Hapy Eater BEaster Weekend

I meant to tell y'all about it in the week but I forgot.  Local kids made a multicoloured sign for the park but yellow letters on a white background aren't good... still I was chuffed to be wished a Hapy Eater.

• • •

I said I'd let Landslide know my plans over Easter weekend for an April bivi but the problem was, I didn't have any. I wanted to take out my race kit and trial it in harsh conditions and the weather forecast was perfect - glorious in the daytime, clear and deathly cold at night. Like the borderline genius/stupid, insane/dedicated individual that I am, I packed my lightweight quilt, mat, threw in the stove, all my remaining fuel (worth about three meals), two days food for good measure and some significant clothing layers. I walked out the door with 2 plans in hand - Option 1: Northern Myth route (though planning this in a few weeks with Landslide so didn't want to spoil it by doing it twice in a short space of time)... Option 2: ride out to The Limestone Way to see Marcus who was making record attempt.  

I didn't know when I was going.  I didn't know when I'd be back.  Limestone way was the preferred option - taken up simply by making my way over to a point on the Peak 200 route then using the tracker to see whether or not Marcus was nearby. Because I'd ridden part of the P200 route a fortnight ago, the obvious thing was to rejoin it where I left it - at Rushup edge - using the prettiest known route through the Peak to get there.

I hauled a very heavy Midnight out of the house at 11am having spent all Saturday morning packing up and switching the dynamo across bikes. Within 10 minutes I was waving to a club mate passing the other way. + 30 minutes I was humming across Moscar, happy to be out. Even the fleecy leggings were a bit too warm. My plan to not bring out a pair of bib shorts "just in case" was paying off, the day was sunny, glorious and I sweated. 

In my haste to get "away from it all" asap, I dodged the panic parking at Ladybower / Derwent junction at speed, waving to the traffic warden on the way past and turned up the Bridleway to the quietest pace I know, chuckling at the line of motorists waiting for "that one guy" to figure out the bus turning circle is not actually a parking place. 

Just this one climb and you'll be away from all this... Sure enough, a small group of fell runners were the last people I passed for some time.  How odd that in this time of solitude and loneliness I still crave solitude.  Oh, there we go, I defined introversion.

Some different graffiti.  This fella is chuffed to be out of lockdown.

Looking for a Simpsons moments.  It's quiet if you know where to go.

At the bomb-holes I decided to risk a wee. The orange or yellow coats way up the hill were clearly stopped and I had a great view of the bridleway both ways if I needed to abort. I traced over to the wall to shelter from the icy wind for my lunch then resumed my climb past the white and orange coats which turned out to be sheep feed buckets.

I just noticed today that this horserider is *really* chuffed to be out of lockdown.

Back at the Lockerbrook junction the crowds resumed briefly but/got a clear run to the A57 then rode all the way up "Don't get off and walk" fuelled by dry trails and 6 lads watching from the top. I don't think I have ever cleaned it on a loaded bike and certainly not on Midnight. Things were looking up.

A busy ride up to the ridge and then it got quiet again. A gate stop overlooking the Hope valley left me eminently satisfied with bikepacking as a medium. Still without a plan, I had nowhere to be except where I ended up. No-one was expecting me. My only commitment was to be back home 40 hours from now.

With trails like these.

Hope is what dreams are made of, and where clouds come from

I plunged down the descent into the Edale valley. The motorists were largely polite, especially the bloke in the Audi Al who thought a cheeky pass on a blind comer would be fine & I kinda saved his life by letting him know there was a tractor oncoming (fitted with a hay bail on a big spike).

• • •

Immense moment of joy when I turned to find the sky peppered with paragliders again. The ultimate socially distanced activity. Watching them whirl around in the sky gave me something to do as I trudged the heavy bike up the restricted by way to Rushup Edge and I found another breeze-free spot for more snacks.

I got my phone out to check Marcus's location on his run but was frustrated by tech as I could not get the thing to switch on - or the screen brightness was so dim I could not see in the sunlight. In the end I gave up and decided to continue regardless to see what fate held. A brief calculated estimate in my head gave a 14hr guess at his time so I'd probably miss it. Still, it was the only plan I had so I stuck to it.

• • •

A roadie turned onto the lane past the no-car cafe and moments later I screamed past him while he sat on the brakes down the hill. He was less good-humoured when he passed me back after the junction. I was no match for his skinny tyres and he silently disappeared up the road.

My luck was definitely on. The Peak Forest traffic lights were green for the first time ever and I sailed straight through, loading in the P200 route to my GPS as I went. 

Soon I had limestone under wheel and it was much more pleasant in the dry compared to my last ride here.  The sun was making its way around the sky and a group of dirt bikers at the end of the track were debating their choices - back to Edale then home. My sense of freedom prickled again.

I was definitely on the Limestone Trail now and a large oak with a strategically placed breeze block proved the perfect sitting spot to have afternoon snacks (bagin) and attempt to make my phone work again to see where Marcus was.

White-ish

At the rustle of a crisp packet, the nearby herd of sheep came running and I went to great efforts to shoo them away, fearing that Marcus would come running up the hill and miss his record because a herd of sheep was blocking the gate and his route to glory! They got the message and left me to eat in peace.

Somehow with all the screen-jabbing on Mam Nick I had managed to engage my phone in some very weird settings menu which took me an age to cancel. When I finally did get the tracker up I discovered Marcus had finished 3 hours earlier.  My estimate of 14 hrs was only 4 hrs off!

• • •

I was quite gutted to realise I had stopped just short of Millers dale station and probably could have saved my jam sandwich for later. As I rode under the Monsal trail, a little girl on the bridge above called "hello bike" and I waved back then we met for real in the car park.

I locked my bike up and only then realised that I'd also missed the café and a cup of tea by a few minutes. I sat on the platform and pondered my next move. I had quite a lot of water left. It was too early for dinner - I'd just eaten. I cleared my rubbish into the bin and got chatting to the girl's mum and dad who were happily chilling in the sun while the kids played with milk and bread crates and built a (unlit) campfire out of grass.

• • •

Me and dad had a chat about cycling which was a nice distraction from me deciding what to do next. Eventually though they headed home when the kids started to get cranky. I pulled out the camel back bladder, deciding whether to be frugal with weight or concerned about finding a top up. I went for a refil in the toilets and then at 6pm I decided to scoff my remaining edible food as "dinner" to see me through to wherever I decided to camp where I could brew up something warm if I needed it.  I'd used my last opportunity to sit in the sun without a coat on but bundled myself into a windproof and shorts for the tunnels.

• • •

The Monsal trail was still busy and I was happy for the filter of a steep hike up to the Pennine bridleway and some more open riding.  I did regret putting the extra layers on so soon though. 

On the Bridleway, in amongst the railway sidings I was protected from the breeze and found a sweet no-handed spot for 30 seconds of riding, arms outstretched to embrace the chilling evening air and the sunset - my contribution to spreading joy in the world to the people I had just passed - or maybe just entertainment for them, had I screwed it up and got caught by a sudden cross-wind.

Last of the light on the Pennine Bridleway

The sun was hitting the horizon as I approached Parsley Haigh, golden hour falling on the plovers and pheasants.

I've long coveted a stop in Parsley Haigh shelter but it would need to be late and I'd need to be desperate as the road/carpark is so close it could easily be a noisy spot by the road and a meeting point for activities or intentions less honourable than those of a two-wheeled tramp.

I flew on by.  At my exit from the trail a large group of campers and cars were tucked into the back end of the car park hiding the giant family tent, men with dogs and beers in hand and bbq in full flow. We were all out for a variation of the same thing, a very different variation on a theme.

Normally I'd crash into the Royal Oak at Hurdlow for some food and look out at the families camped there as they pitied my dishevelled form and heavy bike. This time I wondered if they'd get away with it or get moved on... and who'd be driving?

I stoked across toward Youlgreave and zipped off the road into Gratton Dale, my rear lights were used for a record-least - only 2 minutes during this ride.

I crossed the meadows part of the ride in the twilight with just a dying dynamo to supplement the afterglow of the sunset. I had also longed after a bivi in Gratton Dale since I first rode through it in 2016. Despite the difficulty of cycling here, (it's 50% unrideable) it is one of my favourite places, a lonely cleft in the countryside where I rarely see other people. However, the already cold temperatures had dropped by about 4 degrees when I descended into the gully and alarm bells rang (very faintly).

The first few trips here left me confused about the route and which gates to use but now I know it, I made good progress in.  

Last time I was here it was midsummer and it was pitch dark. It would have been ripe for a bivi but farmers were harvesting the fields above into the night so there would have been a constant drone of combines, tractors and shouts from the boss, not to mention whirling headlights and the possibility of being discovered so I had ended up in a bus stop in Baslow instead.  I was determined not to make the same mistake.

Where the track climbs out of the dale to the moor before descending again, I should have stopped. The temperature came up, there were flat bits, there was a wall to pitch behind but it all felt a bit out there, like my silver tent would look like one large zit on otherwise clear skin.

• • •

On my way down the slope I thought I spied a flat spot by a rock but on closer investigation it was still too sloped. I decided to stop being foolish and get out of the dale in favour of somewhere warmer but my decisions rarely stick.

A couple of gates later, flat spots started to get more tempting until I realised that the occasional tussock around there is just a limestone boulder with grass growing on it.

Finally I spotted a large slab-like boulder that I could lean my bike on, surrounded by 3 potential flat spots. I realised I wasn't going much further that night when the large volumes of very dry cow pats didn't really bother me.

• • •

Although my underlying desire was to get out of the dale, my head was having other ideas of stopping: that "I've always wanted to" was reinforced by "not wanting to tackle the next rocky section whilst it was icy" and "maybe the mud won't yet be frozen and you'll get wet and filthy", "I don't know where the next stopping point will be if I don't stop here" and the best yet, "The extra -2°C won't be so bad"

They all conspired to make me stop.

• • •

I had a lie down on the Tyvek sheet to check the body position - found enough flat spot with two tiny boulders to bolster my pillow placement. Luxury.

An excellent pitch - the tent was up in no time, despite initial paranoia about being able to get pegs in a boulder field. The tent was fitted out and stove unloaded by 9:30pm. My quilt gave me an initial feeling of warmth, enough to allow me to change into full dry layers as my fleecy bibs had still been clammy when I stopped. I couldn't be arsed to cook though, partly knowing I only had enough fuel for a max of 3 meals this weekend, I'd have to choose to drop one, and at 6- 7 pm I'd just scoffed a large portion of (cold) food.

• • •

Sadly by 10:30pm I was still wide awake and my feet were fucking freezing. My hands were fine (some ace Rab wool gloves). My body wasn't shivering but I wasn't toasty by any stretch of the imagination.

I needed to do something about my feet urgently as I was convinced I was going to get frostbite. A few different sock combinations didn't help although with every change of socks I got about 10 minutes relief because I'd warmed my core up through the movement associated with changing socks. For a while I didn't know what to do and wondered if this was the first step in the delusion of hypothermia but I was already wearing all my clothes so I just made myself a mental note not to take them all off if I started getting warm.

• • •

I took my gloves off to see what was going on with my quilt. In general, outside my warm gloves EVERYTHING was pretty chilly - no reassuring warmth inside my sleeping bag.  When I moved on to my side my mat was also freezing cold. I realise later that basically, my entire sleep system was massively out of its comfort zone.

At 1am I concluded more drastic action was needed. I considered Gian's philosophy (via Karl) that if it's too cold to sleep, get moving, but I wasn't in a race and I didn't want to end up needing to sleep through the daylight on Sunday so I decided to try eating something to ensure that at least had the energy to stay "warm"through the night. A thick layer of ice was on the inside and outside of the tent. I went for an incredibly bracing wee outside, then returned to the tent to get the stove going.

• • •

Suddenly I was incredibly thankful for the extra water I picked up at Miller's Dale.

It was a brilliant 20 minutes of warmth in the darkness, watching the camp stove at my feet and the stars above.  The downside: it was so cold it took me 3 matches to get the meths lit. The heat captured in the tent (even with the door open) kept/got my feet and body warm for the 1st time in hours. I turned the head torch off and listened to nothing except the occasional warble of something birdy in the night. The flame was so pretty but died out before my 400ml water could boil. Rather than lose the heat or make mediocre soup, I plunged some more fuel on the hot stove (so lost some to evaporation) so I could finish the boil.

With some fuel still burning after that, I put more water on - so as not to waste the fuel. Whilst the soup cooked (in its pouch, shoved up my jumper) I scoured the tent for something to "drink".  I didn't want coffee but that's all I had. Instead I tossed a jelly baby in the pot.

Of course the soup packet had opened under my coat - of COURSE it had. However, "soup" was giving it too much credit and "Smash* with flavourings" would be a better description.

* look up "Smash Mash Potato" if you were born after 1985, though a quick check on that google search yeilds the following fun "fact" on the Wiki page: "The adverts of 1970s and their catchphrase, 'For Mash get Smash', were voted television advert of the century by Campaign Magazine, and second-best television advert of all time in a poll of April 2000 conducted by The Sunday Times and Channel 4, beaten by Guinness' Surfer advertisement from 1999."

Rather than being wet through from my soup release, I was merely coated in something resembling baby sick and it dried on (or froze?) pretty quickly. For reference, a red jelly baby dissolved in 200mm boiling water is akin to weak Ribena flavour and was pretty good.

• • •

I retreated back to the cold sleeping bag to an alarming role reversal. My feet became warm for the first time in hours but my core degenerated into convulsive shivering. I'm going with cold water swimming theory here: as the body is rewarmed, circulation starts sending warm blood to the extremities again. Unfortunately this brings cold blood back to the core, hence the shivering reaction. An idle run probably would have helped. Instead, I tried to plug the quilt gaps, to no avail. My final desperate act was to curl up in a ball (ignoring the parts of my body that fell off the insulated mat) and breathe warm breath into my quilt.

I had been reluctant to do this for fear I'd just end up with a soggy or frozen sleeping bag but somehow I managed to drift off to sleep. When I next woke up shivering it was 5am and a perfectly legitimate time to get up for the sunrise. If I was lucky I'd even get out of Peanut-butter-mud alley before it defrosted.

First of Sunday light, Gratton Dale.  It's grey because it's white!

A much enlightened (therefore grainy) pic.  Thumb for chaos scale.

A bad pic of ice and impromptu self-portrait of a square head.

• • •

At least I didn't need to worry about my silver tent in a green Peak District. The entire field was blanketed with dusty white frost.  

During the sunrise I packed up the tent and jogged up or down the bridleway to restore blood flow to my fingers which kept shutting down in protest to actually having to touch cold surfaces.  It was a beautiful sunrise but I didn't dare take the phone out of its case and attempt to handle it without gloves on.

I decided that on account of having eaten 4 hrs ago, I could find somewhere in the sun for my next meal. Preferably at someone else's fuel expense since during the night I had used up 50% of what was supposed to last me three meals.

Packing up is such a warming experience and this day was really special. First the tent pack wouldn't go in the bag so I re-did it.  Then the bag wouldn't go in the bar roll so I angrily pulled the tent out again. By the time I'd scrunched and shaken it out a third time two small snowballs of powder ice had accumulated. 

I spilled my sweets on the grass but, valuing every calorie and a "leave no trace" philosophy, I repacked every one - except the ones I popped in my mouth, picking off the cow shit first.

Peanut-butter Alley was dutifully solid. The worse puddle reduced to no more than 1inch deep chocolate paste. What was more surprising was the spring, ditching around 30 gallons per minute of water into the stream while the rest of the Peak is rocking dry trails. And when I say, "stream", in places it was indistinguishable from the path. I used what bypasses I could muster as I really was not in the mood for wet ice cold feet.  Thrashing through brush with a heavy bike and wide handlebars was preferable. Consequently it took me 27 minutes to do the first 1.7km. 

I managed the climb up past Elton before feeling grindingly hungry but a nice bench was available. 

I've frequently zoomed past it on the downhill so I indulged in more fuel, porridge, coffee and dressing in something more suitable.  My sleep clothes, waterproof coat and trousers were replaced with bib tights (now warmed through the conduction of my backpack) and my actual cycling top instead of insulating synthetic down. My heart rate monitor was resigned to either buried in the bottom of the bag or missing in action.

Whilst I ate my porridge, I searched for the answer the question on the tip of my tongue - what now? After 3 hours bad sleep where I burned all my calories staying alive I was feeling a) reassured by my survival skills b) in desperate need of more fuel if I was to stay out another night c) pretty washed out in spite of the amazing day d) undecided on where to eek out another day's riding or sleep that night.

• • •

In normal times I'd have ridden into Bakewell, picked up more meths from an outdoor shop, maybe even a camp mat extra layer and a liner bag... but these aren't normal times and the shop wasn't open so instead I took the easy option - go home. I knew I could go back out if I wanted - take a bigger sleeping bag, switch to the gas stove. I knew I probably wouldn't. 

Not to be too much of a chicken I decided to carry on the P200 route and made provisional plans to meet up with my husband at either Curbar gap cafe or Longshaw (as I decided I didn't need Stanage edge in my life today).

I packed everything up again & enjoyed the lanes and trails over to Haddon and Chatsworth as the day gradually warmed up towards 9am then suddenly got busy around the main Chatsworth house. I was relieved, as always, to have survived the road between Chatsworth and Baslow having received nothing more than a dirty look from the wife of a C-Class driver who overheard "What a fucking surprise" directed at her close-passing, balding husband.

I decided I didn't want to be queuing at busy cafés and popped into the co-op to buy lunch to-go, feeling a bit exuberant as I had *just* eaten. I downed a cold laté from the fridge section to supplement the earlier coffee so I didn't have to carry the packaging up onto Baslow edge.

I'm not sure what they put in those Starbucks things but I cleared the edge, stopping only to open the gate. I even managed not to dab as I weaved my way between gormless tourists staring at phones at the viewpoint.

As anticipated people were queuing 10-deep at the Gap café so I sat on a bench in the sun to eat my cheese twist in case TSK showed up. When dry, the black wooden benches are toasty warm on a bum that's been in a chilly breeze for 2 hours.  I ate alone.

• • •

Most people on Curbar were walking at the edge whilst a runner and I dawdled together between occasional large groups on the path. A gaggle of ramblers were upset by my presence as they stood in the way of everyone, transfixed by a herd of deer they were watching through binoculars.

I stayed my course, the deer stared back at the pensioners, unbothered by me passing. Perhaps they recognised my kindred scent. Wild animal and baby sick soup.

I stopped the Garmin route and pottered happily into Longshaw. I was right, more queues.

I didn't really need coffee but decided to use the posh toilets and use my favourite spot under the yew tree to get out of the breeze while watch the queue go up and down and eating my co-op pasta. I mused that lockdown means an end to being turfed out for bringing your own food to sit at the cafe tables since all available seating areas are now just "oustide" and the staff are all 100% committed to serving hoards of people, not clearing the tables or making spy-like observations of middle aged hikers weilding tesco wrappers and flask coffee concealed in their Berghaus rucsacs. Instead it's desperation queuing for a "real" macchiato while the staff scrutinise masks and hand sanitiser.

When I came out of the loo, four lightweight carbon mountain bikes dangled by their saddles from the poorly designed triathlon-style bike hangar outside the cafe. A beautiful cerise trek e-bike and two much-loved very clean-looking full sussers with colour co-ordinated components next to my very muddy, scratched Cotic, groaning under the weight of kit. I decided not to dangle everything from the saddle but instead locked it to the sturdy post, both wheels firmly on the ground. Passing children were fascinated by my bags and what was inside.

I thought of pretending I was the real Easter bunny and my bags were filled with Easter eggs.

I imagined their disappointment when all they found were a few faded skittles and some M&Ms coated in bits of dried cow shit.

Bike packing Trep can be very dark. 

Anyway, the bikers weren't impressed my bike got more attention or they weren't impressed by my skills riding the drop off to the path. (I impressed myself by not face-planting as my bags overtook me on the downhill).

I rode away from the cafe past the gatehouse occupant helping some dog owners understand about keeping city canines on a leash through a working farm. Houndkirk at least had a bit more space. 

I had a chat with an E-biker visiting for the day. He had no clue where he was, where he was parked or where he was heading next. He didn't want to tell me where he was from so finally I concluded I was too terrifying so left him in peace. At the lama farm he shot past me in silence, presumably on his way back to his car "somewhere over there"! Given the strong headwind that was raging I was gutted that I stood sod-all chance of keeping up with his battery on maximum assist. Perhaps he thought I was the illegal override police.

Passing the line of cars parked on Lodge Lane at a safe distance to avoid a car-dooring or jay-walkers another Mercedes C- Class driver first came at me head on (no priority given) then just as I changed my line for her, to hug tight to the cars on my left and let her through, she made an emergency swerve straight into my line - or rather - the first available parking space. I'm getting a bit pissed off with what folk will do to get a peak district parking spot.

All stress was offset by a chat with the Wildlife Trust ranger who was handing out helpful Countryside Code leaflets at Wyming Brook to help newbies understand how to help wildlife as well as enjoy it. I used the Trusts well maintained trail to get me off the hill and onto the A57 for one last final average speed boost to home to enjoy a final Trust-maintained track back to the allotments, home, a hose down for the bike, a laundry line for the snow melt kit and coffee and well earned bath for the Trep.

• • •

For the record, you will not be surprised to learn that wind speeds of 37 mph that evening and a forecast snowfall in the morning left me zero motivation to re-pack my bigger sleeping bag and head back out.

My conclusions from this ride are that the spring quilt is only really to be relied on in positive temperatures unless in an absolute emergency. Even then it's maybe best used with a combo of hot food.

In random sub zero conditions it is most probably genuinely worth sacking off the sleep and keeping going till tomorrow.

• • •

Since I've been home, luxuriating in recovery I been thru my annual breakdown of "how the fuck do I finish the HT if... ?" 

Analysis from year to year can be off-putting right now since, without the commute, I'm riding less time and less distance.

What I did find though is the last two years I've done nothing more special than what I did this weekend. I'm clinging on to that. Some big steady rides, the right level of recovery. On Sunday, despite 3 hours sleep Saturday night, my legs were pretty good. My head was pretty good. I'll not lie, I was totally mashed later but once I'd given myself permission to go home on Sunday I stopped treating it like a weekend ride and pushed myself hard over some tough climbs to get the training in that way instead of being out longer.

I was still pretty lucid all the way home until that inevitable moment when I was nearly home and at the bottom of Wyming Brook I decided that I just needed to be home asap.  While this weekend might have felt like a bail, doing it with strength left in the legs was a roaring success especially after 30km last week and spending the week before in bed after my Covid vaccine.

• • •

This weekend was nice - I treated it like a holiday (a tough, experimental holiday, but nevertheless...). I packed a stove, took the spare bike, stopped a lot, chatted, brewed-up, took photos and pitched my tent before dark - just).

I quite like holiday rides at this point in time.  The ability to leave my home and be immediately on holiday without the use of cars or public transport is invaluable.  With holidays though comes a need to stop when it's sensible, to go back to work, to enable the body just enough leeway to do it all again for training.

• • •

It leaves me eager for a longer trip (call it "a race" if you wish), where I have the personal excuse to thrash it, keep going into the night, say "blow it" to freezing temperatures, know that going home to my warm bed is the endpoint, game over, filling my bags with trash food because where we're going they don't have cafés. Not having to decide which route to do or where to go tomorrow because that has been defined and only when I get to the end can I stop and do something different. 

It's the intrigue of the past 24 months - how I've improved (god, I hope I've improved) but also what 12 months of lockdown has done - one way or another. 

Maybe the answer to the great question: "Is less ACTUALLY more?"  

When it comes to sleeping bag comfort ratings - it definitely is.

Winter Solstice Bivi 2020

I should have done more on Solstice day but I've done very little for Christmas this year so Saturday was spent sorting presents and Sunday morning was spent fixing my bike up or loading it with stuff.

I rolled out at 2pm, dropped down to the river and chinked up Fairy Glen to the South side of the valley.

The road of 100 puddles is the gateway lane. It gets me out into the fields.  Sometimes it becomes the fields. I had to negotiate with a horse to let me pass. He was feeling skittish. Eventually his rider turned him around, passed me, then turned again and followed me along the lane.

The good dog was indoors but woofed to me from the house. I turned up the hill to the top road and as I climbed, horse and rider caught me up. He was much happier to keep an eye on me in front and his rider was pleased as he had got brave enough to pass the second gate. When the track flattened out I left them to celebrate together.

On the top road,the sunset begged to be photographed. My bike begged to have its picture taken, despite me treading through a bog to do so.

 There's a fair bit of road riding to get out this side of the valley, though there are few cars. It's my express-way to the Peak. I was glad I'd made it out here early enough to see the ocre moorland, the clouds turn pink to orange and the sky turn blue to turquoise, yellow and then Navy.

 

I stopped at the gate for a chat with another rider who had come out for the solstice and ended up taking pity on his Loneliness, inviting him to our street's outdoor Christmas Carol evening because he can't get out to see his family in London this Christmas.

I squelched through more puddles then joined the A57 for the final express descent to the Lady bower reservoir. It wasn't the hike a bike that put me off taking the Derwent Edge route but the depth of the puddles a resulting erosion on the downhill. I decided to steer clear and ride the shore track instead.

The reservoir level was full - literally to overflowing. This bench has consistently been around 30-40ft above the water line for the whole summer. Now it felt like the water was lapping at my feet. I'm glad I made this stop before the sun completely disappeared. I watched the boy racers blatting along the tourist road, content in the knowledge they couldn't get anywhere near me here.

 

By the time I reached the village the light had gone. I couldn't face the visitor centre toilets and boy racer carpark so I carried on up to Howden, avoiding the occasional ill-equipped dog walkers making their way back in darkness.

In fact, they just kept coming By the time I finally found a spot to have a wee, I was pretty sure I had exhausted the walking crowds, yet still found myself keeping an eye on my darkened bike as I readjusted my layers whilst a couple walked past nonchalantly chatting - hopefully none the wiser at my presence.

A fine Westerly breeze had picked up so I added thick gloves and a fleece and shivered as my feet gradually lost their feeling along the more exposed trails and the easy-going Tarmac road after a deserted Slippery Stones. Now the night-hikers were better equipped and a fine array of blindingly bright head-torches dazzled me so much I had to brake on the downhills Just rude!

• • •

I found another sheltered spot to take on enough calories to get me through to dinner time. One of my favourite reservoir outlooks only slightly ruined by the head torch light pollution of a fleet of Weekend Warriors. By sitting down for a bit my feet actually warmed up and stayed warm for the rest of the ride.

I allowed myself a ride up the fire road to escape the valley after I realised I should have last time. It was satisfying. I got so warm in my extra layers I had to take my helmet off to let my hood down and rode to the top with it dangling from my handlebars. It was a Tonino-Nice moment in the middle of the dark winter and made me smile for the rest of the day.

• • •

The surface on the burms had been chewed up well by the rain and in other places been washed away to reveal the old cobbles. Needless to say, with all the kit on my bike I did not ride up "try not to walk this bit". I was glad to descend back to the reservoir trail where the only real challenge was trying to read surface detail by dynamo light and not end up sideways or knee-deep in mud.

 The mud turned to running water, cue one reservoir sinkhole by night light. I checked my messages to find Landslide just leaving for our rendezvous. I had 90 minutes to kill and was sick of riding up New Road,so I plotted an alternate road hike up Padley Gorge and North Lees

• • •

The bike path to Thornhill was possibly the muddiest I got all ride. In the fading dynamo light, pushing up the gorge I scared myself stupid wheeling the bike over a wobbly paving slab which made me think there was a ghost rider right behind me.

An owl screeching in the neighbouring field nearly finished me off.

The time had hit 7:30pm and I had to snack my way across the bottom of Stanage edge and up the road toward Burbage to keep the legs turning.

I looked down the Burb valley and could see another rider making their way up. The timing was looking good.

Up at the carpark, a person was standing by a vehicle so I decided to give the footpath a miss for now and head over to the bridleway to check my phone in the shelter of the rock wall.

• • •

I thought I could already see a light in our chosen spot for the night but just as I'd sent a text, he arrived at my spot and we carried on back to the bivi spot together.

We carved out an excellent nook in a tree clearing, both of us revelling in the security of our tented cocoons. I was starving and washed down my dinner of dessicated curry with warmed rehydration drink.

I took a few sips of whisky but had already drunk enough in the week and mentally needed to get a nice ride in on Monday morning too.

It took me a while to get settled. Despite it being 4 degrees warmer than our Novembivi it was wetter and I still ended up putting on all my layers, including waterproofs, and breaking out the foot warmers.

• • •

I was particularly annoyed I forgot my down boots. I must've slept at about midnight then woke at 5:40. I snoozed a bit then heard L get up. 

I brewed up from my sleeping bag, still dining out on Porridge with Ben Nevis honey and a really delicious coffee. 

  A little more world-righting over breakfast then we packed up to head home.

When I finally got up the trees were misty with falling rain and kind of pretty and mysterious. 

The Creature from the Black Lagoon bringing me Christmas gifts

The track out was challenging and required a degree of teamwork to negotiate the stream crossing and boulder hopping. I ignored an increasingly wobbly saddle as I shoved and vaulted the bike around wearily, then we skipped our way down the final pitch to the Fox house Inn and L continued into Sheffield, late for his "some time after 10" shift, whilst I strolled off to do Houndkirk with my morning off work.

• • •

I soon ground to a halt after my saggy saddle got so bad, my saddle bag started to touch the rear tyre. I repacked the bag then took an Alan key to the seat post, relieved to have the saddle back in the right position. I rode towards home feeling 4 inches taller.

At the top of the Mayfield valley I needed a final stop to feed before the push for home and had a chat with a runner, out for her dog walk. These little links helping to ease the Lockdown drudgery.

Although I was using up a part of my remaining leave I did have a rather important 2:30 meeting so I beat a hasty line home through the outskirts of town, the 11am traffic was at least easy enough to make road riding bearable.

• • •

I dropped into home at 12 o'clock for a shower, lunch and a perfect 1 hour sleep before work in the afternoon.

That's it 12/12 for 2020. 2 under emergency rules. (novel but never again, hopefully) 2 years in a row.

Decembivi - cozy but failed.

 I enjoyed last week's bivi so much, I thought I might do it again this week.

I thought I'd go all-out comfort this time and take my (c)13 year old one man mountain marathon tent out with me.  Double skinned and relatively spacious and about the shape of a hooped bivi, it would give me a feel for whether I want a hooped bivi or not.

It took me a while to pack everything up.  The tent took up so much space in the handlebar bag, I almost left my sleeping mat sitting in a pile of things on the kitchen floor.  Somehow I managed to ram that in an overly stuffed saddlebag and set off with an afternoon snack in my rucsac and a box of soup to heat before bed time, hoping to eat properly in a pub sometime in the evening but not really making any solid plans.

I had lunch before I left then set out about 13:30 into cloud which had descended all the way down the valley, the new "waterproof" leggings being put straight to the test after their first wash.

This should have given me clue as to how wet it was out there.

 I dropped to the bottom of the Rivelin Valley, thinking I'd make my way over to Longshaw then Chatsworth but somewhere along there, I decided to hit the Ladybower, climb up the other side and head for summer meadows.  I could come home over Stanage and take an easy line home in the morning.  I climbed up the other side of the valley, all the way along to Rodside but in a fit of boredom, changed my plans again and promised myself to ride some trails I hadn't ridden before.  

 

I'd plotted a route earlier around the back lanes and few bridleways near Bradfield so I dropped over to my route - heading almost all the way home to do so.  I circuited the edge of Loxley, probably no more than 700m as the crow flies from home but over two steep sided valleys away.

My ride was indeed more lanesy and each new bridleway had been ridden before at some point, although many of the interconnecting roads were new to me.  Some of them were incredibly steep and reminded me of Wales.  

It's amazing what you'll consider when you're bored.

 

I managed to find pleasure in the lanes until the light finally disappeared completely at about 4:30pm.  

A couple walking spaniels told me "This road only gets steeper".  Whilst that would always be a perfect reason to ride on by them, I realised I was off route and was in the middle of interrogating the Garmin to figure out which way to actually go, hoping to find myself on something a bit more technical than a road climb.  I doubled back, towards the valley side lower down, "Aye, I would" said the bloke as I rode away.  Rude.

A little further down the hill I found exactly what I was looking for - a lovely Byway that yes (you guessed it) I had ridden on before.  My eyesight was failing me in the fading light and condensed rain on the screen of the Garmin though and I was sure it was directing me right to the bottom of the valley.  I descended and found myself in Wharncliffe.  This is not what I was after.  

The long slog back up the road was hearbreaking.  Finding the other end of the Byway I had missed was even more hearbreaking.  I carried on up the road.

Away from the noise of the town, I slopped into a driveway to a field, blocked by a tree branch and sat on my mat to eat my afternoon snack.  Not one car passed and I was out here doing it, not stuck at home.  That's all that mattered.  I put on all my riding layers and laid my waterproof trousers over my legs to stay warm.  

Back on the bike, the Bontranger light went on in flashy mode to pierce the cloud and both rear lights went on.  I dropped into the Agden reservoir catchment then climbed back out again on a steep trail which had me off and pushing more than once.  It was definitely enough to warm me up from my stop.  

So much so, I stopped for a wee in the woods.  I turned all my lights of so as not to be spotted by any passing dog walkers and made my way into the trees by what light was left in the sky (not much and I nearly fell over quite a few times).  The swirling clouds had a lighter grey tone to them.  Enough to make me think the moon might eventually appear from behind it resulting in the kind of night I was looking for but despite craning my neck, the moon was nowhere to be seen.

The bridleway over to Mortimer Road passes two farmhouses - one at a distance that I was happy to circumnavigate at a distance, having been here before.  The second house sits right on the bridleway, its outbuildings spill across the road I was on.

A large dog stood silently in my path.  Uh oh.  I do love dogs but a dog in its own home has space to guard so I was a bit nervous about approaching it.  I did so slowly, talking reassuringly.  "Hello, are you going to let me by?"  He trotted over and gently jumped up, big paws on my thigh as I stood astride my bike.  I stroked his head and told him he was lovely.  Not a bark, not a growl but he didn't trot off either.  I suspect he was a big puppy.  Big paws, a big head, spindly long legs.  

He jumped down and I started riding again but he stood in my path once more.  I didn't want to ride past and be a moving target, or take my eyes off him.  We had another chat.  "There's a good dog, can I go through your gate?".  The owner surfaced from an outbuilding, "what's the dog got?" He was pleasant enough  though, wrapping up with, "It's a bit late to be out isn't it?" 

"I'm on my way home now", I lied, swinging the last gate open to disappear onto open moorland once again.

I looked at my Garmin through the pitch blackness - 5:15pm.

At the end it was straight over onto Mortimer road then I picked my way over to the bridleway that stretches out onto the moorland.  As soon as I turned off my tyres dropped into a hub deep puddle that 4x4s have carved, parking off the road.  I hoped it wouldn't be like that all the way across.  

Thankfully not.  After the gates, a hardcore track forged its way across the hillside.  I was done with technically challenging for a bit so this was very welcome.  Of course I'd been here before and last time it was swathed in purple from the heather.  This time I tutted at all the waste that was strewn around the hillside though - tissues were everywhere, tucked into every nook of heather like spoils from an angry travellers site - until I realised that the splotches of white I could see at the extremes of my vision were snow. 

The splotches of white increased in density the higher I climbed, though always clear from the trail which had obviously seen some footfall over the last 2 days.

Through the darkness I saw a tiny headtorch by the trail.  "Nothing like a midnight bike ride" said the bloke, "Nothing like a midnight walk, and it's only 5:30pm!"  Stupid daylight.

When I ran out of trail, the snow started to cling to the gritstone slabs that have been laid across the moorland tracks and I rode unclipped, my heart in my mouth.  To fall off here would mean one foot planted firmly in deep sticky freezing bog and it was WET.  Any stop had to be controlled and tight.  I would have to plant my feet within 15cm each side of my pedals to keep them dry. 

I pushed out a steady cadence all the way across, passing gritstone features without even glancing - not really knowing where I was on the map.  My destination, I decided was Back Tor for dinner.  

It was further than I remember and compounded by an internal need to get off and walk the really tricky bits.  Several of the bog bridges I had crossed without flinching - much better than my last trip - and any that were slightly uphill were easy because all I needed to do was keep my balance and pedal.  The downhill ones, I bottled.  Any need to touch the brakes and I could just see myself skidding sideways into the blackness, never to be seen again.  Drowning in peat is not high on my list of ways to go.

So I walked them and I walked the slippery bits that had no slabs, trying not to sink but trying to carry my bike over the landscape - and that was no easy task. I dreaded seeing a Park Warden who would likely send me back the way I had come and give me a stern telling off.  

At one point I thought I saw a head torch heading across the moorland towards me but when I looked back it was gone.

Finally Back Tor appeared.  The wind had finally come out from somewhere, a gentle snow-cooled breeze cutting through the night sky.  I headed round to the lee side of the formation, looking for a good tent pitch.  I did find one, on a bank of heather, well drained, topped with snow but still out in the breeze.  

I decided to make dinner and think about it.

I scrambled the bike over to the rocks, leant it up and searched for a sheltered spot.  Right at that moment, it started to rain.  I found the sheltered spot though and decided I could wedge myself and my cooking gear in it and watch the rain fall outside.  

As I shimmied between the stones, I realised that the headtorch I had seen had been the glowing lights from the pub down at the road.  The shower and the breeze had at least thinned out the cloud so that visibility had returned.

I went to light the stove and as soon as I reached for the match box, I instantly knew there were no matches in it.  It contains nothing more than a little extract of midge coil wrapped up in cling film, my highland trail stash.  Thankfully, I did still have a lighter with me as backup.  I tore the side off the matchbox to act as a match wick for the meths stove, momentarily hoping it wasn't covered in some fire-proof coating, and promptly dropped it in the meths.  The cardboard took well, the meths soaked cardboard took even better.

My nook was really cosy with the fire going, though I'd sat down with my feet pointing up hill and soon found that my core muscles and tired hip flexors couldn't hold the position indefinitely.  Despite my best intentions I had to plant one hand on the wet rock and another in the wet ground to get up sharply as cramp wracked my right leg.  At least I managed to do it without knocking over the soup and the fire.

I sat back down 180 degrees, squeezing my legs as far into the overhang as I could so that only the slightest of showers and the occasional drip off the rocks above fell onto my hooded back.  I made my decision there.  Eat this, fuck off home.

The soup was brilliant, so was the prospect of bed.  Had I been convinced I'd be warm and snuggly, I'd 100% have stayed out but I was convinced I'd be wet and miserable and come home exhausted on Monday staring down the barrel of a day at work (but not "at" work).  Also, 7:45 is no time to be going to bed and having forced my heavy bike through 1345m of climbing, I wasn't sure I had much left in me to tire myself out and go anywhere sheltered to sleep.  I was already missing my bivi as I could've got a decent kip in the hillside hut if I weren't relying on a tent pitch.

I got up from my feed stop and quickly battened down the hatches and loaded up the bike.  Lights streamed down the valley, flashing red - a plane? No, just a car on the distant A57.  I could see civilisation from here.

I packed up swiftly and bounced across the last few paving slabs and rocks to the fast line off the moor.  After just a few metres I stopped again, this time to pull up my hood under my helmet to keep the rain off and to add my woollen gloves underneath my riding gloves.  As I coasted along the sandy trail, I caught a glimpse of something moving fast next to me.  A mountain hare, bright white and bouncing through the snow.  Only a leveret, it was just a little bigger than a domestic rabbit.  She ran along the trail with me and infront of me then once out of the beam of my light, beat a hasty retreat at an angle.  I felt like I had seen what I needed to see.

The surfaced trail took me back to the parking lot where the last few hikers were packing up their gear.

The descent had cooled me right down so I took the opportunity of stopping to do the gate to sort out my head gear for the ride home.  I pulled my buff back down round my neck and added my fleece hat underneath my hood.  Proper kitted out.  The only think I couldn't be arsed to do was put my waterproof trousers on.  They're just too tight to get on  over boots (though shoes are fine) so I've had it on my to do list since my last trip to cut the stretchy lycra piece that's just too tight for a boot to slide through so that they're suitable for throwing on and off at a moment's notice.  I was too close to home to bother.

Also, I had a fucking big hill to climb.  

The hill is steep and long and last summer, in the middle of my training for the BB200, when I was crawling home up this hill, my dad's mate phoned me to ask my about supporting a friend in PBP (Paris-Brest-Paris).  I gave him that exasperated brush off of, "I'm a bit busy now mate... dying!"  Remember the days when I used to have to walk this???  Well, that was at the end of a 200km weekend and here I was, scurrying home from the Peak with my tail between my legs after only 45km.  I'm not sure I can call riding up it progress, but ride up it I did.

I persevered to the end of the road and joined the A57.  All kinds of permutations apply here but I chose the easy one - sit in with the traffic all the way to the bottom then ride up to Crookes on a steady incline leaving myself only the drop into home to do.

I broke when I hit the top of the steady incline and instead of sitting on my laurels, I turned onto the off-road in my own back yard, slid through the trees at the top of the quarry (too many dabs for my liking in the wet) and dropped back to the allotment path leaving myself the rollers of bole hills to execute (not too bad).  I nearly cried when I reached the flat bit though - the bit where I know there are no more up hills to do.

My friend Alan is running 256 miles in December - starting from 1 mile on 1st December, he will run up to 16 miles on 16th then drop down again back to 1 on 31st.  I said I'd like to join him but know it would be irresponsible to take on so much running straight away from (virtually) nothing so I'm there in spirit, walking running (or biking) - to force myself to do something every day.  I was hoping to get 60km on the bike on day 6 at least but the clock timed out at 56km(or something) so that will have to do.

Ice Crystals.

The last 6 weeks have been a bit of a write off for my long riding exploits. I have focussed on improving my strength and speed as part of a larger plan and also have been both busy and focussed on a short, difficult training course. The exam was on Monday this week. After one week of targeted sanity training as a break from studying and revising, I came out of the exam to 4 days of frantically catching up with the day job. I promised myself my November bivi this weekend as a reward for finishing the course. 

I've been reading "Under the stars" by Matt Gaw, my anticipation for a release from the four brick walls of my house, growing with every page turn.  

A father of two, Gaw's book describes his observations of UK dark skies areas in stark contrast to the light polluted conurbations of UK cities - Bury St Edmunds where he lives and London. He travels to Galloway and to the Isle of Coll, bivis with the stars, walks in the woods without lights, cries, laughs (mostly at himself) and finally manages to persuade his kids and wife out for a night but falls at the final hurdle when the children refuse to lie down in the goose poo at the RNIB reserve.

His descriptions of constellations and the smear of the milky way across a blackened sky bring inspiration but with Lockdown, my chances are limited to a limp into the Peak to be sandwiched between the orange glows of Manchester, Sheffield and Barnsley. It is also due to be a 98% moon.

I still hadn't seen my lockdown bike buddy Landslide since our mad rush over to Wales for the BB200 so our plans hatched to get November done together. Without any real weather incentive last weekend, he seemed happy to wait for me to surface from my training course. My only demand was that we go out Friday night.

I knew I didn't have the patience to wait out Saturday morning to get out for a Saturday night bivi. Chances wavered between me doing a long ride and failing to make it to night or going out for a day ride and getting too tired and not going out again.  It would be slim based on some reduced leg muscle right now. I thought it more likely I'd slink home and put off bivying all together. So I insisted on a late departure after dinner on Friday with a decent ride to finish off on Saturday. 

 For the first time in weeks I cut work short, loaded the bike and perfectly timed myself to get out the door (except for some mad hunting for my spot tracker). I wanted  the Spot in case I had some riding to do on my own on Saturday and once I'd realised it was 'lost' I wanted to find it again but eventually I left without it. Although I'd remembered all my gear, I realised that aside from my breakfast porridge I was relying on a selection of accumulated snacks from previous rides to sustain me through Saturday. 

My earlier intentions to go to the shops had been quashed by management tasks and Microsoft outlook and by the time I did make it to Asda with Landslide in tow to mind the bikes, my focus was on the beer I'd been promising myself all week.

Chores completed we rattled along the allotments trail, lights blazing, then hiked our bikes up the rock garden.

I'd finally warmed up and had to stop to lose my gloves and layers, finally realising my Spot Tracker was still dangling from my handlebars from its last outing though it was now invisible amongst all the bags. I noticed the leaves glistening like jewels in my lights and realised it was going to be an interesting night.

We hiked bikes up through the quarry to cross the A57 then descend its byway to the base of the Rivelin valley. We climbed back up, finding a small white bhudda meditating in the stream below the golf course. While Landslide snapped his pic, I stretched out my hamstrings now tight and complaining about 2 rides in one day interspersed with a lot of sitting down.

The descent from the Buddha is rocky and exciting and I meant to take it carefully given the glass beer bottle that was now sharing my rucsac with my dry fleece top, hat, spare gloves and electronics. However, Landslide took a different line to me and we found ourselves rolling down it side by side, almost in sync and running a dual slalom all the way to the bottom where I got so excited I nearly stacked several times trying to get my weighted dropper post to spring back up again.

We cruised along Wyming Brook, puffing up the climbs now. I criticised myself for hitting the bottom gear before remembering I'm on my heavy bike with older (higher)gear ratios packing a LOT of stuff for a November bivi.

At the A57 Landslide suggested that as it was 9:30 we should hotfoot it down the road to our destination, the Ladybower. I was having none of it and sternly turned us towards Sheffield then straight up Onkersley Lane, past the Good Dog (Lockdown or no Lockdown he was in bed) and up to Rod side.

• • •

I'd refused the A57 option because it's always longer than I think to cross the moor at Hollow Meadows but Rod Side is also long. Quiet though. Not a single car passed and then we were onto the Byway, passing cows lowing noisily in the farm shed when we went through the gates. Who needs Security alarms when you have nervous cattle?

Finally I allowed us both a break and through the cold air we cut down to the reservoirs on the A57. I battened down all the hatches - hood up, zips all fastened - but still spun my legs furiously to keep warm. A couple of cars passed. They were loud but muted by the hood over my ears. Each time I thought it was Landslide passing, "wow! He's tanking it" turned to alarm and caution as I realised it was a tonne of metal instead.

The first gravel climbs alongside the Ladybower reservoir were bittersweet.  Our legs and brains were crying out for bed but our hands were freezing. Every little rise brought us new levels of warmth and comfort and our brains were engaged by chatter as we were finally able to ride side by side, reminiscing about the bizarre abundances of wildlife that gathered here during the" Summer" Lockdown when nature took over from humans.

Eventually - thankfully in time - I realised I needed to look out for our spot. When I found it, it was not great so we continued on up. I was nervous about climbing higher as I knew it was going to be colder at elevation and more exposed on the moors.

Still, Landslide seemed to be on for an outdoor bivi and, well, I couldn't be arsed to think of anything better. I read the landscape ahead - clearly visible as shapes in the moonlight - against the OS maps - and concluded there was a probable flat spot ahead.

Sure enough, as we reached the shoulder of the climb, the hillside opened out. I was coveting a sheep dugout for shelter but better than that, amongst the tussocks, a sphagnum moss bed emerged, glistening in the moon.

 

There was just enough space for two pitches in between the grassy tussocks The surface moisture was frozen into crunchy broccoli florets and the ground beneath seemed sufficiently drained and/or frozen to remain dry for the night ahead. We both pitched just right. Our spaces forming a tiny human head to toe chain up the very gentle upward slope that was only perceptible lying down. I proudly unearthed the little pouch of goodies I keep for my pitch - a freebie plastic "waterproof" bag with a zip lok closure. In the freezing temperatures its elastic properties were overcome and as I opened it, it split into small fragments of plastic paper. My pegs, toothbrush and paste, handed warmers, zip ties, antihistamines, lip balm and earplugs were held together by broken folio-remnants of "what was".

• • •

Landslide got a hot feed off some packaged concoction while I dined out on faffing with my flat tarp then drinking the beer I had so lovingly transported. It had cooled to the right drinking temperature after 3 hours on my back.. It took a fair effort to get into though. Once I found my penknife, getting the bottle opener unleashed was a task at a higher level which Landslide managed for me as I sat by, ready to tackle it with my house keys.

Once "settled" the head torches went off and we admired the moonscape. Light colours were discernable, the yellow grass for the most part. The dark greens of pine and holly and ocre of bracken melded into dark grey. The reservoir was only visible as blackness, occasionally highlighted by a brief passage of a motor vehicle far below.

• • •

The silence was incredible. The cars were inaudible, engine noise filtered out by the narrow valley walls. From time to time an aeroplane passed overhead but there were no other sounds. We picked out the Plough, Orion and Cassiopeia, Landslide's wife's constellation.

I released myself from the entrapment of bibs to go for a wee and in doing so exposed all but a sleeveless vested body to the raw elements of minus 2°C. Re-dressing into my wool top then my synthetic down then my Paramor jacket, the layers piled back on, each one blissfully warmer than the one before.

That and 1 litre less of water to keep heated left me feeling super toasty. White landslide danced in the moonlight to stay warm, I felt quietly confident about the night ahead, though I was still a little dubious about my bag's -7C rating, I'd survived-5 in it last year.

He disappeared into his lovely new hexamid shaped tarp thingy whilst I faffed a bit more - to no real result. I still don't like the big Tarp. It is both too big (to support well) and too small to form a decent tunnel that I can sit in.

Eventually I got into my bivi bag.The initial warming coming from the sheer level of effort it took me to wriggle into the thing

I was a bit hyper. I'd been looking forwards to this for weeks and now I was here the brain didn't want to sleep and the moon wasn't helping matters. I didn't really mind. I was happy to lie still and appreciate the scenery and the few stars that were visible in the moonlight.

The wakefulness became an issue when the shivers started again. I recognised them as another call for a loo break so staggered back out across the tussocks to my dedicated reed bed. More star gazing.

I came back to my bivi disappointed to see it looking quite saggy and crestfallen. In my attempt to get the best views, there wasn't much central support and the whole thing looked like a saggy blanket.

It was beautifully encrusted with fallen mist, iced into crystalline patterns with a central welt of melted moisture where it hung down and touched my nice warm body. The worst thing is, I couldn't be arsed to do anything about it. I was like that neighbour in the street whose lack of loft insulation is blindingly obvious between November and March.

• • •

Back in my bag, all was well again except for one of my good gloves had strayed out of the bag with me. I dragged it back in. That would have been an unpleasant start to the day.

The shaking started again a little later but this time I realised I really did just need more layers for my legs. My fleece leggings weren't enough. I emptied my rucsac looking for my buff or waterproof trousers but only found my fleece Jersey and some soggy biscuits. I tried laying the fleece over me for a while and eating the biscuits but it didn't work for long. Finally I remembered my saddlebag and pulled the last few items of clothing out of there. The trousers went on over my down booties and my buff added a much-needed barrier between the cold air on my face where I needed to breathe and the warmth inside my sleeping bag. Also, one last glance over to Manchester left me convinced the cloud bank that had been loitering there all evening had finally acquired the momentum to start making progress in our direction.

In a final slap in the face I wondered if I could hear a pack of dogs barking and the brain momentarily worried we'd be mauled by an errant group of hounds that mistook us for Badgers.

It wasn't enough though and at 3am I finally fell asleep.

• • •

Once I was gone, I was out. The next thing to wake me up was a flapping noise. I was mortified. This would be me again! I looked at the watch. 7. 50 am. The sun was rising somewhere but our view was just soggy tussocks and a dirty grey duvet snuggling the higher slopes across the valley. I'll give it credit, it was swathing us in relative warmth.  I had been sleeping face forward on my front with one arm out of the bag and was perfectly toasty, bordering on too hot.  I was relieved to find it wasn't my tarp that was flapping but Landslide's. Completely accidentally, I had pitched mine perfectly. Low end into the breeze. It was so low, the wind flattened everything to the ground. It was perfectly tensioned, and flap-free but it acted like a pathetic wet plastic blanket. Landslide congratulated me on my no-holds-barred romanticism of wild bivi camping.

 

We lay in bed to make our plans as our tarps flapped (his) and pressed me into the ground. There was no chance I could brew up here from my bed. Our plans to continue up onto the moor would lead us to remaining at elevation for quite some time a potentially we would disappear like Gorillas in the mist. Any sheltered spots would still be bloody cold. The plan developed into a descent back to the valley floor and a ride home "on the other side" with breakfast en route.

We packed up swiftly once the decision was made. My wool gloves had sprung a leak in one digit, my finger tip poking out the end and meaning I had to double it up with a random pair of smelly gloves from another ride. The exposed fingertip still lost all feeling until it was safely ensconced in the big crab claw gloves along with its mate.

I looked forlornly at my bivi bag - Stu's old one. I both love it and hate it. I'd been cold in it and felt like I had no room to move. I'd breathed into it to get warm and it had laid limp and damp against my face, dripping breath moisture on to me, sometimes ice crystals and yet I had slept. Though the surface that had been on the damp ground (no longer frozen) was wet, my sleeping bag and mattress were both, dry as a bone inside the bivi.  This is reliably predictable now, yet always surprises me. It's light, it's stealthy it's incredibly waterproof and breathable. If only it had a little more space for my feet.

• • •

We didn't need to ride far to drop down below the windshield of the hillside and find ourselves nestled by a stream with plenty of big flat rocks to sit on and perch stoves on. A small bird flitted past bursting song into the air and we gleefully brewed porridge and coffee. The last of the Glen Nevis honey being shared out. As we collected our water it started to patter with rain but it didn't really matter, we were both already dressed for it. I just needed to add my gaiters to stop it running down into my boots from my trousers.

Landslide beamed with happiness.

 

On our way back to civilisation we planned our response to the inevitable question, "did you cramp out"? 

"Nope just practising."

Practising is a superior response to "training"

"Training" opens up further lines of enquiry. The nicest people want to be in awe of what you are training for. There are other people who want to know what you're training for so they can do it to or so they can be sure that they have done something similar or better or harder. 

Practising implies a more generic repetition, relative new-ness and a non-specific skill rather than an event. Practice is difficult to question.

It's also far more legal than the actual process of camping out.

We agreed that if a man in a green (ranger's) jacket asked if we'd been camping out, the default answer was "Nope, we're just practising".

• • •

Back down at the reservoir, the public appeared. Lots of runners, serious walkers, families with kids in wellies, proper mountain bikers on full sussers, the kind who know bikepacking exist but whose friendly banter dries up at "By eck tha's carryin' a-lot-of-shit (one word) on that" if they acknowledge you at all.

We pulled into the carpark and mingled with runners in between toilet trips and disposing of our beery spoils from the night before. There was no way I was walking up the hill with a bottle in my backpack, never mind riding the downhill on the other side. Yes I made Landslide walk up the downhill though in retrospect, letting him guide me up the fire road would have both been easier and opened my eyes to a track I've not used in 20 years and I really can't remember why I don't like it. 

As we approached the sleep hill I realised I was already warm and should have adjusted my layers when I'd stopped at the toilets.

I decided to be brave and try out my new water "proof" leggings in this rain to see how good they are. If you can't test your kit less than 20 miles from home, where can you test it? Besides, I didn't fancy sweating up the slog in Goretex trousers, getting just as sweaty on the inside as wet on the outside.

• • •

Up at the "Climb up the downhill", landslide ploughed on ahead while I faffed with layers and gloves and smiled for downhillers ripping by on over-expensive full sussers, with all the skill of dancing monkeys.

L waited for me by a new bivi spot and we carried on together as the trail became more rideable.

Faced with the choice of summer meadows without the sunshine or descending the burms to Hagg Farm, L opted for burns and I let him go first with no intention of catching him, then he held the gate for me so I put a rush on and kept going to get to the next gate to return the favour, L chomping at my wheel all the way down.  

Eventually the rush got the better of me and I went sideways on loose stones, dropping myself and the bike into the bank in a slo-mo flop. My buddy checked I was Ok then streamed post to get the bottom gate. Despite crashing it was a PB.

 

We paused at the bottom to admire the wet then in a fit of enthusiasm I powered up the other side on a hill called "try not to walk this bit". I didn't walk it but the consequent loss of oxygen to the brain meant I struggled to get through the gate at the top.

It was back into the public domain for the flatter ride around the reservoir. Back to looking forward to short climbs that gradually forced the blood back into my fingers where the thin gloves I'd worn for the climb were challenged to keep anything warm on descents and the flat roll along the Lake shore.

Finally at the last bend two mountain bikers called out, "have you camped out?" As I climbed up the other side of the stream bed I heard Landslide call out, "Nope, just practicing!".

• • •

I was targeting the next bus stop for a refuelling break to shelter from the rain and change into dry, thick gloves. It didn't disappoint, although the Yorkshire Bridge Inn would have been preferable outside of Lockdown.

The climb up New Road had felt like an insurmountable slog before but with full bellies and warmer gloves I got into a rhythm and enjoyed it. I rode on through places where, in previous years, I have needed to stop and" admire the view" whilst travelling fully loaded. The road climb was survived, the Causeway was enjoyed. It wasn't too busy but those that were out were jolly and friendly.

As the rain became ever heavier my new leggings wetted out although I noticed that, despite the tonnes of water rolling off my coat into my lap, the pad under my bum was still bone dry - something practically unheard of underneath waterproof shorts where the sweat coming down from the body inevitably collides with the water being blown in from the knees to mash into one wholly chafing wet mess.

• • •

After the friendly walkers, Stanage Pole looked friendly too. Shrouded in mist, rain and swirling clouds it was familiar, a million moons away from the summer Lockdown rides that had it glistening with the setting or rising sun.

 

My new "waterproof" leggings were definitely being challenged now. My knees were soaked as the first point of contact with the rain. My shins were so wet, the water was penetra­ting the overlap with my gaiters and leaking into my boots and socks. I guess we found their limit but I wasn't ready to stop and put on my waterproof trousers. I was nearly home and it wasn't really worth the faff. As we dropped down the hill from the last reservoirs though, I turned soft on myself.  I was done playing in the mud and the trees and it was time for lunch.

L and I pulled along side by side on a perilous descent towards a white BMW that saw fit to overtake us before pulling up indicating to turn right. We fist bumped (ish) our goodbyes whilst L joined the BMW queue and I hightailed my way through the chaotic junction towards my home. My final blood- pumping climb of the day was insufficient to cover the long breezy descent to the house. As much as I wanted to go straight inside I had a good coating of wet mud to wash off the bike. My ex army neighbour was smoking outside his house. He Loves my adventure stories of star-filled nights so was captivated by our transition from "absolutely fabulous" on Friday night to the drowned rat he saw before him.

My leggings came off inside the back door, the heating went on and I went straight to the bathroom to get in the shower, pausing only to laugh at my mud spattered face in the mirror. My legs turned into itchy, pink lobsters under the hot water.

The vegetarian Lentil stew that was in the fridge was far too healthy to eat as-is so I added large chunks of saucisson to the mix to add protein bulk before heading back to bed for my other 3 hours sleep.  My brain really needs to be beautiful again for Monday morning.

In retrospect this really has been my wildest camp yet. I've had more desperate ones, nestled on the edge of feasibility on the edge of a mountain trail in the Alps or falling, exhausted into a bus stop at 3am. I've had colder bivis - on the BB Winter ride when we failed to make the bothy and instead headed for a cowshed that was ankle deep in shit so we pitched the 2-man tent under a nearby Oak instead. That was in the days when I used to carry a 5- season bag (trust me, I thought about it). There was last January in -5 degrees when I carried the tent and sought out the cosseting comfort of Paddy Gorge, still slept badly and later, simply rolled out my sleeping bag and mat on a wall next to the A57 and had another 30 minutes kip to get me home.

This time I survived -3 degrees and did so at 350m elevation in a sphagnum bog. Given the freedom we felt, I 100% would do it again.  Grassy moorland, it seems, is my spiritual happy-place.