I wanted to do 100km this weekend for one reason - to make February better than January. On the whole February's been shitty - training, trail conditions, state of mind, work. I looked at previous years - is February always shit? No: sometimes its January that's shit.
Generically since October I have been 200k down on last year's training - the obvious impact of less cycling commutes and distance-wise, more walking before work. The only redress that seemed feasible with the time available was to make February less shit than January & do 120km in the final week. I did one 20k commute, 2 walks & a 10k run. I got up Saturday & was so tired. I shopped for bike bits then walked into town for lunch.
On Sunday I wrote up last week's ride then finally found the motivation to get out, at which point it was 2:30pm.
• • •
I did the Math. 100km offroad -10 hours riding. Back by midnight. Not comfortable but doable. I wanted to ride on the TPT because I haven't been that way in ages. I had 2 things in mind. A big loop to Glossop & follow the Peak 200 route home or TPT, a ride over cut gate & extend it in the Hope and Derwent valleys if I felt like it. I went outside for lunch. From my slightly chilly stone fronted house to full-on summer in the garden. I'm glad I hadn't dressed in full fleece leggings yet.
I dressed less modestly in shorts, leg warmers, tee shirts & arm warmers, one layer of socks and sandals. I realised it would get cold later so threw in my synthetic coat, fleece, waterproof socks, a waterproof coat "just in case" and grabbed my warm gloves, a packet of crisps & extra cereal bar. That'd have to do, I'd just had lunch. At the last second I crammed in an emergency meal also "just in case".
• • •
I took the off road trail to Malin bridge, crossing the stepping stones cautiously so as not to get my socks wet then rode high on the Hill above Hillsborough to avoid traffic. Wharncliffe was full of down hillers having a great time in the sun - I splashed past the stables through the mud alongside happy pony riders who stuck to the best line.
People were everywhere but except for 1 mountain biker who half-wheeled me before dinging his bell in my ear, I was the fastest person on the trail.
Somewhere around Penistone, up on my 10km / hr schedule I decided 100km was feasible if I just rode to Glossop then turned around & came home again the same way. Potentially I could be home well before midnight & still have enough food without having to break into cold emergency pasta.
At Dunford Bridge I had a sit down on the benches. It had gone a little dusky, I was at elevation & after the short sharp road climb was open moorland and then descent. I ate my crisps & the fleece went on. The climb was easier than it's ever been before - odd.
I reached open moorland as the sun was doing its big-red-disk-in-the-sky thing and I smiled hard as a flock of lapwings wheeled in the sky whooping at me. Fluffy cows standing on the trail forced me onto the path then my FSA dropper post - freed by from the weight of a seat pack - actually worked and I descended to Salter's brook style. On the long rail trail in to Glossop there was only one thing on the radar -the setting sun. At its most vibrant just as I passed the reservoir where there was a bloody Pylon in the way. Still, it added a sense of scale.
Hanging around with 2 walkers, we pretended we were on holiday somewhere exotic.
It's otherwise a long, sometimes tedious route, being hemmed in by trees or railway cuttings. I watched the numbers click up praying for 50 km when I could turn tail and head home. At 47.9, I dropped out into the carpark in Hadfield & set about following the Peak 200 route as a means to an end. I momentarily considered popping into the shop to get coffee but passed by a woman walking on the pavement who cheerily said, "You wanna watch you don't get yerself killed on that bike".
Nice. I stopped to prop my bike up to put my rear light on which didn't work so I set it to charge & lit the spare which just lives in the mesh pocket of my rucsac. These two things combined (plus the prospect of riding further either up or downhill) helped me overcome my need to hit exactly 100km so I turned tail & headed right back the way I'd come - past the echoey bridge, dark dog walkers, the long distance running couple.
My feet started to get cold so I stopped &added my leggings and waterproof socks. I was a little doubtful it would work though as the outer layer just crushed the life out of the wool layer - and my toes. I persevered for a while but things were just getting worse so I stopped at the next bench to switch into the thickest wool socks I had. That worked for a while as I felt the blood rush into the space which had been completely dead.
I went for a pee to gather my thoughts in the undergrowth. Meanwhile a tawny owl wheeled in the cold air over my bike.
There was still an issue with my feet on the exposed bits of trail where just enough breeze was forcing all the warm air out of the fabric - constantly.
• • •
I had to get into something windproof - and fast. I had two solutions - risk the waterproof socks alone or add my spare waterproof gloves as it was only my toes that were exposed. My heels and midfoot were fine.
When I opened my rucsac on the next bench, the gloves were the first things out of the bag, closely followed by my thermartex windproof blanket. It was reassuring to know I had that. With my penknife I could, potentially, fashion some windproof socks by wrapping bits around my feet then tucking it in the cuffs of my socks. I also toyed with the idea of phoning for a lift - I was that worried. I didn't want to miss the HT because I gave myself frostbite playing stupid games with sandals in the hills in February. Lesson learned.
• • •
The gloves fit loosely over my toes & the cuff sufficiently snugly around my mid-foot so they wouldn't come off. They were also secured with the toe strap on the sandals. I tried tucking the fingers under my toes but that just impaired the blood flow so I let them flop about. Thankfully there wasn't much walking to do, though a few of the vehicle -proof gates really pissed me off. Good news though - steadily but surely the blood was returning to my feet and the realisation that not clipping into the pedals but riding on my flats improved the situation even further.
Apart from the damage to my toes, I felt like a bit of a fraud. Last weeks 100km was so much harder earned. I decided this little 8 hour out and back jaunt was hollow by comparison. In the coming miles though I was set to put in some serious effort, pushing fast to keep my feet from falling off & get home before I bonked. The adventure was only just beginning.
I broke the return trip down - 4km to the hard climb which would surely guarantee me warm feet. That climb was 2km then 10km to Dunford Bridge where my warmed feet would be exposed again and will definitely cool right down on the descent. Then 30km of constantly falling railway track and a few tunnels.
• • •
The railway was tough to call. Not so steep I'd have to freewheel but could I spin enough on it to stay warm? I had a perception - rightly or wrongly - that it would be warmer. I'm not sure if that is because I reasoned it might be out of the wind or just because "it's not Manchester" which is always cold and dreary.
The steep hill climb delivered. I managed not to fall over my floppy foot-fingers and despite waiting to cross the Woodhead road, my toes could be described as toasty by the time I passed the lapwings again.
I crossed and dropped into the catchwater again, enjoying the hillside scenery even though trucks rumbled by overhead on the Woodhead. With warm toes I was ready to leave the world behind again and descend back to the solitude of the trail. More pushing out of the brook to the final Woodhead crossing gave me enough warmth to mount my charged bike light on the frame, put my headlight on my lid & crack open a bag of beef jerky for "dinner." At 7:30 I knew I wasn't going to do the last 2 hours without some calories. Only when I stopped to look both ways at the crossing did I notice the epic blood moon rising to my right like a second Sun. I descended to the TPT carpark, vaguely disturbed that I had failed to put on my biggest gloves but overjoyed that my windproof jacket and foot gloves both did the trick to keep the rest of me warm.
• • •
I perfected a glove change from my frame bag while riding along and once my fingers were warm again, set about snacking my way home, the blood moon fading to a white disk as the sun finally sank away to the West behind me. My feet seemed to warm even further when I fed them and I used that to get me through Penistone where I worried about being ambushed in the dark so clipped my feet in.
The only remaining threat to my feet was riding through muddy puddles so I skirted through the concrete roads around the stables rather than tackle the bridleway churned up by a million hooves then had a little push towards the top of the final steep climb.
• • •
My backside had finally fallen out with my saddle again after 85km so I finished off the trail with a mixture of freewheeling and standing climbs.
I clipped back in the pedals for the Oughtibridge-to-Hillsborough ride but there wasn't a soul out in the woods. I cruised the pavements through the shared cycleway, changing red lights, one way systems and tram tracks to the main Rivelin Valley road. Everyone who passed me in a car left tonnes of space. I must have had my lights on bright or possibly I was riding like an exhausted person with their toes hanging off.
I turned onto my road with gusto then, after a few pedal strokes, headed for the nearest drop kerb and jumped off to push.
• • •
I did not get back on. I had to stop halfway up the hill to rest. There was no way I was making up the missing 5km. I stopped my Garmin at the back door.
Recovery time 4 days." This is more than your usual effort." You're telling me !
Mission complete.
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