The Clwydian

I had no great record hopes for the Clwydian.  Finally after stretching the limits of my tolerance for distance, endurance and sleep deprivation and making it all work around an increasingly incredibly busy job, I finally felt the weight lifted this month.

All I had to do was get around.  It's just that "around" had 3000m of up and down in too.

I'd done no specific training for a while except the 3 Peaks cyclocross and some short 'cross races and one 100km day out to Curborough where a friend had commented on my flat shoes.  As I was explaining to her how much I liked them because they were comfy, I suddenly started to wonder if they had anything to do with my increasingly stiff calves and hamstrings so with only 2 weeks since the 3 Peaks I hoped I was adequately rested and I took a risk and bought some new shoes whilst working away in Scunthorpe.

In the run up to Saturday I did a few short evening rides to keep moving before the big little day.  Then disaster struck and my customer needed me to write them a document in 24 hours and so on Thursday night I worked until midnight and on Friday I left Scunthorpe at 6pm and drove to North Wales.  One Travelodge was unrecognisable from the other and when they put me in the same room it started to feel like a home from home.  After dinner in a Chinese restaurant I bedded down to listen to the torrential rain, howling winds and lashing branches and wondered what on earth I was doing there.  The short answer: By the time I thought about cancelling, it was too late at the hotel.

There were only 3 riders in the carpark in the morning.  They directed me to another building which was the control and as I realised I had parked in the pay and display carpark, I hopped back in the van and drove around to the free one off the main road.  They were so close they could have been the same space but this carpark was almost full - on account of being totally free.  I mean if I was going to be unsure about finishing, I sure as hell wasn't spending £3.50 on the parking space.

I bought a flapjack and then got ready as slowly as possible.  With a promise of the rain clearing late morning, I decided the longer I put it off the better.  Despite prevarication, I led out the final group of 6 riders, a few choosing to do the shorter route instead.  Within a few miles, another Lauf forked rider passed as well as the lead pair.  That left me, "Brum" from the midlands and a couple of guys from Halifax.

After about 10 minutes we started to climb.  Brum came past me and then we all rolled downhill towards Bala.  I had a momentary feeling that my rear tyre was running a little low and a minor coronary when I realised I didn't know if I had my pump or not.  I resolved to stop near Bala to check.  We were to ride around the whole lake but if I didn't have a pump, I'd probably pop into Bala to get one first before continuing my day - just in case.

As I descended the hill climb we'd just come over, spray from my tyres soaked my overshoes.  I was pretty pleased though that the water didn't seem to penetrate and chuffed with my new waterproof trousers which were getting a testing and seemed to be doing a remarkable job of keeping the water out.

As soon as I stopped I realised it was all an illusion as my feet squelched around in my wet shoes.  I should have known better.  I plunged my soaking hands into the bottom of my saddlebag and after some rooting around, finally laid my hands on my pump.  The contents of my bag were now damp but at least I knew I had security.

On the minor road side of Bala lake the rain streamed down, the stream ran across the road in rivers where it should have gone underneath it and eventually the inevitable flood happened.  I was into it before I realised and the water sprayed off my wheel and hit me square in the knees as my feet pedalled on regardless under the water.    Freakish gusts of warm breeze dropped down from the hills though and kept me relatively warm - in fact too warm at times.

Climbing out the other side I felt grotesquely sick as the water cascaded past me at the same speed as I was moving, giving the optical illusion that - despite my effort - I was stationary on the bike.  I had to stare at a gate post to make sure I was making progress and stop my stomach turning.

Once settled, I ate a banana, pocketed the skin and Halifax passed me a few moments later and we chatted until we reached the first control at 30km.  I took a quick snapshot of the answer to the info control whilst they had a faff.  Now on a nice straight road, I started raiding the bar bags for food and demolished an apple.  I had a chat with Halifax about the lack of food on this ride with the conclusion that you "gotta get it while you can" which nearly had me stopped in Bala.  Many of the rides I'd done this year seemed a little sparse on food - or the feeds didn't come when I wanted them.  Perhaps it was my weird metabolism.

Still, I pushed on - like everyone else - in Bala as I had plenty of food on board.  Then I peeled off back into the lovely valleys.  I'd ridden my 'cross bike here in glorious sunshine a few years ago but now it was just wet and wild.  By the time I reached the Crafty Cook Cafe I melted at the invitation to get the pancakes on and demolished two with bacon and maple syrup at 11:30.  The pancakes were bubbly and light but I'm not sure how ride-enhancing that sugar rush was but it made me feel better in between stripping off sodden waterproofs and wringing out my socks and gloves into the toilet bowl in the washrooms.

Americano polished off, I set away towards Ruthin in anticipation of lunch.  Halifax were faffing when I turned the wrong way then retraced my steps to find everyone back together for a brief moment before the weather started again.  Halifax went ahead and Brum and I started swapping places with him passing me on long hills and me getting my own back on steeper ones and not using my brakes on descents.  He had a faff whilst I rolled past in Ruthin.  The wind had been behind us and now I was battling harder into it to dispense of it sooner and I cruised past the control as I knew the answer.

Loggerheads was the next eat control but at 88km it was well after "lunchtime" when we arrived.  Halifax was eating apple pie and Brum joined them.  I went for a more filling-looking vegan shepherd's pie and started to wonder if I'd be able to leave my waterproof trousers off finally.

A lanky boy took my order, managed to concentrate just long enough to take my money then promptly forgot all about me.

After a lot of chatting Brum left me to waiting for my pie - or chasing up my pie.

Lanky boy's chubby mate told me, "it was just coming" then ran into the kitchen obviously to put the pie in the microwave.  I carved pieces off mash that tasted like smash without butter that had been microwaved.  At least the quorn mince and red wine sauce tasted nice with the beetroot but the delay left a bitter taste  in my mouth.

I wanted to set off at a sprint to get my time back but it was still raining so I had layers to put on, wrung my socks out again and chased down Brum who had said he hoped he'd see me again.

There were 3 info controls ahead and I was heading into familiar territory from some time working in North Wales.

In spite of trying to make back some time with spirited effort, I still found myself climbing over fences into a field to rescue a toppled sheep.  I tried to ride past without paying attention but couldn't leave a stupid animal to its fate of getting eaten alive because the stupid bastard couldn't right itself.  Thankfully, the sight of a lumbering woman in orange approaching across the field helped the sheep find the incentive to right itself and I only had three fences to climb back over to get away.

I was a bit frustrated and a bit peckish so I raided the bags for something to eat.  A packet of haribo sours presented themselves and I can't tell you how much my taste buds appreciated that.

I got a move on finally, collecting the name of a pub in Rosemor and a random street name in the middle of nowhere.

Next was 146km and a phone number to collect from a box.  Although I had been watching out for it for some time, the phone box was at the bottom of a descent and on the exit of a bend so I didn't notice it as I passed and crossed the narrow hump-back bridge (are you getting how difficult it was to spot?)

A lovely old couple on the hill climb cheered me up the other side and I basked in the glory until I realised what I'd done.

Thoughts crossed my mind of just continuing and getting the answer off the others but then I might not see them again - so behind was I.  That would leave me bargaining with the organisers to validate my 11th ride of 12 or worse still, waving goodbye to the month of rest I had planned before number 12, trying to get another boring, flat ride done.

My diligence got the better of me and I retraced my route to the phone box, spent a moment explaining to the old couple why I'd walked into a phone box with a smartphone then walked straight back out again.  Photo record of the info control, the lady understood immediately, "Oh, you're recording the number to prove you've been here".

At Tremeirchen it had finally stopped raining.  At 4pm (so much for clearing from 10am).  I lent my bike against a wall and took my waterproof legs off.  Within seconds a small car full to the brim of bearded farmers pulled alongside slowly giving me the smiling thumbs-up to make sure I was OK.  I smiled and waved back, despite the sit down on the wall being uncomfortably welcome.

30 minutes later I was at the seafront in Abergele, tired and had been dreaming of a slice of lemon drizzle cake for about 45 minutes.  As I went over the cobbled bridge that crosses the railway, my back tyre snicked in between cobblestones and felt uncomfortably deflated.  I locked up my bike, dropped my brevet card in the hurricane winds, swore a lot, realised the door was locked then swore some more until a sweet girl approached asking me if I needed my brevet card signed.  After nearly begging to be let in the cafe then realising she was not the owner but the organiser's daughter, I took myself down the road to another seafront greasy spoon / chip shop for the cup of tea and invested in a bag of skittles.  If Haribo could make me ride fast, I hoped Skittles would get me back over the hill.

I sat and drank my tea whilst the arcade clinked and whirred and chattered behind me. Whispy old men with flat caps drank instant coffee with ladies who washed their drinks down with fag smoke, blue rinse catching the breeze.  I enjoyed 20 minutes out of the rain before hauling myself back into it.

I retraced my route to a turnoff in town, my tyre feeling even worse bumping over those cobbles again.  It was a big road with a fair amount of traffic on it and I wasn't enjoying myself at all.  I decided to get the pump out and try inflating the tyre a bit more.  One squeeze of it left me feeling a little ill again, it was really low.  I had flash-backs to the 600 and battling with constant punctures to get back.  The tyre was old-ish.  Worn a bit but not worn through although it did have some serious holes in it.  It was suffering the same symptoms as during the 600.  Slow deflation such that any sudden trauma caused a puncture.

I connected the pump but every time I put something in, the needle dropped back down to practically nothing.  I had only had 20 psi in.  As I was inflating it, Halifax rode past and stopped to check I was OK.  I was a bit frazzled and asked if they had a decent pump though (understandably) they were worried about getting back in time and obviously eager to continue on.  We all concluded that it would probably be fine and sure enough the pressure was starting to build.  They had had a puncture themselves but more substantially, had spent an hour in the MacDonalds in town enjoying hot food and decent coffee.  I had just ridden up the hill on a packet of mini Cheddars.  I was a bit jealous but not too worried as I knew I still had plenty of food on board.

On the way back I got to watch the sun set from underneath the cloud over the Mersey Estuary, the Liver Building prominent on the skyline of the 'Pool.  Both rear lights went on to make me noticeable to sun-blinded drivers and not much later the front light joined it as I sketched my way across the moor in the very blustery wind.  Despite all the healthy choices I had on board, either partially eaten or unopened, the arrival of 8pm saw me reaching for the Skittles.  Pangs of delight coursed through my mouth.  So tasty!  It didn't help that I'd run out of water but my mouth watered and it seemed as good as a drink of water.  I gobbled them down.

When I reached the tops, great gusts of wind blew me and the bike sideways and I had to time glances at the Garmin to make sure I didn't get hit with a gust that would take me into the ditch.  I got one wrong and had to slam my brakes on as the front wheel careered towards a drop off next to a tussock of grass.

The rain started again but I couldn't feel any cold.  In fact, my legs felt exactly the same as they had when I was wearing my waterproofs.  It was still warm but bloody hell, it was hard.  Steep climbs had me stomping on the pedals, out of the saddle yet down the drops to minimise the effect of the wind on my body.  Growling helped blast through the stalemate between a stalled rider and the wind, wrenching myself over the top of the 30% grade.

Allegedly it was 20km downhill to the finish.  I mean, I knew that was probably a fib but still, I'd been thinking about it since 30km to go - 10k up, 20k down.  The 5k up, 20k down.

All the down hill did not come at once.  I was still disappointed, even though I knew it wouldn't all come at once.  Some false flats got in the way, a few rises and then I was down in the valley, looking at the light glow of Corwen and I hauled myself over the bridge, the river now twice as wide as it was when I left and I felt glad I had left my van in the top car park.

After a quick stop to figure out which of the pubs in the tiny Welsh town was the control, I rolled up, locked my bike to the elegant two-seater Iron smoking shelter complete with Cleamtis.  Brum was walking out as I was arriving and called back into the pub, "She's here, she's made it!"  Much commotion ensued as Halifax had reported they didn't think I would make it so the organiser was rushing out in his van to see if I wanted a lift to the finish.

I ignored the slightly cheeky under-estimation of my ability, giving the benefit of doubt.  The last time they saw me I was swearing at my pump, hearing jealously of their feed, knowing nothing of the feast I had on board.

Inside the pub, ale and crisps were on offer.  I passed on the ale, stuck with the crisps and a box of pineapple juice that had been there since the 80's plus a pint of water.  I'd not drunk anything since 8:30pm and now it was 9:38.  30 minutes to spare.

Still warm but noticeably damp and smelly, I left the bartender to his banter and walked my bike over to the Mercu.  The easy bit was over.  Getting changed out of wet kit in a van before driving home was going to be a challenge.  I pretty much left everything I had on the tops of the Welsh hills.  I stopped at 11pm at Chester services and slept for 2 hours before rejoining the motorway and listening to the Asian Network very loud for the next 2 hours back to Sheffield.  It was 3:30 am when I got to bed.

Still, October, done.  11/12.

Church? or Chapel?

Prelude

I have tried, moderately, to write up this ride.  The fact is, it would be proper hard work to write it up accurately.  To describe this ride by any fact is doing it injustice for it was a mash of pedal strokes, mud splatters, sideways sunbeams, snowy distant peaks, raindrops in headtorch beams, snuggly tents and sleeping bags our of the storm, coffees brewed fresh in the forest, surprise shelters, friendly strangers, porridge, best friends for life, colourful sheep, mucky ponies, pub food, railway lines, stained glass, Gallic crosses and icy rivers.

Chapel?

Church?

OR 

Church?

OR...

Chapel?

Llanbrynmwair: a rainy school car park.  Other peoples: eating toast.  I’m given a bottle for my holy water and a half-bottle of red to take communion.  I am also furnished with a Lion Bar and fed tea and toast.  

I change into cycling kit then set about attaching bags to my bike.  A dry bag under the handlebars containing my sleeping bag, a frame bag containing dry leggings, wool tops and knickers (also woollen).  A bottle cage filled with emergency equipment – plasters, painkiller, savlon, a needle, a tampon (good for mopping up all kinds of things), thrush cream (good for all kinds of itches).  Finally, a saddle bag containing half the tent, dried food, down coat and booties, headtorch in a box with some cables and a battery and my mug / brewkit.  My winter addition is two “stemcells”.  They’re shaped like they hold a bike bottle and dangle off the handlebars.  They’re sturdier than it sounds and most accessible so one side contains a tool kit and the other, breakfast oats in a waterproof box and goji berry / walnut mix for munching on.

We say goodbye to the guys huddling from the rain in their van and head off in our coats.

1 mile down the road and I return to the car park and add my rucsac to my back containing 2 litres of water and my waterproof trousers, warm hat, dry gloves energy bars and camera.

We finally get properly underway at 10:20 and by 11:15 have marked off our first checkpoint

.

Further down the road, two guys go straight on as we turn to pick up a bridlepath over to the East.  Much to my embarrassment it goes straight up and I’m convinced that I planned it this way – no worries about a bit of hike-a-bike early on.  I can do easy riding later.  As we head further and further up the 30% slope I become more and more worried that the slope will never end or the path will level out into unrideable forest.  

TSK adding to the scenery

Thankfully, our efforts are rewarded with a spectactular view before the path levels out into an entertaining track through the trees which requires some concentration but is rideable.  

After 5 miles we descend into a little village to claim our Second church and we’ve almost caught a buzzard from the sky, seen an owl and been laughed at by sheep.

For a while we climb away from checkpoint 2 on roads and TSK is almost mown down by an oncoming motorist without any concept of what might be around the next bend.  Over the other side of the hill we descend for some time, eventually overshooting a turn-off onto a bridlepath.  Again we push our bikes up to meet the connecting path we should have taken and swear when we realise if we’d retraced further we’d have had an easy ride.  Still, the path in itself is avoiding some evil chevrons on some evil climbs on the road map so we’re happy, even when having to make up the bridle path because there’s no sign of it on the ground.  

The scenery outweighs the effort and I snap a picture in case the sun doesn't come out again.

We arrive in a village where there’s an open pub serving lunch.  

Just as our meal is arriving, another rider walks in and we catch up about where we’ve been.  The route over the tops by the wind turbines was no better, in fact sounds much worse, than what we’ve just been through so that’s reassuring.  

Filled with baked potatoes we return outside to discover we’ve locked up the bikes without bringing the key for its release with us.  I go indoors and make pretty eyes at the staff and the chef comes to our rescue with a pair of bolt cutters from the boot of his car.  Turns out his other job is a farrier.

Released, we set off on our third off road ride of the day.  We climb up hill a way before turning off onto a well defined path.  It’s not a great bridleway but there’s some path to it.  It doesn’t last long and soon enough we’re following something that diverges greatly from the direction we were *supposed* to take.  After some very cool downhill slaloms which would be better on skis than mountain bikes we find the track again, just as it disappears into a brackeny hillside behind someone’s house and we have to make 4 2-person lifts of loaded mountain bikes over barbed wire fences before slithering through more bracken to the track at the bottom of the valley.

This track then runs alongside streams and rivers which eventually culminate in one big river crossing.  Whilst all the others have been rideable, this one has a bridge – at least it used to.  The only thing that remains of the bridge are the two concrete blocks either side of the river that the bridge used to stand on.  The alternatives of pushing our bikes across open grassland overlooked by a big house versus retracing our steps up hill, leads us to remove shoes and socks ready for the paddle across the river.  As I’m moving to hang my shoes over my bars, TSK decides to lob his shoes over the river onto dry land. 

Unfortunately one shoe ricochets off the gate on the other side and slowly starts to make its way downstream.  I try and race after it but I’m already in bare feet and slow on rocks even during triathlon races, never mind in a Welsh river in January.  TSK wades in fully socked.  At least shoe number 2 made it and he’s able to make more progress in stocking feet.  The shoe gets momentarily caught on a rock, buying us time and he manages to catch it just as it gets unattached and recommences steady progress down the river.  He helps haul my bike out around the gate and I walk up the mossy slope in bare feet.

I think this is the happiest I was all weekend.  My feet were numb from the cold meaning I was free to “feel” the moss between my toes for I was cold enough not to feel pain but somehow I could still feel the mossy softness, the tickle of tiny fronds of green on my foot pads.  Then once the novelty of that wore off, my feet felt great again back in my wool socks and fleecy leggings.

We dried off, re-shoed and started to push our bikes out of the valley to get the blood flowing to the feet.

Bus house parked up at a local campsite complete with porch, deck and "pond feature"

Walking off the hill climbs

Pee stop

Once we’d accessed a road, we descended down again right up until we started going back up again and then, after some minor lanes and villages, we were in Corris.

This is not actually the church in Corris but it looked like a place of worship and was next to the cafe... by then we didn't care.

And there was a church and outside it were bikes because right next to it there was a  café and it was open and they sold us sweet potato muffins and coffee and life was good.  There were around 6 other riders in there and two leaving.  We assumed their seats then Andrew chatted as I spoon fed my brain to get it to work again.

Finally, Andrew insisted we go back outside and I dawdled as much as was polite.  We’d arrived in Corris way earlier than I expected.  Eventually I realised this was because my route-choice from Corris was an out and back and we would return there just 1.5 hours later after obtaining one more checkpoint and scouting out an overnight camping spot which was later rejected in favour of drier climes.  Andrew reliably informed me that Cadair Idris was above us (through the rain) and he (the mountain) seemed to be generating all kind of wet weather patterns which didn’t necessarily exist on the other side of the valley.  Stopping there, next to a river, did not seem like a good idea. 

TalYLynn Church

We dawdled a bit, thinking about a high mountain pass to the Cross Foxes Inn (which TSK had passed many times but not gone in yet) and going back to Corris.  I eventually reasoned that my plan after Corris was to get offroad and therefore the best bivi spots.

Head torch and silhouette

Where we did bivi shall remain a mystery for the protection of all those involved.  Let’s just say that me refusing to budge far beyond that place and Andrew’s reluctance to eat anything other than pub food meant that in the morning we were back at Corris, wondering casually if the café was open (it wasn’t).

So 12 hours had passed in which we had eaten in a pub, camped outdoors, got rained on all night, snuggled in our tent until dawn rose on account of it being too wet and windy to be drawn to anything else before 7:40am.

I didn’t sleep brilliantly but nor did I sleep atrociously.  I found that my wool top (now damp) being stuffed up my down coat to dry out was only making me colder but somehow when I spread it over my thighs (the only bit of me not covered in double-down) my body temperature improved.  2-man, winter camp tenting in the wet actually worked out and I think snow would have only made it easier so long as it made it less damp not that a lightweight tent can hold *that* much water.

At 7:30 am we packed up and were gone by 8:30.  We rode from Corris along a minor road until we found a forestry commission carpark, furnished with a brew-hut… I mean, infoshelter.  It would have made a perfect bivi spot but you win some /  lose some.  Coffee made on a stove outdoors is so much richer… if a little gravelly.

On the turn to our next pass that day, we met another rider coming down.  I was eager to move on and stay warm but Andrew chatted away as I fumbled with some stuff and then re-arranged the hand warmers in my gloves.  As I fiddled, Andrew asked, “is it steep ahead”.  The guy went quiet.  He was quite obviously gesturing something behind my back, like if he said it out loud I would throw some kind of womany strop and refuse to proceed.  Finally I got him to admit out loud that the climb was a bastard.  I didn’t mind.  It was early, I had miles in the legs.  We set off up the bastard.

TSK later said the man implied that we (or I) would be walking most of it.

It really wasn’t so bad.  OK, there were long sections of steep climbing but I had badass gears on my bike and only stumbled twice.  The first, when I needed to eat as I got the shakes – so I did and I walked whilst I ate because riding, breathing and chewing at the same time is not a skill I posses without choking. 

Once I’d got going again, I also had a wobble as I zig zagged across the road.  My front wheel accidentally turned downhill instead of up and I had to fight so hard not to let the bike take both of us rolling down the hill, that I knew I couldn’t get going again, even if I could get my leg over the bike top tube.  So I walked to the next lower grade section – all of about 10m before getting back on and starting to ride again.  I rode the rest with a mixture of determination, heavy breathing, tactical deployment of my new muscles and being a contrary bitch.

Over the top of the climb, the descent was justifiably insane.  As steep as the uphill, it lasted about 5 minutes (not an Alp) of whoop and some cautious braking, after which we were deposited on a main road - the other side of the hill we'd been debating riding over at 6pm the night before.  We turned North in search of Andrew's target for the day - the Cross Foxes.

This newly refurbished, posh (Telegraph and Guardian reported and recommended bijoux) pub/grill could not have done any more to make us feel welcome.  We left our bikes under the deck and cautiously climbed the stairs into the warm of the conservatory entrance where we dripped onto the slate floor and hung our wet gear over the back of chairs before perching our slightly (though not too) mucky bottoms on tall stools.  The waitress predicted our "hot drinks" order and brought us our food with a smile and friendly chat about where we had been / were going.

We looked nervously at the newly painted cream and pale grey decor, the superb scenic wall art and they stoked the fire and never once mopped the floor or tutted.

Reluctantly we left and formed a plan to head back to base so that we weren't driving home exhausted.  When we realised our legs just weren't in it, the plan was cut even shorter and we started riding over the main road climb back to the HQ.  It doesn't take my brain long to tire of long main roads so by the time the downhill appeared, I was ready for minor lanes and again turned off.  This time I was gambling on a track marked both as a permissive path and "traffic-free cycle route" but not a surfaced road.

I wasn't sure how sure-footed a track it would be but it seemed to contour pretty well and I needed to get off that main road.  It didn't disappoint.  Solid enough to ride all the way yet wet, silent, glistening and sheltered enough to be absolute bliss.  We met one black labrador and his human who had a lovely chat and some purple sheep.

And then there was road again - minor lanes and they crossed the major road and we set off back up the other side of this valley with a plan to zig zag back on ourselves up the valley side then head over into the final run-in to HQ.

In one last stab-in-the-back, just after we'd been distracted by a young shepherd trying to get his flock across the road with a petulant sheep dog and one errant sheep, about the time we were looking for the zig zag road, the Garmin crashed.  Except it crashed surreptitiously so that we cruised past the zig zag and rolled down a fucking big steep hill.  Only when we had reached the bottom did I realise the Garmin had crashed and when I checked, we had to retrace our descent right to the very top.  Not only that but in my frustration I overlooked the fact that we were around 1.5 miles away from obtaining our only checkpoint of the day and with that, we turned too early as well as too late.

The zig zag was bad news.  Not a road at all but a muddy track that went up the valley side at a gradient of silly... over 33% according to Mr Garmin.  We were dismayed.  TSK didn't want to ride, I mean push, it (and neither did I) but I didn't want to go on the main road either.  We hadn't come all the way to Wales to ride on main roads and I was convinced this road turned into the lovely yellow B road which took us directly back to HQ.  Where the hell did it turn into a yellow road? (Garmin puts a big pink line over the route so you can't actually tell what road surface you're supposed to be riding on).

I zoomed out so I could see the road behind the big pink line, briefly and concluded that we had no more than 500m of pushing up this hill before it evened out and turned into a minor road.  We made a pact to do it and I prayed to the Karma that it would pan out and prayed to OS that their maps were accurate.

The views were worth it.

It was so steep I reverted to counting steps in between rest stops.  At first, 10 steps.  Then 5 steps, and rest.  It was so far to the top.  We were both, only just, managing to stay upright.  Then there it was, the gates, the view, the why, THE TARMAC.  I took the picture, less for the view but more to exercise the pride in taking myself to such a tired place and coming out the other side better for it.

The muddy splodge on my bag is where the whole thing toppled over into the mud and poo.  Oh well.

Down to a farmyard and through flocks of pheasants then onto the main road again briefly before turning off onto my B-road which cut across an evil valley (this time just a rideable 8%) before following the path of the river (gently uphill).  After a while there were no more evil climbs on it and TSK just about forgave me enough to enjoy the solitude of the b-road since we saw only 3 cars for the next 7 miles.  We considered stopping in the occasional layby / grassy field to brew up more coffee and instant food but instead chowed down on the nose-bag residing in my stem cells and the odd energy bar, just to get us the last 5km into the finish.

Ian Fitz was back.  My life completed, leaving before him and returning after him and within seconds he had sewn the seed of my next bike packing adventure in May. 

The next group to return to base were over the moon to be almost the last tribe back and had a sprint to the line amongst themselves in which a fat bike won.  We didn't steal their thunder by revealing, to the others in the HQ, that this group had been in the cafe when we arrived in Corris on Saturday and in the pub when we returned there 1.5 hours later.

We ate more tea and toast and changed into civilian clothing for the long drive home then climbed into our car with the cow poo and sweaty clothing and took it in turns to drive shifts.  

More than anything else this weekend reintroduced me to the joy of being outdoors just for the sake of being outdoors.  Reminded me that not every trip is going to be a disastrous wash out (because for all the rain, this wasn't a wash-out).  It was enjoyable and basic and mainly, real.

I can't wait for the next adventure.

60 miles, 2500m climbing
29 hours on the run of which...
8 hours riding (allegedly)
10 hours sleeping / fidgeting
11 hours faffing, brewing up, peeing and eating

The Inaugral "Legend" Half Triathlon at the Snowdonia Triathlon Festival

Plas y Brenin National Mountaineering Centre is truly a wonderful place. With an almost perfect view of Snowdon, a bar, restaurant and £70 a night for comfortable beds and hallways decorated with epic images.  Make it the registration, transition and start line for a triathlon and I am SOLD! Right there! Sign me up!

5.30am is never a sociable hour but it's better than 3.30am Iron-o'clock and thanks to Plas y Brenin I had absolutely nowhere to get to except the bottom of our stairs for registration. I then slipped out to the bike shed to number Rosie Red and check the bolts were tight from the headset changed last week.

I got my number on in my room then returned to the bike lot with my kit, sidestepping officials as the bike shed exited straight onto transition. Set up done it was time to get my wetsuit half-on then walk over a small pedestrian bridge for the race briefing at the start.

Wiping the midges off, we all reassured each other of the viability of the task ahead. I squeezed my vest on under my wetsuit to play it safe in 16 degrees water then got myself in at the last minute as usual. I  was pretty proud of myself for making less girlie noises than some of the men then set about trying to keep up with someone,  anyone, during the swim.

Unfortunately most around me seemed to be really poor sighters… or maybe it was just me? I couldn't bring myself to swim in a massive loop just for the benefit of sitting on someone's feet so I stuck to my line and ploughed on alone… aware that there were always people off to my right.  Maybe they were enjoying the benefits of a lighter current nearer the shore but still, I was keeping pace and not getting left behind as I swam my straight line.

The group came together at the first buoy then they looped out again and I continued on my straight path.  I  did start to doubt that I had the energy for two laps but as I reached the end of the first, I still felt good and actually sped up a bit.

The pattern continued until towards the end of the lap when I started to catch up some big guys.  They were a bit of a distraction and started to put me off getting out of the water... or at least it seemed to take longer than necessary.

Eventually I was there.  I hit the lap button at 47 minutes.  EXACTLY the time I had expected for my first lap at Kielder Ironman. Galling but that's low temperatures for you.

The run into transition was horrible under foot with my feet suffering a combination of numbness brought on by extreme pain (or vice versa). Once back at my bike I stood on my neighbour's towel (long since gone) for some respite from the gravel while I managed a pretty decent exchange of shoes (ahhh the relief), addition of a jersey plus pocketed water proof and grabbed food.

TSK was apparently just setting off out of the bike hut with his ride to see me disappear off down the road.

The first half of the ride passed mostly without incident. The pleasant passing of the climb to the top of the Nant Gwynant Pass then the ride down to Beddgelert. The descent where I was glad I had a dry layer on to keep my shoulders warm in the cool shade. It was, after all, still only 8.30 am.  At Kielder I had only just been getting out of the lake.

Here there will be a picture - paid for but not yet delivered

There were some typical Welsh country lanes and then we slithered down to the coast to make our way around the housing and industrial estates on the edge of Portmaddog before the real climbing started.  Thankfully at Tremadoc I found my perfect race loo and nipped  into the pebbledashed luxury public toilets in the car park. Ample bike parking inside, no people so I could keep an eye on Rosie Red through the open door and most importantly, an adequate supply of paper. As soon as I stopped my glasses fogged without the breeze to clear them leading to a slightly blurred and seedy view of the world.

I rode the very steep hill climb out of Tremadoc with my glasses on the end of my nose, glad I didn't have to stop for a train on the crossing half way up.

It had been a quiet and lonely start to the bike with a few swimmers weaker than me passing early on and then no-one to chase.  A few big climbs started to turn things around though.  When I reached the climb around the back of the Slateman quarry I was joined by Nick from Macclesfield.

I caught him on the climb approaching Maentwrog and then he passed me back saying I would catch him when it got steep.

In fact I caught him on the descent on the other side as he stopped to answer the call.

We exchanged places for a while and had a chat going over the next pass through Ffestiniog as he told me that the hard bit was still to come.  This was just after 30 miles and about the first time I saw TSK riding the other way.  TSK insisted that I had done the hard bit but I was less convinced at the time (we still had 530m to go). I was still pleased to have got more mileage in than him. You can't really compare your performance on any one day to a random selection of competitors but husbands make great benchmarks.

Nick promptly left me for dead after that climb. I had him in my sights  for a while and then he disappeared on the lanes approaching  Capel Curig.  Another roadie followed me for a while after he asked what we were racing, he decided my bike was good for a draft into the next town. He turned left as I went right in Bewtsy Coed, wishing me luck for the rest of the day.

One climb to go - a long steep uninspiring open main (for Wales) road. It was  dual carriageway to give trucks a crawler lane. There was insufficient traffic for it to be a problem though and all motorists passed single file. I'd reccied it the night before in the car but I should've realised how hard it would be after 45 miles of riding on the tt bars.

Here there will be another picture, paid for but not yet delivered

For a moment I panicked when I saw a blue track on my garmin, starting to think I had overshot the race HQ but then realised that it was the river way down in the bottom of the valley.

I returned to transition to a spattering of cheers and happy that there were still a few gaps on the bike racks.  I knew I had been slow though and left transition with the stated intention of catching some people up.  TSK was still out on his bike so I stated my intentions to the young man at the water station. I  don't think he was interested.

I took a  backpack with me for the run. I was still in Ironman mode, not sure how warm it would be, so had plenty of water and I wanted a coat in case it got wet and windy. I doubt I was slower for it and was definitely faster for being able to sip constantly from my water instead of gulp from aid stations then run dry until the next one.  It's personal choice and many would disagree with my approach but some of those people are the the ones I pass gulping water at aid stations or suffering cramps from dehydration.

I hadn't really reccied the run and had only taken a cursory glance at the map.  As far as I was concerned it went up and down a valley. The map showed some kind of a  loop at the end but I assumed this was part of the sprint race happening on the same day.

All I knew was we went out of transition and turned right.  This led to  big flight of around 30 steps all the way up to the road. Argh! Down to walking speed already. An enthusiastic marshal cheered me up the steps as I grumbled about the cruel beginning.

Across the road and onto trail proper.

A beautiful open track. Rocky but solid and suitable for trail shoes rather than fell shoes.  I was glad it was dry because my shoes can be a bit slippy in the wet. I was a little disheartened by the absence of any other people in sight for me to catch and was still feeling a little tired from last week's fell race. I  had another short walk to get used to being on my feet up the first short sharp climb and then started jogging.

The route ran on the opposite side of the river Afon Llugwy up to Llyn Ogwyn below Tryfan.  A beautiful looking road on the other side of the river, I kept one eye out for TSK on his way back from his ride but mostly I was looking where I was going, navigating between the rocks, grassy tufts and occasional cow.

After 1 mile I was properly woken up by the first athlete running back down the hill towards me.  I gave him a high 5. Actually a very British, discreet, low 5. And I wished him good luck. He had a remarkable lead, in fact I started to wonder if everyone else had got lost but eventually second place arrived with a group of around 5 behind including the first woman who got a lot of cheers from me.

I counted the rest of the women in until I forgot where I was counting and chose not to give duff information out.

Across open moorland now. I could see a steady stream of runners coming in towards me but still no one going in my direction. Still, the on-comers were giving me plenty of encouragement if they weren't wearing the face of pain too much.

The route undulated a little then rose to the main road at the Lynn Ogwen. The aid station offered me a drink but I thanked them and kept going. On the road I passed Nick from Macclesfield coming the other way so I knew I was getting near to the turn around point. There were now a stream of people I had recognised off the bike.

I was slightly uncomfortable not knowing where the turnaround point was, reminding me that a little knowledge of the route goes a long way - even for events you're just doing for a giggle because you switched your entry from another event only 5 months earlier and you only chose this event only because its monetary value matched that of the event you withdrew from.

At the top of the hill, the road dropped slightly then the course turned into a carpark for the Tryfan tourist path. A marshal was standing on the wall trying to look as bright yellow as possible guiding us around the wall and hoping that we would be able to run around the masses of hill walkers congregating to tackle Wales's Most Impressive (though not biggest) peak.

Around the wall it was time to retrace my steps, slightly alarmed to find there were more people with me in their sights than I had realised.

I took a glance at my watch. It said 1:02! I was on for a sub 2hr half! Hang on, I thought, that would mean it's short. I decided that the race organiser would have some trick up his sleeve. Still, realising that I was running quite well and was now "on the way back" I could start trying properly. If I had no one to chase I could at least race my own half marathon pb.

Damn that end-of-race heel strike

Back past the water station where I saw Rachel. We'd cheered eachother on when I caught her on the bike. She was stopping for a drink and well on her way to completing her first half Ironman.

Across the moor again then starting the descent. The undulations had been imperceptibly gaining height on the way out and now were opened up before me to view.  Away in the distance I could see two targets running the same way as me.

Brakes off I started a downhill run that many a dark peaker would be proud of, driving up the little hill climbs.  At one point I  thought the lady ahead of me had stopped but in fact she was crossing the stile and had stopped at the top to reverse down climb the steps.  I reached they stile, climbed it, hands on top, swung legs through then vaulted onto the ground and got running. I picked her up just before the campsite then had a momentary panic when I couldn't see any signs and didn't know which strip of tarmac to follow.

Then I recognised a tent that I had been admiring on the way out and carried on the right route being reassured soon after by a piece of striped tape tied to a bush.

Onwards to the next victim who I caught just as the course veered off onto a slightly different approach to the 'village' of Plas y Brenin. This was where the organiser was going to make his distance up, I thought.

Serendipity was shining on me.  I passed a guy walking his bike back to the finish.

He looked at me intently and said, 'straight on the road to the centre, don't turn off!'

I wondered what he could mean.

2 minutes later I knew. There were some red arrows from a previous event pointing down a track to the chapel. I did as instructed, stayed on the road and sure enough was directed by marshals back down those steps to what I thought was going to be the finish. Apparently a few other runners had followed the red sign and, on seeing finishing runners on the other side of the field, had ploughed across the field and a wet river crossing, only to be directed back to the centre, through the car park and back on course, one half mile the worse off.

I didn't check my garmin, I was too busy worrying about a last minute sprint  from someone behind me so it was a big surprise whèn I discovered that I couldn't get to the finish and there was a man offering me a drink. 

By this point they must've had a few confused competitors because his answer to my question, 'where do I finish?' Was, 'you've still got a mile and a half to go'.

Ah. That was the end of my ambition for a sub 2 hour half marathon or even to slip in under 2:06, my time in the Sheffield half marathon last year. Still, I had those other people to stay ahead of, could still get a bloody good time for a hilly off road half marathon and I was facing a massive wall of a climb.

Hands on knees and a spot of yogic breathing. 

A woman and her son cheered me on at the top of the climb. I needed it.

Down the hill on a hard packed trail. The pounding descent ricocheting through my knees but there was someone else plodding along in front, having a little walk.  I passed him. A marshal directed me down a hill to 'do a loop' before getting to the finish. Oh my this race is cruel! For every  downhill I knew I would have to come back up but then there was another person to pass.  Yes! 

A line up of cheery athletes out for a recce  for tomorrow's standard distance cheered me on. 'Thanks I really need that' I said, and meant it. They cheered louder.

Past a sign with a U-turn arrow and the word 'Legend' written on it. The marshal was sitting on the gate cheering.

'I don't know about Legend', i said but I do feel dizzy.  I meant with all the twists and turns but he took me a little too literally and jumped to his feet to administer first aid, as I rapidly explained that I was just kidding and did not need rescuing.

Then that hill climb back out.  I had a few comical exchanges with my fellow runners. It seems many of us were oblivious to the little sting in the tail of this race. I was just relieved, despite the pain, that it wasn't going to be a short race.

I cheerfully waved to the marshal I had just passed  minutes earlier,  knowing it really was all downhill to the finish line now.

As I rounded the corner the standard athletes were there again and cheered at me as I whined, it hurts so much. I was trying to stay ahead of runners I knew were on a blinder, like Ashley who was eating up places. Then I saw the finishing arch.  The big numbers counting down.  Was there some imaginary time line to beat? I hadn't even looked up my last time for a half Ironman. I did slide in under 7 hours but with 10 minutes to spare so no need for a sprint and proving just how annoying my 16:30 time was for Ironman but giving me the satisfaction of actually having raced this distance and not just survived it but enjoyed it .

The array of cakes,energy bars, fruit and drinks available was overwhelming and the little girl giving out teeshirts and momentoes (a rather lovely engraved slate coaster) was struggling to get athletes attention. She was a diligent collector of timing chips and very sweet.

To be able to walk from finish line to bike shed then into my shower in my room was pure bliss. Many other athlete tripped over their shoe laces and fell into the bar, finding themselves drinking a pint of Welsh beer and watching tye sun process across the sky in the late afternoon.

Me, I  had a power nap before checking the results on the off chance I had won a prize. There didn't seem to be many fv40s ahead of me but then we are all pretty young-looking as athletes so I had to cope with a fourth place. I  am extremely proud of that for a race that I wasn't taking that seriously 1 month after Ironman and 1 week after a marathon-esque fell race.

Once I had a chance to recover we joined the bar goers for lunch. Overhearing the winning woman talking about a lady who cheered her on who was wearing a rucksac, I mean, what for??? Shrugs, because we can't all be out there for just 5 hours m'dear. Each to their own.

Can you see Snowdon, just over there, not in the distance in the slightest?

It was a weird twist of events that brought me to do a second half Ironman. Impressive since 4 years ago I said I would never do it again. Looking back at the "Day in the Lakes" I thought I was as fit as I would ever be in my life. 2 Ironman events and 4 years later, though still a back marker, I fared so much better and smashed a splitting 1 hr 25 minutes off my previous time.

It seems that I can't wait until next year's season.

Swim: 42:58 (57th) 1.9 km fair waters. Like swimming in well-brewed (cold) tea.
T1: 5:00
Bike: 3:46:10 (60th!) 56.7 mi, 780m climbing
T2: 2:44
Run: 2:15:56 (52nd) 13.6 mi, 462m climbing

"First Swim Back" Kicks Off Deliberations

The "first swim back" is bloggable.  Eventually after a few swims, all of the lengths merge into one endless churn of white and blue tiles sliding by the face.  Of accidental punches and kicks, breathed-in water and drenching recovery showers.

I have swum twice now this winter although yesterday's swim marks a change - a move into Triathlon training again, the "start of the season".  There will be another... and another...

I didn't feel like doing anything.  I put laundry on, read a book, got my stuff together then decided to sit with the laundry as my washing machine's bearings are failing and I don't want it to burn the house down so I washed two of my bikes and waited.

Finally, at swim time, I didn't even feel like the walk over to the pool in the howling gales that have whipped the UK so I jumped in the car and drove there.  5 minutes, not 30 minutes later, I was signing in and attempting to get a 20p change out of a fiver from a surly desk clerk who made me wait for a cash-buyer so she could "get into the till".  It would've been faster to walk back to the car and a supply of 3 x 20ps.  Oh well, you have to forget something at your first trip back.

I sat for a long time on the side of the pool, faffing with my hat and my bipper (which I reduced to beep at 50 strokes per minute), still not interested in getting into the cold water.  Relieved that when I finally did, it was only my shoulders that felt the cold. The pool was generally OK but they were trying to cool it down and at the end of every lap, a stream of chilled water washed over my hands at the turn-around.  A little disconcerting and made it difficult to rest at the end of laps, in the stream of icy fluid.  Quite authentic open water training though.

I churned out 6 laps (around 200m) to warm up then adjusted my bipper back up to 54 spm.  Another 6 laps.

The 30seconds rest at the end of every 6 laps was welcome and gradually crept up to 1 minute in the end.  I have lost all of my swimming endurance.  I promised myself I'd only do 30 laps today and set about working out what that is in real money now that I am swimming in a 33m long pool instead of a 25m long pool.  About 40 lengths.  That will do.  I normally "come back" to 45 lengths and didn't want to push myself too hard.  This is, after all, about getting a good, easy base.

I put the bipper up to 56spm and quickly got out of breath trying to stick to it.  Finally, I had found my starting number.  No need to up the speed just yet.  I settled on 55 spm for the next lap which felt slow at the beginning but I had to work at in the middle and at the end of the 6 laps, I just forgot about it... I need to work on that.

It was getting near the end of my session already - in fact I had only one set of 6 laps to go.  I felt like doing more when I set off.  The 55spm bipper was just right.  Perhaps I could do 10 more!? After 5 though, I could feel it and glided down to the bottom of the pool.  Went to stop my watch and realised I had hit the magic 30 laps and some (32 in the end).

Slow beginnings.  I made myself get out.

Walking down the steps to the showers, I had a bit of a wobble.  What is this sensation?  Oh yes, fatigue!  I grabbed my stuff and put the shower on full blast.  I stood for a good while, just letting the water wash over my hair and face and the heat soak into my skin and muscles.  It took me while to get a wash.

In the changing rooms I had a chat with a lady who made me think of Fly Lillypad.  She was busy with her teenage daughter and father and stressed and trying to stay healthy and, most of all was very sweary.  She made me laugh and I wished her well for her journey down to Coventry to visit her dad and hoped I would see her again.

I walked up to the car, flushed with happiness.  I roared around town for a while, doing some shopping for the weekend and changing a pin number on a new card.  Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find an HSBC cash machine that isnt' behind closed doors with parking in Sheffield?

Back at home I excitedly downloaded my new swim onto my computer and set about searching for Triathlons for this year.  All of the ones I am interested in seem to have clustered in an ungainly way around the same days of the year.  I wondered about trying to qualify again for some championship races.  Interestingly, one of the qualifying races this year is on the same day as this years championships leaving the other two as the ones that all the fast people will do.  As I don't want to travel down to the South, that leaves me with Tri Liverpool.  Bizarely, my best run this year after a hard and windy bike course.  I enjoyed Tri Liverpool but mostly because of staying with Glyn in NlW, a house he no longer has.

I needed more.

I had a look at Ironman races and I had a look at Challenge Galway which was tempting but then I looked at the "city centre run route" and could think of nothing worse.  I had an internal debate with myself about whether I really do want to go long again.  Then I remembered the loss of focus to my training last year.  Sure, the lure of doing well was there, the "never say no" approach worked but did I swim enough? No.  Did I bike enough - Not really.  My running got better - that was it.

Do I like training long? Yes, actually I do.  A long run should only take 4 hours at the most.  OK.  The bike training takes up a bit more time.  I settled on a choice of two races.  I didn't have the guts to click the enter button.  I settled for a period of sustained planning and taking a little time to decide if I want to commit to this again.

Last year was fun but boy! Did I miss long training? (yes).

Surprises - Part 1 (September 8th)

The first surprise came 2 days after Bala triathlon.

I took phoenix out for a cyclo-cross ride. 

I carefully devised a plan which involved just popping off the map to mysteriously reappear farther along the page, where I wanted to be.  I would find this mysterious route using my Garmin.

I rode through Bala and just as I'd got too far out to do a U-turn I realised I was actually quite hungry and not carrying any lunch.  Fortunately a random tourist attraction was just open for the day and served me Bara Brith with butter and a packet of mangoes for emergency if I didn't find any lunch.

The trail I was looking for was across the road from the driveway and I set off up three different routes before Garmin showed me which one the path actually was.  

Initially it led through a steep sheep field then turned into an old walled "road" with trees growing overhead.  Finally, it opened out into a bouldered field again and I really enjoyed myself. Unfortunately I then forgot the plan.  I got so excited by having found the path in the first place, bouncing around in the field with some confused looking sheep, I just kept riding and riding.  By the time I stopped to enjoy the view and look at the map I had forgotten what the plan was and where I was.  

A half hour ensued of me trying to remember what the plan was both with a 1 inch screen and the full paper map.

Turns out I was flipping miles away from where I wanted to be so I devised a new plan. It took me 20 minutes!  There was no point in riding down the road so I sneaked a footpath.  Initially I felt a little bit bad about it but soon that feeling disappeared with the disappearance of footpath signs and stile maintenance.  Most of it was rideable except a small  ex-sheep pen which was filled with stone sheep - ie. boulders.  Still, the Garmin came into its own and I followed the approximate route of the path across the landscape using the little blue arrow on the screen.

I approached a stream-crossing with mud everywhere and that really nasty brown water that looks like cow poo dissolved in cow pee and you know smells completely gross.  There were 5 stepping stones around the downstream edge but they just led me to more mud.  There were 3 stepping stones at spacing of a bit of a leap across the upstream edge that I thought I'd go for.  On closer inspection they turned out to be a pebble, a sheep's scull and a cowpat.  On second thoughts, I'd get muddy.

Finally, back on course, I found myself another bridlepath or two before the road leading to the big one - the one that streaked out across the Bala map like a highway cutting its way through the forest. 

There was a long descent to the village of Parc which had less cafes than it sounded like it should, before things turned upwards again and I climbed 250m up, starting to think, this path better be bloody open.  All the more fuelled by the Garmin which appeared to suffer a misprint and wasn't actually showing the bridlepath going all the way to the road but instead stopped somewhere deep in the forest.

All was well and that demanded some celebration (mango).

 An hour had passed.

The path started out as a hike through a bog. Not promising but when you've gone to that much effort to get somewhere, you hope it will improve.  It did - on and off, with some rideable bits.  I could see a forest clearing ahead not a natural one but a fire-path - and they are not good news.  They usually contain various tree stumps at various stages of decomposition making for tough-going.  

Before that though, I had to cross a serious bog.  Without mud this one, but mostly water.  I could tell it was a bog by the plants growing on it and pretty much knew I was going to get wet feet but the question was, would I drown?  Not normally a question I'd worry about but when I stood on a tussock and all of the neighbouring ground around me momentarily sank and then gently bobbed up and down, I got a little worried that I would at least lose my bike to the depths.

I got wet feet but I wasn't wrong about the fire path.

Still, I was out for a hard ride (hike-a-bike) as 3 Peaks training and so it was just what I needed.

I stuck to the side of the fire path where I at least had a clear pine-needle surface to walk on.  The blessing of a rubbish path is you get to walk it alone and there was no-one in sight.  Several creatures were disturbed by my passing but to be honest I was too busy walking over tussocks to notice them.  I kept walking, sweating and drinking.

The path finally topped out into more bouldery open fields before following what was probably a drovers trail but now a ditch between two walls.  Few had brought bikes this way but plenty had brought horses - or there had been cows.  I couldn't really get any traction to ride because we bounced from foot print to footprint.  Off the bike, I was still picking my way around the worst of the mud.  We rode what we could - usually with a lot of effort for not much speed but after hiking the bike up the hill, any riding felt easier than none and was probably faster than walking.  

For a while I gave up and then some downhill started to happen.  We left the edge of the forest behind and we were on the high moors with hills rocketing up to our right.  I ate some food, sent a text and looked at Phoenix.  How can I get rid of that bike I wondered?

Another hour had passed.

Fed up with pushing and carrying I bounced over rocks and cow prints as far as I could.   Each pedal stroke brought me treacherously close to falling off and eventually I did.  The bike went one way, I went the other and as I put my foot out to catch me, there was nothing there.  I kept moving through space until finally, my over-extended knee engaged with something hard and, before anything snapped, my knee bent the right way and I rolled out of it, landing back kneeling on the ground.  I stayed there for a while and waited for the pain to go away.  My mind already deciding what to do if I was injured.

But I was OK.  Once I lifted my head from my knees, I managed to stand and then limped on for a while.  The knee was weak though and I had to be very careful now not to over-extend it again.  Every little leap onto rocky ground thrust it back on itself.  I spent the rest of the day walking with my knees bent.

Over the lip of the edge where I fell, the path crossed a marshy bog.  From my earlier experience, I didn't really want to cross it but it was a long way to go around it so I set about carefully carrying my bike over.  A few tentative steps warned me that I had read that bit of grass wrong and I tried another approach.  That was also deep in water.  I tried again and the tussock that I stepped onto with my third step completely gave way and sank me up to my knees in water.  

I looked up at the sky and shouted, "Arghhhh! Fuck off!"

I looked around just to make sure that there wasn't anyone around for me to apologise to.  A flock of sheep had gathered at the top of the edge and were staring at me.  It looked like they had come to watch the shambles that I was making of myself, to see if I would also drown half way across and be eaten by a fox.  Even I felt like I was going to be eaten by a fox.

"And you lot can fuck off too!" I shouted, partly in anger, partly embarrassment and mostly because it made me feel better and I knew no-one else was listening.

I got across the bog.  I still had wet feet but I wasn't going to wade across the river and have completely sodden feet.  There was no easy crossing point.  The river ran discretely 3 feet across and 2 feet deep.  The stones were slippery.  I'm not surprised it was a small river - most of the water was in the bog.  I took my shoes and socks off and waded across then reinstated shoes and socks on the other side.  I had to hike the bike beyond the up-side of the small valley.  From there, finally I saw the road.  I've never been so happy to see a road.

It didn't take me long to get fed up with the road.  I rode down it for around 10 minutes max before reaching the next bridlepath that I had the option of taking.  

Would it be just as much of a nightmare?  (Potentially). 

Was I tired? (exhausted). 

Did I want to give it a go (absolutely).

It started well, an old lane running  along side the Afan Lilw.  So well I decided to send my parents a, "this is where I am and I am still alive" text and have some more food... in fact, I think the last of the emergency supplies.  A dog bounded over to say hello and I had a chat with the owner of the house I had just passed before turning off.  In retrospect I could have asked her about the trail but I didn't. 

After a couple of bridge crossings, the trail set out across fields again.  There was a quad bike track and a bridlepath (marked on the map) which seem to have grown into mutually exclusive things.  The fence crossings no longer existed on what was the path so I took to following the quad bike trail across the field with occasional forays up to the bridlepath because I felt bad.  Finally, the quad bike trail turned up hill to meet the footpath around a farmyard from where I dropped down the hillside past the cutest shack.  The field became like a grassy cliff face that I had to dismount to cautiously pick my way down.  That put paid to recommending the path to my parents who don't really do steep ups any more.  It took me half an hour to get down off the mountain.

Once on the forest logging road, things became a bit dismal.  There was a brief forested descent before I was spit out into a caravan park.  From there, I had a short trek to the south end of Bala lake and a pleasant yet roadie ride around the lake shore to get back to the campsite.  Except for the surprise of blatting along the A road home at 18 miles per hour up hill, the ride home was unremarkable.  

I was back at the campsite before anyone else so I lay down in the sun by the car, leant my feet against the vertical surface and ate a magnum icecream in the hot sunlight.

That was my surprising day out in Wales.