a good mood. I dreaded
the dam crossing but everyone stepped to the side to distance and all went
well.
I nearly wore the bell out on the
traverse of the Southern edge but people thinned out as I climbed up the
hillside through the trees towards Win Hill.
Finally I felt there was enough separation for me to leave my bike in a
ditch and hide behind a tree for a pee.
Cue appearance of a dad and his 3 sons who had to stop and have a faff metres
from me before heading off down their downhill lines all of which overlooked my
pee spot. I just about maintained some
decorum whilst sitting in the pine needles with my bum exposed but didn’t half
find it difficult to “go” after that! Guys,
if ever you find a bike lying in a ditch on its own, move on please, move on.
The pine needles I picked up were to become ingrained in my
skin over the next 20 hours.
So, on to the final push up to the top and over to the Hope
valley side before the long, laboured Hike-a-Bike up to near the top of Win Hill (most
PRoW up there are footpaths so there is some sketchy transfer of bikes between
Bridleways to get elevation and transfer from one path to the other). My bike was heavy, I had to put it down
several times then haul it around me and put it back down in the heather, just
to get elevation when I couldn’t carry it any more. That’s the weight training wearing off
through Lockdown.
Finally I hit the second bridleway and dropped down into
Aston then Thornhill and then on to the climb up towards Shatton. Steady grind – remember the end game – but I couldn’t
be bothered to get off and walk so twiddled a tiny gear to the top. A couple on e-bikes dinged their bell and I
took the less steep outside line on the bend to allow them to undertake me and
got a “Brilliant effort” from the bloke on his way past. Nice.
I love the drop down to Bradwell and I love it even more on
my new bike. Last time I was here was
just after the floods and half of the descent was closed so I had to walk EmVee
down a footpath. This time we had a clear run at it. I had to finesse the last steep bit as a
family sat and watched. (secretly, I
metaphorically pooped myself a bit).
After my lunch it had started to niggle with me a bit that I
might not have enough calories on board to last me through the day. I’d saved a
sandwich for Monday lunch if I needed it and it suddenly started to dawn on me
that there wasn’t an “if” in there. I was
still going to be out for Monday lunch – or at least a second breakfast. Besides, I didn’t fancy more beef sandwiches
straight away and so I popped into the infamous Bradwell Co-op to get something
different for my second-lunch and some additional supplies for the rest of the
ride.
If you’ve missed the news,
Bradwell residents have been particularly shouty about scum from Sheffield
coming to ride two-wheeled contraptions through their village during
lockdown. There were no angry villagers
around – in fact there was no-one else in there and I realised that it was 3pm
and the sandwich shelves had been stripped almost bare already.
I had a sausage roll (win win) and staggered to the till
with an arm full of sweets, a sweet sugary drink, a bottle of chocolate milk
and some more chocolate for good measure… oh and some Soreen.
Having shoved it all in my rucsac (now even more bulging), I
felt like I’d overdone it so set about drinking both the fizzy sugary drink AND
the chocolate milk as well as eating the sausage roll and the Soreen.
I hoped the chocolate wouldn’t melt and
looked forward to the sweets overnight.
 |
| The Old Mam Tor Road from above. |
From Bradwell it’s back towards Edale via an ascent of Mam
Tor old road where more folk were enjoying the sunshine responsibly.
I passed over the top of the Mam Nick road
then flung off to the downhill to the road where last time there had been an
Indian wedding at one of the houses, the marqee throwing out sounds from
Bollywood and glorious colours of silk flowed through the garden.
This time it was just the flow of tyres on
gritstone with the occasional squelch from my forks where I got it wrong and
trying not to vomit chocolate milk mixed with sweet, fizzy drink.
Last time, I turned for Edale to fuel-up at the café. Last time some other bikers warned me of the
rain to come but I continued regardless then bailed when I remembered I didn’t
have any waterproofs with me.
This time I didn’t
bother with Edale, I just set off up the road to the next turn-off – a lovely
little path that makes its way up the side of the valley at the perfect
rideable steepness, just avoiding all of the houses and farms. It is the perfect off-road alternative which
then turns into the crossroads that leads to the rest of the route. Two lads passed me on full sussers as I
bounced my way over the rocks / fell off then waited for me at the top to see
which way I was going so they could get the gate. It was nice but I was going the “other way”. No-one is ever going the “other” way at 5pm –
the way that leads to more – the way that leads to the potatoes.
Potato Alley is a descent of around 150m which leads to the
bottom of the Ladybower valley and the A57.
The only place to go is Manchester or the Derwent valley with the
associated consequences of then having to get back out and go somewhere else on
top. That’s why not many people are
heading down potato alley at gone 5pm. I
always know I’m on an adventure when descending Potato Alley late. Last time EmVee through me off a steep bank
on Potato Alley. I know you shouldn’t
have favourites but Sunshine delivered me safely to the bottom in one piece
with a PB and a smile on my face.
I picked up a couple of sheep as sweepers at the
bottom. Without causing a massive
stampede or worrying pregnant animals, I generally don’t tend to change my
riding style around sheep. They will do
what they do regardless of how much time you take, how careful you are, which
way you shoo – or not. So I carried on
riding. I tried stopping – that didn’t
work. The little lamb was clever. The
little lamb wanted to run off the road but every time it left its mother’s side
she would barge it back into the road or bleat so that it followed her back
into the road.
As we approached the busy A57, I backed off completely but
there was nothing to be done. She’d either
stand in the road and stare or run along the road ahead of me. Even when I stopped, they started walking
towards the road until eventually they were stuck between the road and me. I didn’t move. They stopped, looked, listened, looked again
and then crossed safely. Fuckers. Crazy, clever fucking fuckers. I crossed the road too and together we
climbed all the way up the hill.
It seemed they were local.
The sheep in the field above the A57 bleated back in recognition until
we all reached the farm, complete with the rest of the herd on the other side
of the fence.
The Ewe and her lamb
wandered nonchalantly into the yard at the house and demanded attention in
order to dob us in.
I climbed on up the
hill assuming my role as a shepherd was done here.
 |
| The sheep above were more sophisticated. |
I was rewarded with a solo ascent to the top of Hagg Hill
and a clean descent down the other side to an empty Derwent reservoir for the
second time that day. Finally I had the
place to myself.
As I rode down the road I placed a hand under my rucksac and
jiggled about. There was still plenty of
water sloshing around in there so I didn’t need to divert to Fairholmes to fill
up. I didn’t want to if I didn’t need to
– I had a long climb ahead of me and the less weight the better.
I thought about my lighting situation – I didn’t want to be
on Cut Gate in the dark, picking across the bog with a mediocre dynamo light so
it was good that I was there before 8pm – but I did start to get a move
on. The ride along the valley side was
pleasant with the occasional walker still out.
Up at the top a couple tented at the conflagration of two rivers asked
me if I was out for a bivi, “Yes, somewhere, maybe” was my answer. We could have continued a conversation for
longer but by now I had an eye on the clock and eye on the light. If anyone is reading this and recognises
themselves, sorry I didn’t stop to chat.
I climbed up as the sun went down.
Had I been out for fun, I might have bivied
up there and watched the sunset and climbed over the top for the sunrise but I
wasn’t nearly tired enough.
The usual
swimming-pool sized puddles were absent, replaced with dry, dusty pits.
Quite literally perfect conditions.
Places where people have scrambled up the
peat walls to avoid a drowning have become unused because passage across the
ocean-beds is now possible.
 |
| Sunset hues on Cut Gate |
 |
| Emley Moor and Wind Turbines in the twilight |
I took the descent on the other side a little cautiously as
the light faded and I knew I’d be completely alone if anything happened. Before I knew it though I was at the last,
rocky descent which I cleared for the first time ever thanks to the new bike and dropper post, again. Also, a
complete lack of other people to point and laugh does wonders for confidence.
Through the trees and out to the Woodhead road crossing then
over to the Trans-pennine Trail. On my
way an owl furled around in the sky above the fields and I heard its young
calling from a nearby tree. I added my
fleece layer and leg warmers as I’d started to shiver on the descent and the
Trans-pennine Trail isn’t steep enough to stimulate much increased energy levels
but climbs ever higher in elevation up towards colder air.
I took great pleasure in flying past the bus stop where so
many long rides have ended in a reluctance to leave that bus stop and go back
out there. Beyond this point I had
merged the most technically challenging section of the ride to the longest
out-and-back section of the ride and I felt like there wasn’t any stopping me
now.
Over to the Woodhead Road again – on the other side of the
hill. The Trans-Pennine crosses it a few
times on its way down to Glossop.
Earlier in the day, I’d driven past the motorway signs that indicated
the Woodhead road would be subject to Night Closures over the coming
weeks. It always makes me think of the
BeeGees “Night Fever” and I sing “Night Closures, Night Closures” at the signs in
a silly, high-pitched voice. At the
time, I hadn’t realised the consequences but now, every time I came to a road
crossing I could see for miles that nothing was coming and happily sailed
across every one without having to stop.
Pure bliss.
Sheep scattered, bunnies hopped, lapwings whirled and
Peewitted, curlings mewed into the darkness.
The dynamo blazed bright as I dropped downhill. I stopped above Crowden Reservoir to sit on a
bench, eat some more food and put my gloves and an extra layer back on. I took off my shoes to rest my feet. As I stayed longer, clothing turned into
adding a fleece along with my waterproofs.
Putting shoes back on, the inside of my left shoe felt like it was
engrained with sand – or cat’s’claws – and I couldn’t face sinking my feet into
it. I checked with my hands and yes, the
fabric was very prickly. Why I haven’t
noticed this before, I do not know. I
took the wrapper of a chocolate bar I’d eaten and used it as a barrier against
the prickle. Totally worked and I was
especially proud of myself, even if I did rattle from time to time for the next
10 hours.
The continuing descent took its toll on my body temperature
but I was OK. I shivered my way into
Glossop and thanked fuck I didn’t try this last year when I was soaked to the
skin.
The route merely skims the edge of Glossop and there weren’t
any refuelling opportunities in Hatfield. It was 11pm by the time I got there
and everywhere was shut. I was thankful I’d taken the opportunity in
Bradwell. In Charlesworth I had my first
walk up a road climb. I needed the waterproofs for warmth on downhills and
exposed moorland but they were too sweaty to make an effort in. Eventually I gave up on gloves, my hands were
so hot, and stuffed them into a food pouch for later.
I don’t really know where I am when it comes to a lot of the
bridleways around there, I simply recognise gates or particular features or
road signs. I remembered Littern Pike
for a couple sunbathing inappropriately on a hot sunny day and the non-parking
space sign at the bottom of the hill, “Please don’t park close to the edge, the
last car that was parked here is still missing”. I ignored the request for cyclists to
dismount for the steep hill and then worried when my brakes made a complaining
little squeaking noise after I’d let them off.
Nothing came of it, thankfully.
Above Charlesworth, I took my turn onto (what I thought was)
the bridleway only to find myself faced by a Range Rover parked right across
the gateway. Thinking a farmer had just
dumped his vehicle inconveniently, I continued to walk by until the engine
fired and the vehicle started to move slowly yet ominously straight at me! I hopped off sharpish onto the steep banking
alongside, pulling Sunshine up behind me as the vehicle rolled passed, driven
by a young guy in a teeshirt. The odour
of weed poured out the cracked window.
Whatevvs… but don’t drive me over chick!
Through the gate, after a while, the Garmin chimed to tell
me I’d gone the wrong way so I had to retrace to find the bridleway proper,
heart in mouth that wasn’t where my friend had gone to finish off his joint or
worse.
I know there are bits that TSK and I did before on this
route and I only recognise them by the wheel ruts and pedal strikes. They all came and went in the darkness to the
same amount of swearing as before – but more so in low light conditions.
I tried wearing my head torch on my helmet but it just
didn’t work comfortably. I tried wearing
it around my neck (as it’s designed to do, and works pretty well in camp) but
the shadows just moved as I moved on the bike, distracting me from my view of
the line and giving me a sea-sick sense of balance for where me and the bike
were going. The downhills were fine –
once the Dynamo was up to brightness - but the uphills were going
oh-so-slow. I could just about ride
stuff but only with the headtorch on full beam and I didn’t want to completely
kill the only light I had available for emergencies / a bivi pitch later.
For mile after mile I just endured the route – not really
having much to look at except the moorland passing in front of my tyres and
startled sheep. Manchester put on a show
from a distance in one of those, “Bloody hell, I can see my parent’s house from
here” moments of “I am actually closer to them than I have been since Mothers’
day when I accidentally* bumped into them the weekend before lockdown started”.
*no, really.
I kind of made a plan to stop somewhere on my own territory.
Somewhere that I at least knew where I was.
There’s no logic to that except for knowing that there’s not a better
spot just around the corner. If I’d got
sleepy sooner, I would have stopped sooner but as it is, given all the rest
days I’ve had recently, I didn’t get the overwhelming fatiguing urge to stop
that comes from a long ride that immediately follows a hard week at work or a
long journey to get to the start of an event.
When the bright lights of the quarries around the industrial
side of Stanton in the Peak started to hum in the darkness, the lights of their
24-hour operations reflecting off the limestone they mill, I knew I was back on
home ground. The random bridleway signs
became Pennine Bridle Way specific and I passed the pub that I’ve inevitably
stopped at for dinner more than once on a long ride based loosely on this
route. It was all closed for the Covid,
its campsite empty of partying stag-nights and children running feral, up past
their bedtimes on family weekends away.
I’d thought about bivvying at Parsley Haigh as Landslide had
mentioned it on Thursday when we went out. I couldn’t remember how far it was from this
pub to Parsley Haigh. Unfortunately a map check revealed it to be too far away
to be in contention. What was nearby was
a big oak tree near Rushup edge that I’ve had my eye on ever since my first
recce of this route in 2017 before the Torino Nice Rally. Anything better en route would be an
acceptable alternative.
I carried on my merry way, chucking Sunshine down anything
that the Peak threw at us – mostly with a successful level of gusto yet
occasionally I would forget I have a dropper post and become lodged over the
edge of a big drop whilst I sorted out my balance and got off and walked.
Finally, a descent I recognised (in the dark) and we bounced
down the steps like Tigger on speed to the gate at the bottom which separates
two land-owners and two field systems.
Through the gate, I remembered the stream – ridden through and walked
through when too high for me to have the confidence in my old wheels. I skittered through it on the bike. It was no more than 3cm deep and 24 inch across,
although a little slippery on the bottom.
There’s a second gate but the place spoke to me – another of
my “on the list” bivi spots and here I was at the right time and in the right
frame of mind. It wasn’t so much that I
was sleepy (though I was ready to sleep) but more that I was hungry and knew
that in my wet and sweaty state, as soon as I stopped I’d start shivering with
cold. I’d been supping heavy amounts of
water for hours to sate the sweat but had eaten no food to replace the
electrolytes so was feeling washed out as well as a little hungry. The fact I was still guzzling water after 15
hours riding is testament to the weight I carried out the door when I left the
house.
A quick check for civilisation – what was I doing? It was 3am! Still, coast clear. The worst thing was, it was between two
streams which were emitting an air of cold but to be honest, everywhere was
starting to emit and air of cold so it would do. Three sides of a dry stone wall meant it was
totally sheltered from any breeze and I had running water should I mysteriously
run out and need a top up.
The mat went up inside the bivi, quilt out and fluffed. I got quickly (very quickly) changed into dry
baselayers then sat in the bag and ate some more beef sandwich before I
realised I was putting paid to my lunch for tomorrow – should I still be out at
that point.
The chilly air got the better of me and I lay down to get
the mat’s insulation on to my back.
For all that it had been cold, it turned out to be the
perfect bivi spot. I warmed up pretty
quickly in my bag. The Rolos I’d bought
in Bradwell for dinner desert softened up nicely and I lay on my back looking
at the outline of a large Oak, the Plough constellation underlined with dry
stone walls and the rise and fall of the moorland… and popped one chocolate
covered caramel after another until they were all gone.
I quickly fell asleep. No rustling, no mice, no beasties, no
surprises. Well, one. 1hour, 20 minutes later, I woke up to a
grading of colour in the landscape and a meadowlark sitting on the wall for an
alarm clock. I hit the snooze button on
my brain only to be woken up 10 minutes later by my actual alarm. I felt reasonably refreshed and OK about
leaving – best bivi “night” yet at only 90 minutes.
It was still quite
chilly and had got cold in my bag – unless I lay a certain position – a
position which had already got uncomfortable- so I packed up.
I can easily say that getting dressed inside
a bivi bag is easily the best warm-up exercise I have done.
Without much time to dry out my damp, sweaty
clothes, I took to rubbing them vigorously to get the fabric warm before
putting them on.
To get my feet warm I
put my damp socks underneath my sleeping socks as it was just a one-night trip.
I also put my damp shorts on over the
top of the leggings and wool top I’d been wearing so no heat loss there.
I was packed up and ready to move within 30
minutes.
A bit of a record and as I
climbed out of the stream bed, a nice uphill to warm up on.
 |
| Sunrise. |
About half a kilometre along the trail, the big oak tree
came into view. The sunrise, now
developed a little further, was warming the spot with a pink-purple glow,
absolutely beautiful. Though to temper
my regret at not continuing that bit further last night, a lamb decided that I
was definitely its mummy and proceeded to run along with me bleating. That attracted the attention of other ewes…
and their lambs and soon I was being followed across the hillside by a small
flock, all demanding… who knows what?
Given my Welsh Ride Thing experience from this time last year, I think I
picked the best bivi spot in the end.
Now the sun was up I could enjoy the glorious technicolour
of Rushup Edge before heading out to Peak Forest. It was still oh-so-cold and little patches of
valley fog weren’t helping. Watching a
foal chase three calves around a field helped much more. Watching two leverets
playing in a field helped a lot.
Then I plunged into the darkness of the White peak Dales where I did a
little lap up and down a hill trying to figure out if there really is a quick
route onto the Monsal Trail or if I really do need to drop all the way to the
bottom and ride back up again (there isn’t).
At the station, I was relieved to find the toilets open and I piled in
to re-fill my Camelbak for the day ahead.
Although I’d not completely run out, there was about an ounce of water
left. The café looked like it has the
facilities in place to re-open too but it was only 6am – so no luck on the
coffee front.
I sat on a picnic bench and ate my peanut butter sandwiches
and any other savoury food that was left, saving my remaining sweeties and
biscuits for the rest of the morning. I
couldn’t remember exactly how I get from Millers Dale back to Sheffield and
hadn’t done any time analysis but all I needed was enough to last my 24 hour
timescale – so one more breakfast then.
Back on the bike and I did the math. Hm, 4 hours to do 55km. Arse.
There wasn’t a chance I was going to speed up, no matter how many long
railway trails I had left to ride – I started to let the 24 hour dream go.
The tunnels hurt my cold.
I set off riding with my synthetic down coat on and out of the sun I was
cold. I positively shivered through the
tunnels and didn’t warm up enough to remove my down layer until I got into a
flow. I kept the fleece on till I
reached Gratton Dale – where the long stretches of railway trail finally turn
into something with a bit more oomph.
The baby’s head boulders didn’t really bother the bike –
unless someone has been tidying up down there?
The line I usually miss into the valley bottom was actually spotted this
time before I overshot it and even the nasty bumpy bit at the end was a
complete pleasure as the usual peanut butter mud was now nicely crusty –
although still pocked with horse hoof-prints.
A couple hiking in teeshirts, sunhats and shorts reminded me
I really should lose the extra layers and knee-warmers but I didn’t want to
stop really until my hopes of 24 hours were truly dead and I was ready to add
some sunscreen.
After my bail-out point last year where I ended up sleeping
in a bus stop in Baslow completely fatigued from trying to find a perfectly
obvious path in a field, I was a bit dubious about the section between
Youlegreave and the “finish” for me. I
never have ridden the path in the field and at the end of the route, I just
kind of assumed I went up Stanage and then home, but how to get from Baslow to
Stanage???
On this day, the path in the field was just fine and obvious
in the day light, as it had been on Google Maps after my last ride when I
looked with incredulity at my squiggles in a field.
Further route-finding chaos laid ahead though as I selected the wrong path out of a thicket and only realised when I rejoined the path I should've been on. The little angel on my shoulder whispered that I should follow the route at all times.
The devil on the other shoulder said, "play dumb, the route-checker won't notice".
The Angel said, "we might not fucking be coming back to do this again, do it right soldier".
The devil sulked then said, "Anyway the time limit is 24 hours and you're going to miss that so we might as well just go home"
and the angel said, "no it's not"
and the devil said "yes it is"
so we sat on the grass and got the phone out and used some data to google Peak 200 ITT and that shut up the devil so I went back down the hill and rode up the right path before carrying on.
Through the next gate and all was forgotten. The route through the woods above Chatsworth
is my absolute favourite woodland path.
I think there is magic in those woods.
Sadly, it was not worth visiting the excellent café in Edensor as it would have been either closed or packed.
I was beeped at for riding out in the road after
Chatsworth. As a notoriously bad road, I
adopt a position in the road which makes drivers think twice about passing me –
and if they do decide to squeeze past, I have somewhere to go to save
myself. Whilst this guy did feel it
unsafe to pass me on a blind corner, obviously that was my fault for being too
far out in the road. He had the decency
to beep at me from behind so I had the wonderful opportunity to firmly show him
two fingers. When he finally did pass I
hissed, “I’m looking after my safety, what are you doing?” through his open
side window.
The brake lights came on, though presumably he thought
better of it given the number of other people waiting patiently behind me or
the very camera-esque light fitting on the front of my bike. The next driver waited patiently, then on an
open stretch of road drew up alongside with the window down while his passenger
asked if I was OK. There are lots of
good people in this world.
Baslow was decidedly busy so I opted not to get any food –
only Stanage and home to go right?
I climbed up the hill to Curbar – Not Stanage - stopping half
way up to consume most of my remaining sweeties and half of yesterday’s beef
sandwich. Still, not far to go. Curbar was also busy.
Presumably, if I’d been on cue for my 24 hours, I would have
been here at, like 9am, in the quiet, but at least there was still enough room to
ride and distance from the hordes going to stare off the edge.
On my way up I was passed by a skinny middle aged bloke on a
full susser. Cheap looking bike and the
fella looked more like a fell runner than a rider. The rather round woman walking down the hill
assumed we were together and joked “I was just saying to my daughter, I’d be
the one like you”. Instead of
sarcastically saying, “COOOL, you rode 135km yesterday too!” I kept my gob shut
and smiled. I hope you’re proud of me
internet.
At the top of the climb the bloke was stood on the grass with his poor bike upside down. I checked to see if he had everything he needed and he responded with, "I've got a flat". It sounds terribly selfish but the clock was ticking so I took that to mean he had everything he needed (and more) and continued on my way, leaving him to tip his bike up the right way and start hitting the quick release to get it to undo.
At the end of the cliffs, there was an ice cream van selling hundreds and hundreds of ice creams
(mainly to cyclists) but I didn’t bother –
only Stanage to go and then home.
I turned left and then right onto a trail I only discovered
last week (I’d been riding on the footpath instead and only realised last week
that I had it wrong – woops). It’s a
lovely trail and the *actual* bridleway takes in a small woodland with a reliable
stream running through it. Where, last week, I stepped carefully from stone to
stone, this time I stomped through the
puddles and ground my cleats into the mud, hoping desperately that the cool
moisture would seep through to my sore, hot feet.
I found a nice tree to lean my bike against and opened my
frame bag to pack away my fleece and wool top and pull out my thin, air holed,
Norton Wheelers jersey. The dry bag is,
unbeknownst to me, a pretty good heat reflector and the jersey was wonderfully
cold, still soaked with yesterday evening’s sweat and nicely chilled to a very
cool temperature. I stank to high heaven
but was completely happy. I slathered
some sunscreen over my exposed forearms and removed my knee-warmers now that I
was taking the time out to do suncream and could protect my leg skin (I might
have got sunburn 2 weeks ago that’s still healing). With the 24 hour limit gone, I could afford a bit of skin safety.
When I got up to leave, the Garmin had that annoying flashy
“?” on the screen that says, “GPS doesn’t really have a fucking clue where you
are but will this do?”
Given that this track would be my proof that I did the ride,
I needed to know it was good. I hiked
out of the trees to get reception, to no avail.
I checked the battery – 53%. I
started the alternate Garmin to load the route and started my watch GPS so I
could start riding whilst the new Garmin recalculated. The watch still had a bloody big think about finding satellites.
By the time I got to the Fox Hill road, the
new Garmin couldn’t decide which way the route was going but the old one
finally had us on-screen. Deciding it
was a battery issue, but I was close enough to home to capture both routes, I
left two Garmins to record but put my main one onto battery charge, just
showing the route on screen so I could navigate by it.
I turned left. The
Garmin said Right. Fuck? What?
Cue: lots of zooming, scrolling, screen swiping. Oh yeah!
The loops. Bollocks.
Now: had I thought about this, I should have bought
ice cream. But no.
I bombed off down the road to a turning onto a track I’d not
ridden before. I should have been
relishing the opportunity to learn something new in my own back yard. I don’t really get over Ian’s side of town so
their trails are a bit of a mystery to me.
Instead I was annoyed I had to start doing laps of my garden at the end
of a particularly difficult marathon.
The sun was shining but in my head it was raining. The loops are a part of the ride and to be
honest, they’re quite a nice part but when I did my reccie last year, I gave up
on them and went home when instead I should have been out there, finding out
what they do and where they go. I put it
on a to-do list somewhere and never did it.
The Garmin sent my little Virtual Partner blokey off down
the trail ahead and showed that I was right on its tail. So I turned.
The sign on the path said, “Footpath” but there are a lot of permissive
bridleways around these parts so I thought it might be one I don’t know
about. It wasn’t that kind of terrain though
and I soon started to drown in heather.
The Garmin had changed its mind and now I had to back-track. The Garmin went in the bag. Stupid fucking Garmin.
Back onto the road and took the next turning which, although
more accessible and bridlepath-like was still pathetically un-rideable for my
weak legs. Cue a period of wandering
around the moors with my bike and a bunch of teenagers. Where usually speakers playing music in the outdoors
does my head in like you wouldn’t believe, I found a bit of Dance was exactly
what I was in the mood for (yes my Eastern Moors Teens were playing 90’s
retro).
Up towards Houndkirk, a poor dad who had been mithered to
take out his son’s bike was refusing to push the bike up the hill – making the
son do it himself. It turned into a race game
which, I confess, I let the boy win – but only just because I am a nice person. Having reached the finish line, I just about
managed to get back on my bike and ride off to do my loop of Lady Canning’s
Plantation, relieved that the route only made me go down the kiddies’ run in front
of 16 young men, 4 dads and 12 children… whilst rocking full bikepacking bags
and crazy-old-lady-hair.
And that was when the water ran out… but never mind, I only
have to get away from Houndkirk and then it’s just Stanage right? NO???
Down there??????
As I got to the bottom of the Dale, passing a couple I
announced, “I’m verrrry tired, this might be funny”. Still: I nailed it (it's all the bike), rode out, back up the
climb. Please oh god oh god oh god, just Stanage right?
There was no ice cream van at Stanage to scavenge a drink from,
never mind an ice cream. Still, I’d
saved emergency measures – about 125ml of home water (none of that skanky
tasteless limestone stuff from Millers’ Dale station). I sat under the only tree casting a shadow at
the plantation below the Causeway and downed the entire thing then ate the
remainder of the chocolate bar I’d taken from home. I had officially drunk all water and consumed
every calorie I had brought or bought on the trip. It just about worked.
I rode about 2/3 of the way up the Causeway then the enthusiasm just
waned and I walked the rest.
At the top,
walkers swayed off their socially distanced line to accommodate my wobbling
progress over the stones and then finally, that was the top of the last
climb.
A Monday Pole to mark the almost
completion (bar the descent)…I took a picture of myself but the grin is screen-splitting so not sharing.
I opened it up on the downhills. Sprinting for the line – you can’t beat
it. Most people that were still out were somewhere else enjoying the sun,
not walking in the woods so I had a relatively clear line to the finish, the
tiny incline to the A57 was suddenly no bar to my enthusiasm and I set off at full tilt down
the A57 to Onkersley Lane.
I flipped up the hill to cross my own start-line and
considered getting off for a finishers selfie but was too interested in eating
some more and getting a drink of water and not causing offence to the residents
by flaking out on their driveways in a sweaty mess so I just did a U-turn and
continued my down hill trajectory to home, toast, tea and a nice, long bath to
soak the pine needles away.
Distance: 237.8 (including from/to)
Elevation: 5554m
Time: Around 29.5 hours (Subject to confirmation).
