March Bivi 2020 - on solitude

The Preamble

I have to admit, I thought this BAM might not happen.  There's been a lot of short rides on a new bike - the first one where I took it up to the pump track near home, just to make sure I actually rode it - once.  There was the ride where the cheap bit of plastic "chain protector" came loose and kept making the chain come off.  Then bags started to get added, tape to protect the frame, building the new dynamo wheel, adding the dropper post.

It was all building up to last weekend - meant to be the start to a beautiful holiday.  We would finish work on Friday and race to the highlands armed with a loaded mountain bike for me and a road bike for TSK to do whatever took his fancy.

I was looking forwards to reccying the new lines on the HT route and was poised to report back to organisers and friends, then the Government took over.  For future reference: This is the week Covid-19 took the UK into lockdown.  For now reference: this is the last time I will mention it this Blog.

2 Sundays ago we raced.  On Monday and Tuesday, in line with ambitious training, I managed to continue riding to work and on Wednesday I was forced to drive in so I could collect my desk, screen, chair and mouse/keyboard and set up my home office.  The holiday morphed into tentative, then a staycation.

TSK had always wanted to visit Ludd's church and so we thought that we'd sneak in whilst no-one was looking.  We took a packed lunch and unwittingly joined 1/6 of the UK in the white peak, the rest being in the Dark Peak, Lakes, Highlands or Yorkshire Dales.  I felt bad enough about travelling that far so on Sunday I went in search of solitude and a little bit of daylight.  I was successful except for a brief period around Derwent reservoir.  I empathise with folk wanting to enjoy the countryside but when it occurred to me that one in 10 of those big groups of people I saw could be from the hotspot of Westminster, I took a different tune and was glad I rode by quickly in search of further isolation on Cut Gate.

Success.  If we're never allowed outside again then I will dine out on that apple, eaten in a sheep ditch, for years to come.  I loped indoors late in the evening - my first (and possibly last) pass over Cut Gate this year left me prepared for Monday exactly how I like it - slightly exhausted.  We concluded that if we were stuck at home then we might as well offer to work.

I cycled though Tuesday's team meeting on my Turbo, getting 50km in.  I felt positive, maybe I would get a sneaky BAM in on my new bike - get the dynamo finished, figure out the baggage, pop out, use up some of the time work owes me - a quickie before lockdown and then the news came in on Tuesday.

Everyone knows by now how much of a goody twoshoes I am.  I dreamed of sneaking out to "that" bench for a night - the one in the valley I've had my eye on for ages.  But deep down I knew that in any kind of legally enforced lockdown I'd spend the night wide awake somehow paranoid I'd be arrested by the nature police.  I even lay awake in bed on Wednesday night, imagining which way I'd ride through the allotments to avoid capture.

The week seemed to drag on forever and I worked waaay more hours than I ever would have at work.  Things got busy and instead of  turning away for the daily commutes I had set myself, I worked longer and harder than ever before as BAM floated on the breeze outside my velux window in the loft office.

On Friday I had myself a glass of wine straight after work. It was bad.  HT was cancelled, BAM seemed off the cards and I'd lost all mojo.  I sat outside looking down the valley, hankering after what could have been in the glorious evening sunset and decided to check what was happening on the BAM notice board.

At first I expect a tough-luck approach.  If you didn't get out already then more fool you.  I'd already turned down Mr Landlside for a March BAM on the basis that I was feeling a bit off with hot flushes and a tickly cough which transpired to be high settings on the central heating, early menopause symptoms and hayfever.

I also expected some people would be out doing it anyway or using mates' gardens - none of which were on my radar for reasons previously described.

Sense finally prevailed and I realised Stu wouldn't be so irresponsible as to break with caution in the pursuit of a cloth badge and as I write this I hear the hipocrisy in the face of the legality of wild camping in this country but mental health and public health are, sadly, still very different things.

Tempting as it was to head off onto the moors on foot (emergency exception number 1) I opted instead for my Own Back Garden (emergency exception number 2), suddenly very happy to have one, as well as a plush new bench, fortunately purchased in last year's garden centre sales.

My rules

I decided to remain as close as possible to usual BAM experience - leave on Saturday on a fully loaded bike, camp in my own garden, get up and go for another ride on Sunday with all the gear back on the bike.  Only 2 changes:

• I wasn't leaving a brand new bike outside overnight in a city garden - lock-down or no lock-down
• TSK said I wasn't allowed to poo in the Compost bin - or anywhere else in the garden for that matter.

I would let myself in the house once to lock the bike in the kitchen and use the bathroom.

The First Ride

I spent most of Saturday still dicking about with wheels and wiring the dynamo.  As the day went on, my soldering got worse and the electrical tape got thicker.

As soon as I started to load the bags, the heavens opened and the cat bust in through the catflap a little soggy.  I'm glad I didn't open the blinds to take a look outside because, in retrospect, the noise was so loud because it was hailstoning.

Of course, I had bivi plans so, gone were the chily but clear sparkling spring mornings.  The forecast was for 1 degreeC, cloudy , windy, potential for precipitation.  I packed the largest sleeping bag I thought I could get on the bike, the Ugly Tarp, mat, bivi bag (warm one), the Thermatex blanket, big gloves, coat, thermals and for funsies, my stove to brew up in the garden.  I was wearing fleece bib leggings and my waterproof, wool top and thick socks so by the time I left the house I was glad to get into the cold air.  It was 10pm.

As soon as I set off I knew things were wrong.  I couldn't steer and nearly ploughed into the bin.  A little disapointing on a bike that had previously been so agile.

I'd strapped my big ortleib drybag to my bars in a harness and inadvertently looped the harness strap around by dropper post cable. I rectified it in the cold air and set off for the allotments to warm up again on the hill.  Things still weren't great but I put it down to the harness rubbing on the frame, cursed myself for getting distracted earlier in the day and not taking the time to add some frame protectors.  I resolved to make it a short ride and do something about it in the morning.

With dodgy steering I wobbled and hauled the bike over the usual terrain.  The only car I saw as I rode through the allotment at 10.30pm was a police car which made me smile about my plans to play keystone cops through the tomato plants and gardening paraphenalia of Western Sheffield.  I could imagine the conversation,

Policeman: "Where are you heading to then?"
Me: "Home"
Policeman: "What, with that lot?"
Me: "Yes"
Policeman: "Where's home"
Pointing behind me: "That way, just getting my exercise in first".

He didn't stop.  I grinned at the sense of freedom.  Being back on a loaded bike, the confidence that I could stop anywhere, the knowledge that I wouldn't.

I opted for the acquisition of height over whooping empty downhills and tested my new lighter bike fully loaded up my local Hike-a-bike training ground.  We've been doing it every morning unloaded so far but even with bags on it was an easier lift, more surefooted and an easier set down than with EmVee.

I crawled silently past the last houses in town and the first flecks of hail chilled me out as I rattled down the byway to Blackbrook farm where I had to carefully remove a caterpillar that seemed to be thinking of crysalising a bridge between the gate and its post.

At Long Lane I turned my back on the extended bridleway in favour of saving my bike frame, fixing my bags and getting some sleep in tonight.  I also relished the idea of clearing the Rivelin Valley path in the dark without a dog walker in sight.  It was 11pm after all.

The valley passed in between the highs of a clear run without walkers and the lows of: hitting a slab jump all wrong and slapping myself in the arse with my seatpost bag and; getting a narrow section of oversize "cobble"stones wrong and falling off into a holly bush.  I did manage to clear all the other obstacles and keep my feet dry, whilst others - unfamilliar in the darkness - were not on my route and deftly
avoided.

I stayed on the path all the way to the road crossing, passing the childrens' playground - normally closed at night and now eerily locked up with bulky chains and padlocks during the day.  Amusing given that the fence is low enough that I could step over it without me standing on my tiptoes.

At the turning for home, I wasn't ready to go in yet.  This eerie sense of armageddon, this aura of solitude, I was hooked, I'm addicted and at the moment it's impossible to find during the hours of daylight.  I don't begrudge people their access to the countryside, I begrudge my loss of solitude.

In the apocalypse movies when the star is exceited to find other survivors, I'm the one at the back saying, "Woah there, can we trust them".  I'm the bearded old man dressed in sacks with a staff in one hand and an AK-47 over their shoulder.

I carried on down the bridleway, across the stepping stones and out near Hillsborough fire station and crossed to head up the footpath opposide.  It's a push all the way up until I can get on and ride home.

Urban Push

The cobbles on the steeps make me look down and I realise my steering is compromised due to my electric cables which are under tension when I turn right.  My front light has been dimming and my phone hasn't charged so I fear the damage is already done but at least its a few quid in cables and not a hole in a £1300 frame.

The Bivi

When I got home, my bike announced our presence.  Having just been dragged through the river, brakes squealed past the living room window where the light was still on.

I quietly hoped that TSK wouldn't come out to say hello.  I wanted to concentrate on setting up my bivi before it rains again and I didn't want to be tempted by the thought of a warm, cosy bed.  Was that bad?  Was that nasty?  This was my wilderness break though, my chance to be alone, just being, I guess it was OK.

No one came outside except Mark next door, putting out the bin. He's seen me play this game before in daylight and as ex-army, probably, deep down, "gets it" so left me in peace.

I didn't need a headtorch.  One neighbour has an outside light, the other's kitchen light is on and the guy behind us has an outdoor light that burns with the light of a thousand suns.  Fortunately it's in the direction of the breeze so I pitched my tarp to add some shade from the light as well as the breeze, with the dog rose and spruce pine adding extra cover.

Sleeping bag, mat and bivi were set up for rain proofing and I decided to risk making a brew of herbal tea to enjoy the night air.  I got the water from the garden tap to add to the spirit of adventure and delay the inevitable incursion into the house and the jaws of temptation.

My hands were getting cold so I crouched down by the stove and warmed hands and gloves, realising just in time that two fingers were on fire before it reached my skin.  So you know, Sealskin gloves extinguish pretty well.

With everything set out for the morning, I took the bike indoors for the night and popped upstairs for a wee. I have no qualms about weeing in the garden except for kitchen-light neighbours still awake next door and I did not want to be captured sans-trou whilst Mark smoked his last Malbroorough of the night in the back doorway.

Otherwise, time was past 1am and the house was quiet indoors.  I saved my teeth cleaning for outisde then to add to the true bivi experience, completely forgot unless Landslide reminds me by doing his (I call it tooth shaming).

Indoors in full fleece leggings and waterproof trousers (for warmth) I resented the heat in the bathroom but did appreciate it giving me a few minutes to leave the shoulder straps of my bibs around my waist for any night time trips to the garden without removing all my layers. 

Hungry from my after-dinner ride, I necked the packet of crisps I'd been carrying around all week and finally remembered to drink my brew - still warm in the ti mug.

In dashing back across the garden to my cocoon I realised two things - my down booties were wet from a few steps across the grass and; we have some very hard bits of porcelain which have randomly surfaced in the garden.  I stuffed my feet in the sleeping bag hoping two layers of dry down would make up for one soggy one.

First adjustment of the night was to take my mat out of the bivi bag and give my feet some space to lie right and fluff out the sleeping bag.  I poured all my spare clothes out of my pillow and packed away my waterproof coat.

Mark crashed about at 1:40am with the recycling and finally I was settled in darkness.

It was no good, I still shivered. The devil whispered in my ear, "Look mate, there's too much going on in the world. You don't need this stress right now.  What are you trying to prove? The race is cancelled. You don't need to put yourself through this. There's a warm bed inside. You can try again later in the week."

Still, I didn't move. I waited. Something magical might happen, or at least, this would make me a stronger person.

I would have quite liked to see some garden wildlife and my brain really wanted to stay awake for it.  At the same time I was dreading it setting off "the light of 1000 suns" and also didn't fancy a fox trying to steal my crisp packet or getting caught in the cross-howling of a cat fight.

I did, however, fancy the company of one of my own cats for body heat if nothing else.  Unfortuantely they eyed me suspiciously from afar and the only presence felt was "Thursday" from number 95, jingling past in the night as my bivi was pitched right on top of the "catpath" that runs through our garden.

It was no good - I was still cold.  I took off the down booties to check for wet and added extra socks underneath. In doing so, I found my wool top and added that and went for another outdoor wee which always helps.

As I piddled under the twinkling stars and streetlights and watched the clouds flurry past high overhead, I wondered what the hell I had been thinking about the Highland Trail.  I'll never do that, I'm too soft.  I can't even manage a night in my own fucking back garden FFS, what a woos.  At these times, it's hard to remember the transformation that happens between March and May and the freaky weirdness of the weather in Scotland that has seen the HT 550 run in temperatures ranging from +30 to -7 degrees.

I walked back to my bivi - the Ugly Tarp fringed with a lace of hailstones - not just being soft then, it was genuinely frickin cold.  I hunkered in and waited for the wool and feathers to work their magic.  Starting out right could have got me 2 hours more sleep.

Finally at around 3:40 I went to sleep in the pleasant knowledge that I wouldn't need to rush off anywhere in the morning.  I was woken up by Mark letting the cat out.

The Morning After

My feet were still frozen. In fact it felt like I'd lost all feeling in the left one and the right, though in better shape, was aching from stepping on porcelain last night.  In my morning slumber, I had frostbite and a broken foot but I wasn't going to give up my cocoon that easily.  I rotated the joints and flexed and extended my feet to encourage blood flow inbetween dozing off again. It didn't work and I gently worried whilst doing nothing about it. I could have gently warmed my feet in warm water inside but that would break my rules.

Eventually at 8:30 I got up and went to the house to get coffee and porridge water.  The porcelain I'd stepped on last night was broken into 3 pieces.  The bench was comfortable given the ammount of times I will use it over these next few months it's an investment I am particularly hapy with.  Coffee was drunk and porridge eaten outside.

The Second Ride

Without foot circulation and a complete and utter ennui of the same trails I set off on the downhill to ride a gentle road climb to start the day off and warm my feet up gradually.  I'd liberated the handlebars and taken a skinnier bag out of the house to ease damage / restriction on the bike and I freed my electrical cables.  I passed the Rivelin pub, its sign groaning mournfully in the wind and realised how rare it is to get a tailwind along this road.  It would have been a perfect weekend for a ride to Wales and a train home.

At the bridleway where I usually stop for a faff, I got my second wild wee of the weekend and finally removed the extra wool and waterproof layers, rejoicing that circulation had finally returned to my feet.

I could have carried on to Strines but responsible thoughts about social distancing and practical thoughts about food shopping and sleep recovery stopped me.  Instead I took a picture of some horses and dropped down to Wyming Brook to distantly socialise.

I was getting peckish.  As I passed a bench I exhausted my mental inventory of food but the memory of a bottle of Jura in my rucsac had me grabbing the brakes and flopping into the sunkissed bracken with a smile.  At 10am I snuggled under a pine tree witha view of the reservoirs whilst sunshine occasionally flitted through the hail stones.

Instead of bouncing through reservoir-dogs walkers I carried on upto the Lodge Moor road where I stopped to analyse the phone charging results of wiggling a few cables.  I took another pic of some horses and got buzzed at 6 inches separation by a silent roadie that made me jump out of my skin.

At Lodge Moor I awaited patiently whilst 2 children wearing roller skates got off the stony dirt path - not sure who was taking more care of not ending up in A&E.  Was I hallucinating?  I don't think so.

A long inventory of people were out and about in groups and solos.  The sun was out, the temperatures up and it was time for me to go indoors again.

I mused on my future with the HT 550.  In the past, the Fisherfield forest had been my ShangriLa, the place I'd always wanted to go and held high as a bastion of remoteness and tranquility and then Karl told me, "I've never felt alone in Fisherfield".  When I finally went I was not disapointed but I realised he was right because it is full of people - as famous as it is as a Wilderness, it's become a victim of its own Wilderness success.

So while I will still look forwards to it, I'll look forwards too to the path after the Great Glen, the hill climb up to the hydro-bothy, the Northern Loop.  Places I can be alone, at least I can at my end of the race.  They may not even be places, but times - late at night or early in the morning.

I arrived back at the kitchen, exhausted from lack of sleep rather than physical exhaustion and just a little drunk.  It was 11am.

"You were up late last night", I say to TSK.  He had headphones on when I got home, screaming brakes past the window where he was sat.  "When I went to check the garden from the spare room you were huddled over, cooking something.  I thought I'd leave you alone and let you do your thing".

He's a fucking genius that boy.

Some women crave a man who dotes on them like a puppy.

Me: give me a man who loves me like a cat.

The little cabin

I've been reading Jill Homer's books and dreaming of Alaskan wilderness, life on the bike and out of a bivi bag and every time I put the book down I have to return to my own drudging life of city scapes, life in an engineering office and from a stone-fronted terraced house with a draughty loft and a minor stream running through the basement.

I just started to read 'Arctic Glass'. Page 2 on the kindle recounts a return home from work to their 'little one-room cabin' and I look around me and finally feel like I am lucky to live here. Not because I have 6 rooms (if you count the drafty loft and a the basement with its trickle) but because this is my one room cabin. To have more than this we would need to work harder, gamble more on loans, pay more interest and do / spend less time / money on bikes.

Our 6 rooms - living, kitchen, bed, spare (just big enough for a single bed and a clothes horse), loft and basement mean that the only people who visit are hardy or close family and therefore the only people who understand our overflowing home of bikes, muddy fell shoes, excessive outdoor gear and wetsuits hanging from every corner of those spare rooms. And Sheffield is our perfect city. It provides our jobs and gives us somewhere serviced from which to access the Peak. It is our basecamp.

The only thing I'd change? Our noisy neighbour but really, he's a dickhead less than 1 in 20 days of the year.

And so the trudgery continues of working to support the cabin, gradually, very gradually turning it into somewhere more cosy and less cruddy - give or take a few damp spots - as, after 4 years of being here we finally get around to 'sorting the house out'.

Note to visitors: it's still going to be a hovel by your standards

Bonfire night Sheffield.

We went to a free fireworks display last night.

From a gaggling throng of chatting adults, playing kids, merry go rounds and fire-huddlers, a single rocket said, "foomf", soared into the air and exploded, "BANG!" into a shower of golden stars. Everyone screamed. What a start.

The rest of the show continued as one would expect a pretty decent fireworks display to go on with only one other highlight. What's the best bit of every children's nativity play? The bit where it goes wrong.

As the show increased in height and intensity towards its inevitable big finish, rockets again soared up into the warm November air - 50m? 70m? 100m? Squee, boom. Squee, boom, stars, "ooooh" said the crowd.

Then Squeeeeee! The feint blaze of a high-altitude rocket skewed sideways. What was wrong with it? Projected like a damp squid, its tail dying out like a spent comet. Did someone set it off through the wet nettles? Did the box get rained on earlier. Squeeeelch. Nothing.

"ahhh" said the crowd.

The rocket only made it 20m off the ground and no one really thought it was viable then, "BOOM!"

Screaming. Laughing. As pink and golden stars bounced off the ground. Everyone was deaf. Everyone was happy.

What a night out Sheffield. Thank you.

Run 6 of 100

My run today was cold and wet and some may even say horrible but I loved every minute. From the lonely hour or more on the tops to the crowds of mountain bikers out for a bit of mud in the valleys, it was wonderful. Hills I've seen a hundred times seemed like whales cresting through the parted cloud banks and the crags above Derwent swept in and out of view. Obscured aeroplanes occasionally rumbled ominously in the distance.

I was the only runner above the shelter of the water level and my hot chocolate tasted all the better for it.

Most of all, I got a new stylish hat in the sales.

Post Christmas Indulgence & run 5 of 100

On 27^th December I was awake in the early hours of the morning, dreading that the snow would have gone by the time I got up.  I looked out of the bedroom window to check but it was still falling so I went back to sleep to see what santa bought me as a late Christmas present by the time I woke up.

It was a beautiful snowy day and I ate my breakfast full of the anticipation of what was to come but… ski-ing or running???

I stuck my nose out of the front door.  The cover wasn't bad but not brilliant either.  I ran up to the loft and checked the view out across the hillside where tufts of grass were protruding from the slopes in places.  I decided it wasn't good enough for skis and went off for a run instead.

After 10 minutes I was crossing sledger’s park, children already starting to amass, giggling in the sunshine.  I toyed with the idea of heading straight home for skis but instead decided to tire myself out on a short run before resorting to skis, hoping that I wouldn't do what I did 2 years ago and injure myself ski-ing, screwing my early-year run season.  I phoned Andrew from the bottom of the Rivelin Valley, telling him to get the ski stuff ready.

When I got in I changed clothes briefly then skinned up the skis and set about walking to the park.  It was chossy, slow and rubbish but it didn’t matter – we were skiing in the UK.  Sledging on planks was what it was really but we enjoyed ourselves nevertheless and headed home tired and happy afterwards.

On Sunday, I really was tired from the exertion so decided to have one weekend off cyclo-cross by way of a “rest-week” – keeping up the heavy training for a bit but laying off the hard racing with a view to another short recovery before Derby and the National champs polish off the season.  Instead we had a walk into town to try out some sofas that we might want to sit on.  It's a hard life.

Cool Runnings

First tough run of 2012.  I kind of joked with TSK that it would take me 2 hours to run 10k.

Carfeeee.

In the end I did 10k in 1:23 and 12k in total but I walked a lot of the last 2k.  It was pretty hilly - that is, it was hilly and there was a lot of looking at the view... and drinking coffee.

The mill pond at Rivelin looking extra icy

Icy stile.  Check out the tyre marks along the side rail of the horse box

My lovely city

My lovely city - a photograph taken from here - Rivelin Rocks.

A tempting little spot in the allotment for a rest on the way home.

Windy Bikely Work Day

In an extreme reversal of yesterday, this morning I got up with a vague, yet firmly cemented plan to ride to work on the race bike. I hadn't packed. I had a lie in to repay myself for the late night and I watched breakfast news with blatant disregard for the time. I put no work pressures on myself whatsoever. I can do this because I know that next time I am busy I will bust a gut for them.

TSK left for work and I dressed, cuddled the cat before mercilessly throwing him out and carefully packed my rucsac and bike. More haste less speed has never been truer as will calmly got ready in record time. I considered watching in amusement as the cat pleaded to come back in. Watching him come to terms with bypassing me only to find himself faced with the grim posse me a day alone in the utility room.

Onto the path, aside adjustments to the light fitting on the handlebars whilst passing too close to the boss's wife's car. Whooshing down the driveway hoping the horses aren't out. Onto the open stretch across the field where today's mad wind whips me up to 40kph before I turn to do the rest of the journey into the wind. 3 weeks ago I put my tri bars on the bike and have been confused as to why they're uncomfortable. I think I did this last year - assumed I'd be most comfortable in the least aero position. In fact, taking the risers out completely was the best thing and I effectively hid from the wind all the way to work. There was little traffic considering the M1 was closed. The climb to Ulley was a bit of a relief from the wind. Emerging through the village I then descended with gusto towards the reservoir. More gusto than speed I was actually passed by a car! (horror) as the headwind was so great. Him out of the way I settled into the aero bars, challenging myself to go the distance this time instead of bottling it and sitting up on the brakes. I dropped behind the wall alongside the dam which protects motorists from the water and instantly sped up out of the wind - not to mention wobbling as the constant stream of air I had been fighting dropped away.

I let the bike roll and banked into the corner with ease, sweeping round with inches between my helmet and the stone wall. Upright across the dam then another sweeping bend exiting just shy of a pothole with an oncoming vehicle the other side of it. I whooped my way down the road.

There was a work experience student at my desk in the morning. I left her to it and set up in the big meeting room on the smartboard. I have worked today on a 64 inch screen.

At 5:15 there really wasn't any point in starting a new bit of work so I got changed and jumped back on the bike. It was a sprightly jump as it was cold. I reminded myself I'd promised to do a longer ride after work and turned left instead of right.

I rode through some villages I've been to before down roads I've taken before then went out on a limb. Finding myself riding along the river Morthern, I wished I'd taken my strength training ride up the hill to Carr but continued, enjoying the stream babbling alongside the road

Eventually there was another turning for Carr and it took me away from the ride home so, Carr it was. In Carr there was a turning for Roche Abbey, where I spent a very pleasant day 2 summers ago whilst TSk was undergoing hell during a 600km event.

I didn't get a glimpse of at Roche Abbey as I roared past on my bike. I just about recognised the gateway - which was closed. I did stop to capture the sunset at the end of the lane and text TSK to let him know I was coming home the long way. It had never occurred to me before that I could ride home this way and I was quite proud.

I stuck with the A658 for a while. The traffic was fairly forgiving. I'm not surprising as the surface was lush and I was doing 30mph at least. I eventually turned off for Firbeck, recognising that I should start heading in this direction before I hit the M1. Firbeck turned out to be a lovely village with some ace-looking stone houses, a pub and a pashley holding up someones garden plants display.

I upgraded the sunset.

Turning into the wind was rewardingly hard on the legs. I grimaced into the sunset, after I took one more picture and ploughed on strongly. The grimace became a grin (honest) and I really enjoyed the workout. The front lights didn't come on until I reached Dinnington and the traffic had more or less dissappeared. I arrived home the same time as TSK on this 1 hour ride in from work.

I suspect Roche Abbey may get another visit.

A shocking commute.

I’ve been working 4 days a week in Gloucester for the last month in my tiresome day-job as an engineering manager. This weekend, with the impending threat of snow I headed up to Ilkley – not for the superb running opportunities but for a pre-arranged appointment for a ski touring boot fitting. The team at Backcountry UK did me a great service and I left with a pair of Dynafits that were needing testing. Needless to say I wasn’t prepared to get on a train to Gloucester this week when my skis, boots and all the snow was going to be at the opposite end of the country.

On Monday I ran to my normal place of work from Todwick to Whiston through a scattering of promising snow. 5 miles each way. As someone fairly new to running, this took it out of me a bit, particularly in the snow. I left switching my head torch on as long as possible but as I delved into the woodland footpath alongside the M1 junction 31, I needed the torchlight and revelled in just how much better it made me feel. Even more-so when an owl whirled its way through the branches right above my head. A crunch on a very frozen crunchy rice crispy cake just about got me through my front door at 6pm in time to see the next days snow start to fall.

Much to my glee it didn’t stop, although by now it wasn’t at the extent it would reach on Wednesday. Tuesday morning, as I attempted a sportsman’s rest (read lie-in) Andrew came and woke me up with the words, “It’s time to ski to work”. On the basis that last year I was just able to run 5km and just about able to ski that too, I concluded it was practical to ski-tour to work. I took me a substantial amount of time to set up my new boots in my skis, find a suitable pair of socks (which I failed to do), find all the outdoor gear I needed in the event of broken leg issues and put all the files I needed for work onto a data-stick instead of a “laptop” (read “knee-breaker”) computer so that I didn’t need to lug it up hill and down dale.

As I headed down the path with snow breaking over my feet, I realised that despite the lightweight articulated boots, my legs were still exhausted from running the day before. Still, a bit of rhythym and a whole bunch of enthusiasm got me 400m down the A57 and onto a much better bridlepath which was a little tricky to navigate where the farmer had “pisted” a run with his tractor tyres. I stuck to the central reservation where I was able to get a comfortable glide going. I was too excited about enjoying myself to worry about the niggling pain in my feet and hoped I'd adjust to the new boots. A few tweaks to the official path meant I skirted the edges of fields instead of un-snowed paths where the trees held most of the snow cover. In my silent schussing, a stoat carrying a vole for its breakfast didn’t notice me until we were only a metre apart then it scurried away in a flurry of paw-prints. Excitement subsided and starting to worry about the trip home, I delved into my rucsac to find some thicker socks but to no avail - I now remember leaving them on the stairs. Sadly, all of the downhill sections of my ski to work had insufficient cover for downhill skiing which involves cutting into the snow instead of smoothing over the top of it. Reluctantly, for fear of damaging my skis, I took them off and walked for 50m only to find the grade levelled out and my skis trundled along at a slow-enough pace to control the downhill into Ulley valley.

For 4 hours I stayed in work. One cautious eye on the briefly melting snow, the other on the cloudy skies and gradually, more falling flakes. I was the only person in the office encouraged by more snowfall. I was truly discouraged about the potential walk home, carrying my skis, looking – quite frankly – a bit of a prat on the edge of Rotherham with a pair of skis. By the time I’d walked across the molten car park and up Whiston Green, the snow was deep enough to ski on again and I traversed past the field of sledging kids, over the stationary M1 and across the Upper Whiston road from where I managed the two downhill turns of the day. By now the snow was up to 6 inches deep and well wind slabbed on the open fields.

The crossing at Ulley involved a chat with a girl who’d got her car stuck servicing her pony. She’d politely waited for me to ski out of her way in the morning so I owed her the courtesy of checking she was OK on my way home. After that, the headtorch came on again and I began to lose faith that my feet would not start to bleed from two great blisters that I could feel through the thicker (yet nylon) socks which one of my colleagues loaned me. A saner person would've asked for a lift home but me, I borrow socks. I concluded that adding a second pair of socks and putting the insoles back in the inner boots might not mean I had any blood flow to my feet but would stop any further rubbing and the consequential blood-loss. In the dark, I dug through my rucsac then removed one foot at a time from the boots, in agony in the snow, before forcing them back in – in further agony – and setting about a cereal bar to sate my hunger. Andrew got a very brief answer to the phone call question, “how are you doing” before he set off on his mamouth bike ride home from Sheffield city centre.

I munched on my cereal bar all the way along the tree-lined path now so thick with snow that it was perfectly skiable. Cutting across the farmer’s field at the motorway I only just made out my tracks from earlier in the day. The M1 was moving at around 5 miles an hour below me as I crossed the motorway bridge and reluctantly kicked off my skis where the diversion onto a footpath is the difference between a slithery staircase descent or a climb over a 9-foot tall gate where some possessive land owner can’t be bothered to grant walkers access to his precious lane. I was losing patience for the overly tight kissing gate that’s a real squeeze with a rucsac on whether you have boobs or not. Through the tussocky field where glide is out of thje question and back onto the lane where I discover I have no wax left on my skis. This makes them “snowball” – a phenomenon where the snow is just the right temperature to stick to ski bases and itself. It makes ski travel incredibly inefficient as the skis stop dead with every step and just turn into really heavy, cumbersome shoes. I curse under my breath as I realise not only is my wax not in my rucsac, it’s in town in a storage unit. Later I find out that this is also the temperature and consistency of snow that closes the A57.

I try clearing the skis of snow but it just builds up straight away so I walk through the farmyard where the snow is thin onto the path, hoping that the deeper snow is somehow less sticky as it’s less compressed. Not so. I push myself mentally and physically through the field with over a centimetre of snow stuck to the whole underside of my ski, knowing that at the house ahead is a Nissan hut I can use to remove my skis in comfort and add an extra layer as it’s now blizzard conditions. I can feel the wind tugging at the side of my rucsac and getting under the back panel to cool my spine. The only thing keeping me moving fast is the knowledge that the faster movement keeps my thinly gloved hands from freezing. If it weren’t for the hedge to my right, I could be lost - or at least need to get my compass out. Eventually I see the lights of the house and the A57 50m away. This is all that visibility is. I’m tempted to cut across the field to the back of my house half a mile away but don’t want to be caught – headtorch in the darkness, walking on my landlord’s crops – whatever is beneath the foot of snow. The Nissan hut feels like a warm, cosy living room by comparison to the exposure of the field. I calmly pull on another wool layer, thicker hat, second pair of thick gloves and arrange the headtorch on top of my hood so motorists can see the red light at the back. The skis come off, get de-snowed, hitched together in a comfortable carrying bundle and my new boots finally get to shine, their rubber hiking soles far superior to the solid plastic soles of downhill boots I’ve always been used to. I’m impressed no-one from the house comes to check what I’ve stolen from their garage. I suppose that if they noticed me through their cosy, orange glow dining room windows, they recognised my plight.

Up at the A57, motorists are beginning to queue which means there’s no spray from speeding lorries - hurray!. One driver winds down his window to ask if I’m alright, walking in a blizzard using my hand to protect my face – the one bit of safety kit I don’t have is snow goggles. I say I’m fine, that I only have half a mile to go. As he stops in the queue, I continue walking to my driveway where I pause to push some cars. I phone Andrew to let him know the state of the main road so he doesn’t get driven into by a slithering motorist. As we chat, he calls out to a passing driver, “no mate, I’m fine... just calling the girlfriend to let her know I’m still alive”. Later he’s offered a cup of tea. It’s taken him 2 hours to ride 10 miles. It’s taken me 2.5 hours to ski 5miles. Once indoors and stripped of snowy gear, boots wrenched with agony from feet and half a kilo of snow knocked from a bike we cook dinner using what’s in the cupboard and sit down to have a drink to still being alive at the end of an epic working day.

Canals!

It's been a long week of sickness and other nasties so yesterday we rode into Sheffield to change a bike then joined the canal at Victoria Quay (say what? Sheffield's all posh now) and cycled all the way to Rotherham along the canal bank.

Points of interest included the

bridging warehouse,

Tinsley Lockphoto courtesy of sheffield tinsley marina

and the open wasteland which used to be Tinsley cooling towers. In Rotherham we didn't quite fancy Jamie's diner because the bistro across the road smelt more attractive.

We rode home from Rotherham along my usual ride home from work. Ulley reservoir looks pretty, though still surrounded by contractor's fencing as it seems the contractor has not been given a pass to leave the site yet.

Descending the hill from Ulley to Augton we could see ominous rain clouds amassing in the distance and sure enough it started to rain heavily on us. TSK suggested we stop in a pub but foolishly I wanted to continue. By the time we reached Rother valley country park it was hailing on us.

We mashed back through Beighton covered in mud, sprinted up the hill to stay warm and then stood in our garden removing layers of clothes and hanging them on the line to get a rinse through in whatever rain was left before being dried to go in the wash basket.

What a grim end to a fantastic canal day though we both agreed that sometimes (just sometimes) it's nice to get completely soalked to remind yourself life doesn't end when it rains. I remembered how much fun non-training rides can be and this time we were reminded that sometimes, just sometimes, you can also get brain freezing hail in July.

More Sheffield Photos

Happy in Sheffield

Lenny Makes Himself at Home in the New Garden

Sheffield has been remarkably kind to me. In spite of the usual friendly reception from Yorkshire folk, I have mostly nice neighbours who, even if they are a little loud, genuinely haven't thought that music at 10pm isn't "on".

My rides to work take me along the Trans-Penine Trail or around the edge of still lakes on bridle paths that seem miles from anywhere. From work I can go for a run through fields or even get to the gym and the pool.

At home I can go for a "walk on the wild side".

We went to the pub for dinner on Friday night and, instead of going to Cafe Rouge, we stumbled upon the Stag, with a conservatory, oak tables and a sense of rustic middle-class. We found ourselves sitting next to the Sheffield Tri club who were very encouraging and enthusiastic.

Last week when it was warm, we found the only down side to living where we do. Every pub beergarden (loose term) was filled with bald-headed, england shirt wearing, thick-set males complete wtih beer, fags and slappers while others preferred to sit on the wall outside tescos drinking cider and smoking fags with their kids (that was just the women).

We decided that on a nice day we want to live somewhere a bit nicer... somewhere we can walk to a nice pub, not needing to get in the car and drive.

So we went to Nether edge to do the laundry... just to make sure.

Guerilla Knitting in Nether Edge

Going home

lt has been great fun coming back to Sheffield. The day started late and badly with a flat as bad as the attitude of the agent that showed me around.
He redeemed himself a small ammount at the next flat - once I finally persuaded him to go. It was lovely but no parking and at the end of the high-street so not even worth me asking the cat question.
Now... the cat flat... that ruled. No concerns except
· How to efficiently get a washing machine down 12 steep concrete steps?
· Can I cope with the lovely view?
· Did I just like it because I was hungry & wanted my lunch?
· Can I persuade them to accept lower rent?
· Can I face looking anymore?
I went for a curry to ponder these and other questions then I walked into town and experienced the delight of discovering a John Lewis, a new fountain / shiny hotels / sculpture area, a wooden hippo, the Nero and a skate park. I walked down Mappin Street and sat on the steps outside the department for a long time thinking about what engineering means to me.
I could find nothing but excitement, pride, anticipation and just a little bit of fear as the sun set behind the arts tower in its refurbishment cloak.
I finished off with a drive around Broomhill, Fulwood & Eccleshall Road to remind myself why I'm here & where I want to be in the end. I stopped myself short of a drive into the peaks - because that would've been indulgent - instead, heading back to a quiet hostel & discussing the day's findings with Andrew.