Looking for Love

On the last day of March, I decided "this is it, Highland Trail - now or never".  

I've been crap this year.  Some self-inflicted crapness.  Other external-factor-crapness.

I've 7 weeks to go.

On Friday morning I set off for the day with no excuses.  On my ride to work I was going to quit work early, go home, pack my bike, be on the road early on Saturday, stay out all weekend". 

I got into work. We got an email from Alan.  "7weeks to go".

"Oh *&$)! ALAN. I KNOW"...

"we've put one of your favourite bits of the race back in".

"Oh Alan, I love you". Little happy dance in the office - yes this was all out loud.  Yes, my colleagues were bemused.  

I enthusiastically explained to them what was going on.

Then I forgot about it, left work at 8pm  and got home exhausted at 9 and flopped into my dinner then went to bed.

On Saturday morning though, I did at least load my gear on my bike then remembered that I have a new wheel with a new block.  So I thought I'd put on a new chain and smaller chain ring so I was race ready.

At least the new gear helped me feel better going up the hill - once I'd squeezed past the queue of labour candidates trolling our back yard trying to win my vote.  Stopping me getting out on my bike is not how it's done.

On the bridleway out of town I was pleased to see my friend EP who has recently moved back to Sheffield.  We had a catchup and EP asked where I was off to.  I explained how gammy my last few months have been and that I'd lost the love a bit and so, honestly, I was making it up.  I was going out..."in search of the Love".  Yes I was off to find the Love.

She went home and I bravely headed up the side of the hill.  I wanted to test out this new gear and wheel and sure enough it stuck to the trail like a dream and I cleared something that currently, I shouldn't technically be able to on my fully-loaded steel bike given my current perceived fitness levels. 

Things were looking up.

Next stop was for pre-lunch at the Apple Shack but unfortunately it's still closed (till April 16th if you're local and wondering), so me and my hungry belly crawled on up to Fox Hagg where we sat on a bench and troughed honey roast peanuts instead.

It was insufficient and in my rush to get to the Peak, I cut a corner short then remembered the existence of two pubs in Lodge Moor.  The 3 Merry Lads looked more appetising - mainly given the sunny bench out front, sheltered from the wind and something to lock my bike to.  Beef stew and a half pint of beer were demolished.

The ride over Stanage and down the Causeway was better for it.  Some passing hail showers made the descent chilly but the sun came out again at the bottom and lapwings entertained me on the other side, vying for supremacy in the nesting stakes.

I dropped to the Ladybower, dodging the Chinese students who insist on walking four-abreast down New Road.  The beer caught up with me and I popped into Heatherdene toilets for a wee and a moment to re-dress and warm up after the hail storm.  I slipped onto the lake shore path, hoping it would be starting to get quiet by now.  This was a pleasant trundle to get me away from the busy areas quickly.  It worked and I found myself pushing up a deserted and plush green steep to get out into the Edale Valley on the other side.

Once there, I couldn't resist the draw of Jacobs ladder - so much for avoiding the busy.  A 70 year of the Peak Park anniversary hike / run (it was hard to tell which) was drawing to a close at 4pm with a steady stream of backmarkers making their way off the hill.  I contributed in my own small way to the rememberance of the trespass.

The edge of Kinder was peppered with hikers so I almost felt privileged to be on the Bridleway pretty-much alone.  The ride over to Hayfield was absolute blissful solitude.  I stopped in to say hello to Charlie and then stopped to take a break at the info-board.  I had the place to myself.

My plan was to enjoy the ride over to the main road then turn right to drop into Glossop for some dinner.  I didn't really care if it was petrol station sandwiches by the time I got there around 7pm.  I'd already had a rather hearty meal for lunch.  Instead, by the time I got to the road, I'd enjoyed my solitude so much that sitting on the main road into Glossop was the last thing on my list of desires.

Instead I turned left towards Hayfield, intending to pick up the Peak 200 route at my earliest convenience and maybe drop into Hayfield to pick up some scran instead.  

I missed the first turning for Lantern Pike which - with hindsight - is probably a blessing as it would have been a fuckton of extra climbing only to come all the way back down again.  

Instead I passed through Hayfield and turned off to pick up the Peak 200 after the Pike.  In doing so I completely forgot to pick up any food at all or more water.  Still, I had enough with me if push came to shove - and push I did.  

Coming out of East Hayfield my legs were shot and my body was not in a good mood either.  Still, the sunset did a lot to dull the pain.

I waved to mum and dad on the other side of the wall (in Manchester somewhere) and watched as the lights on all the tall buildings pinged on in the fading light.  A few nervous moments when I thought I was going to be besieged by offroad vehicles but they passed along the main road and I felt no need to duck for cover... except of course to brew up some food.

Tussocks, ditches and walls passed but nothing had any water so I continued my steady trundle until I did find running water.  

A stream crossing the trail gave me some hope but I had to climb a gate to access sitting and sleeping facilities.  A farm was too close and a vehicle pulled slowly along the road and into the house - possibly wondering why someone with a head torch was loitering at the gate.  

I carried on.  I knew where there was water and aimed for there.  Sadly, as I headed down the hill, the temperature also dropped like a stone.  

I filled up my bottle at the appointed spot and scouted around for a bivi.  Nothing was flat enough so I carried on even deeper down the valley to the next stream where I have stopped before.  My previous spot was available but I noticed a gate I hadn't seen before.  

Behind the gate was a shitting spot.  Disgusting.  Human poo, tissue paper everywhere.  Well beyond it though, on the other side of the stream, was a perfectly flat spot.  It even had a tree for company.  I went to check it out and found that it did indeed have enough flat space for a bivi between the tussocks and was out of stench range of the toilet.  The tone of the stream was just right.  Yes, it was a bit close to the Manchester Airport flight path but sometimes everything is.  The main problem was, it was fucking freezing.  Still, I was as tired and hungry as can be so I stopped.

The bivi went up quick.  I got completely changed into sleeping clothes.  Berrated myself (again) for forgetting my down coat and wore all of the layers instead then got out my stove.  The SateBabi was DELICIOUS.  It may help that I've never had read Sate Babi but the dessicated sachet version was so good I'm not sure I want to ruin it by tasting the real thing.

By the time I got around to eating, my stomach had shrunk so much I struggled to finish all the food but force-fed myself to the end.  After all, I'd spent the fuel heating up, I wasn't going to waste the thermals.  I also recognised the signs of dehydration so brewed myself a very full mug of herbal tea, turned my headtorch off and looked at the stars while I shivered and finished my brew. 

Let's be honest, this didn't look like it was going to be much of a night.

Sure enough, I lay in my bivi bag and shivered some more.  Closing the lid wasn't helping me to warm up.  I found whatever remaining clothes I could (wind-proof and slightly damp teeshirt and wrapped them over my legs.  

I got up for a wee. No better. 

I checked all my bags to make sure I hadn't stashed any hand-warmers anywhere - no joy.

I ate an energy gel in case my calories were still to low.  Not sure where that came from but it really shouldn't have been in the bottom of my bivi bag.  It didn't help.

I felt like I'd been lying there shivering for 2 hours but checked my watch and it said 3am. OK, so I managed some sleep then.

I got up to pack up and get riding, reasoning it would at least be warmer on the bike.  Then I thought of crashing in the dark and freezing to death or my lights suddenly dying (I'd left them on the bike instead of taking cold lumps of metal into my chilly bed).

As soon as I got up I knew I wasn't going anywhere for another hour.  I had another wee, shivered and got back into my bivi - which was at least toastier than being outside.

At 4:15 I woke up shivering again but at least recognised that if I got up and brewed breakfast now I'd be on the trail in about an hour and the sun would be making an appearance.  While I still knew where my bib shorts were and knew that they were dry-ish and warm-ish I put them on to avoid them getting wet in the bivi bag or any colder.  I put everything else back on top - leggings, goretex trousers and sat cross-legged with my sleeping bag over my legs and feet.  Finally, enough to keep me warm whilst I wrestled with the camelback to unfreeze the opening which let me access the water inside. After 5 hours of misery, suddenly everything felt super-worthwhile.  The ice which had cored through my bones during the night now sparkled prettily in the headtorch while I looked up at the stars and watched Cassiopeia fade into the lightening sky.

Porridge and coffee later, I was ready to pack up and I finished the job without a headtorch as the first daylight infiltrated my tidy little valley spot. I won't go so far as to call it sunshine.

I wasn't too surprised to see that the condensation on my bivi bag had turned to ice while I cooked breakfast.  What I was surprised to find was the amount of it stuck to the underside of my sleeping mattress.  Why didn't I bring the thermal one!!??

The great thing about sleeping in a cold valley? The warm up as I pushed the loaded bike back up the steep bank to the way home.

By the time I got to the tops again, the sun was already risen and the gentle re-warming began.  I dipped in and out of shaddow as I climbed up Rushup Edge.  Instead of diving off towards Peak Forest, I continued along the edge towards the direct route home.  I wanted my first ride back to be gradual enough to give me Sunday afternoon to recover and be able to ride to work on Monday morning and I wanted to get that sunshine and a sleep back at the house, not disappear back into the cold fog.

I was also hungry again so, after happily riding through a bunch of bogs which were perfectly frozen to a spongy crust, I found myself a nice sunny spot on the Pennine Bridleway with a flat rock and took out my stove to make second breakfast.  I'd eaten the porridge already so second breakfast was the leftover chocolate pudding from the night before.  It was perfectly made - just the right amount of water. I brewed it for the right amount of time and managed to mix it in properly so there were no crusty dry bits lurking in the corner of the bag.  I'm getting good at this dehydrated cheffing.

I sat still, I listened to the skylarks and I enjoyed the peace before the descent back into the chaos of a sunny peak district weekend.  While I ate my pudding one walker climbed the stile on the footpath behind me, with a cheery "hello".  Another early starter avoiding the crowds.

Well, I could've stayed up there all day but I'd run out of food so I carried on to Mam Tor road then dropped down the broken road into the valley below.  I've never ridden the broken road descent loaded before but it was fun.

In Hope I got distracted by the thought of a savoury breakfast and fell into the cafe with outside seating.  It was now perfectly warm enough to sit outside in the sun and I scoffed a bacon buttie and tea and attracted the attention of the neighbour's cat - though he lost interest once the bacon had gone.

All that was left was the ride home.  After I'd used the Causeway to get out to the Peak, I opted for Burbage or Houndkirk to get home.  Burbage came first so won out.  I can rarely resist a gritsone slab so spread out there to consume biscuits and sweeties - reluctant to waste the sunshine.

Once the elevation was attained, I high-tailed it all the way back into town along the road from Lodge Moor, intent on getting home and doing... well more eating really.

Not sure I found the love for riding my bike any more than when I left the house but I certainly renewed my relationship with the outdoors again and can feel the cloak of winter lifting.

Things feel possible again and that's good.

Whoosh

Christmas Week.

Monday

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

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

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

Canopy

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good deal for a bath?

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

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

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

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

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

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

The up-push was tough but not terrible. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Note to self: stop fucking slacking off!" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

Loaded training. Superb outcome

 Oh to capture the complications of the past week for posterity without it sounding like a chain of excuses.  I don't think I can manage it.

It started with THE JAB.  Everyone can make up their own mind on this right? I was determined to want, get and love THE JAB.  As it was, it left me exhausted, poorly and paranoid.  I had blood clots (generalisation) 6 years ago and since the "headlines" spent a few days of last week convinced I was dying (faster than normal).  Fatigue, prickling in my lungs and then a lump on my neck.

I walked to the walk-in centre and snoozed in their reception until a nice nurse told me I was probably having a viral response to the vaccine.  I walked home again much lighter and dropped some cash on the bits for my bike I had been putting off on account of being, y'know dying.

On Friday night, with a ride planned at the weekend, I told my buddy I was optimistic about feeling much better and promptly pottered off to sleep for 9 hours which, yes, made me feel much better on Saturday morning.  I spent the day loading up my bike for a big training practice with my heaviest sleeping bag, stove, full fuel bottle (I drained the last lockdown stash into one pot) and even a change of shorts in case the weather improved.

The shakedown ride was mostly climbing which is a relief since the bags were a bit shaky, carrying all that weight.  Me and my sons watched the moon come out from behind a canopy whilst sipping whisky and catching up on our mental health (talking shit) until it started to rain.

On Sunday substantial fuelling of porridge and coffee was required to stoke me and L over to Longshaw for a second breakfast and first review of the new café facility.  We walked straight past the bike rack, instead selecting a location under the yew trees sheltered from the rain and the wind coming in across the moor.  All this, having not noticed a perfectly acceptable outside covered area to the rear of the cafe... although no view of the moors from there and there weren't any chairs and tables so we were happier with our dry spot in the dirt under the yew trees.

The coffee was better than the one at first breakfast and the hot sausage rolls were even better still.   

We traversed to Calver gap where I lured L past the cafe in the carpark and on to the next section of bridleway, promising a lunch stop "in a bit".  

At Eaglestone we discussed plans for the rest of the day and L and my body ganged up on my brain so we turned towards the Eastern Moors and a rapid traverse to the city instead of heading further afield to Chatsworth.  Since I'd never ridden this trail before (in recent memory) and have been planning to for some time, I enjoyed the new views/new lines.

My guide led me to a pleasant pond / quarry combo for lunch as we soft-pedalled along the track behind three runners on their way out to a dip in the pond.  We had a chat with the runners and they reassured us we weren't intruding on their swim as we brewed up hot drinks and shared out the feed I had brought with me to see me through a much longer day.  

On the shorter ride I enjoyed following L, punching my legs harder against gravity and the hefty load on my bike to try and keep up (not walk) and I managed bog crossings without getting wet feet.  He guided me across the Eastern Moors without me getting stuck on impossibly steep shit and then finally we parted ways at the big oak, me heading to Houndkirk (Sheephill Road) through Blacka and him descending the other side to home.

I was distracted by tea at the Norfolk arms - it would have been a beer but tea is all that was on offer - and destroyed the flapjack I picked up in the morning whilst watching the lama farm from above.

Due to the "early" (it was now 3pm) finish, I had the strength left to descend Wyming Brook them pick myself back up the side of the valley to Fox Hagg (pushed the easy line) before dropping to the bottom of the valley again, climbing the Byway and riding the final stretch to home off road, picking up some ballsy descent QoM throwing the loaded bike around a corner in the dirt, foot-out.

It was nice to get not-exhausted-just-tired for once although an hour's sleep after my bath reminded me that I still have plenty of recovering to do.

It was a 10/10 for company, café and quality this weekend.