This is an Intervention

Too much screen time this week? The end of a difficult week?

Performance reviews are one thing. Doing other peoples' is exhausting and this year it feels really important to get right. Helping young people to continue to grow and develop when its oh-so-hard. We are a nation in mourning, denial and it feels like soon-to-be crisis.

But before it all comes crashing down I decided to go for a ride on my bike with my friend. Despite some incompetent prick driver attempting to knock L off his bike (he's made of sterner stuff), we had a grand morning out. We ate lunch together. The weather got worse in the afternoon. The wind started gusting and I got home looking more like I'd done a cyclo-cross race than a gravel ride.

Too much screen time? Well, after our last adventure into the Peak, I decided I'd quite like a new bivy bag. For now, ex-Stu's lovely Disco lite will stay with me for summer fun but it became glaringly obvious that it is not suited to winter expeditions.

Some may argue that no bivi bag truly is suited to winter adventures. I bought Stu's bivi at a reduced price to find out if I really like it. I liked the idea of it. The summer adventures helped me conclude-yes, I really do like it.

I love looking at the sky - stars, trees, clouds. I'm also quite paranoid when I sleep so I'm much happier in a bag scenario where I can just look out to see what is really going on, than in a tent where my imagination is free to wander. Is there really an armed rapist farting and eating salad outside the tent (whilst stealing my bike) or is it just a sheep? Trust me, it's always a sheep - especially the farting.

I love not needing to be fussy about my pitch.

Bus stops crag tops, heathery tussocks, river banks. The roll out - roll up convenience of a bivi is excellent for racing. Also, I was once the girl who said, it is as much about the camping as it is about the biking.

That's still true but I have found, with both the bivi and the tent, that no matter what precarious situation I find myself camped in, I'd rather pack up in the morning and get myself somewhere visibly more aesthetic and possibly sheltered than whatever hole I landed in during the small, dark hours of the morning. Brewing up at a picnic site under a tourist board shelter is infinitely easier than in an elevated layby on a fire road. Dodgy tent peg placements or no dodgy tent peg placements. Most importantly with the bivi, I have mostly marvelled at the breathability of its shell compared to my Cuban fibre tent.

In equal measure, I regret not buying the camo green tent over the bright silver colour.

The bivi's stealth green makes it the outside of Scotland favourite - though given the legality of camping in Scotland and the infrequency of bus stops, forests and other shelters in the Highlands, it is highly likely the expensive Cubann tent will remain my shelter of choice for the HT550. We have had too many amazing Scottish adventures for me to forgo the security of a tent pitch on that event.

And there's the final reason I feel I can justify yet another new solo shelter - saving things for best.

No-one wants to get to an event and find that all their gear is worn out. I know ("they" say) cuban fiber lasts but it really doesn't feel like it. So if I am to ride all these thousands of miles in training with all this stuff on my bike for practicing then I'm tempted to have a spare - a second best and save the good stuff for race day.

And this, dear reader is how I spent too many hours surfing bivi bag reviews on the internet and not getting enough sleep this week. No sooner had I made a choice, I'd read a bad review about this thing I had just decided was "the one".

Confirmation of my (and other peoples) experiences of eVent fabric from my pal, Landslide, put me firmly off my ideas on a Rab bag last weekend I decided the whole thing was a stupid idea since I have a perfectly good 1- man tunnel tent. When push came to shove on a snowy, windy moor though, I couldn't be arsed to thread TWO (yes Two!) poles and pitch it. Perhaps this bivi thing really does have something in it. After my ride yesterday I pretty much spent all afternoon trawling reviews, images and youtube - just to get the basic dimensions and descriptions. Manufacturers / retailers details are truly dreadful with descriptions going so far as, "it's a bag 2.3m long"! 

As far as reviews go, I was bombarded by videos of people in their dining room, back gardens and reviews that started with,"I've not tried it in the rain yet but on a lovely summer's evening in Devon, I didn't experience any trouble".

I finally found some real people. Apart from the Rab Ridge Raiders use of eVent fabric, I also didn't like its side entry - too much like a tent - the bivi is there for sky-gazing.

So Terra Nova came to the rescue. Aside from the fresh-out-the-box reviews, four videos stood out. Two from a chap who kindly demonstrated the dryness of the inside of the bag whilst showing the substantial dew-fall on the outside, another demonstrating the substantial foot-space compared to my existing bivi. There was a video from someone pitched atop the Mam Caraigh on the West Highland way, demonstrating the bivi happily tethered in the heather with a substantial breeze whipping up. Of course, we only have that person's word for it that they actually slept in it - right there. In fact the more I think about it, the more for superior, more sheltered locations (closer to the pub no more than 2km away)  spring to mind along the West Highland Way.

There was then an obscure video of a guy demonstrating 5 different bivi pitches to choose from, eventually (hallelujah!) demonstrating actually getting into the bloody thing. Whilst the lack of side zip had been putting me off the hard part is always going to be getting down to ground level without pulling a cramp.

• • •

It did demonstrate to me that at least with a pegged-out bivi, reversing in is an option

So the outdoors has completely and obsessively consumed me this weekend. Yesterday morning was all healthy like the vibrant marriage. Then the afternoon degenerated into the senseless consumption of online Gortex porn. Just like pornography, the perfect people looked out at me from their perfect pitches, watching the sun set into the sea whilst drinking a beer and wearing casual trousers and a thin fleece.

Even my reliable guy on the cliff face had packed himself a synthetic bag. Who the flick has space for a synthetic bag???

I bought my hooped bivi - yes I did. It was the last thing I did before going to bed having flitted my time away. I've slept on it too many times already - and I lay awake till late, both a bundle of anticipation and also conjuring up all of the reasons I had done the wrong thing.

The lack of realism to the marketing made me feel less and less like going out today as the rain streamed down the windows. Who were all the perfect people in perfect conditions? Even on the best of days I've done little more than cling to pitches on the edge of reality and shiver and pee my way through the night. What a fool to believe £200 can change that, just like a porn star boob job can't save a bad marriage. 

I took to the loft. As a substitute for real camping, I sought out the only space in the house to resolve my issues. The Disco Lite bivi review that escaped my attention when I bought it made reference to the short length of the bag I now have. 

I got in it.  Of course my feet are always cold. To get my head undercover I have to jam my feet into the low-loft base of the bag and have them compete with the mattress for space. If that doesn't work I curl up and my hips & shoulders press against the shell, sucking all of the loft out of my sleeping bag and heat out of my body. No wonder my feet or hips are always cold.

All that was left to do is consider shelter. There's the downside to a bivi, no place to make a brew, get my shit together, pack my sleeping bag away without it getting wet when it's raining.

So out comes the off-cut from the ugly Tarp - a project.  I was intending to cut it down to a manageable size and/or shape to compliment my bivi in the worst of conditions but in the end, I pitched it a variety of ways and decided I liked it just the way it is, big, flappy and adaptable.

On a day when I felt like doing nothing, I curled up in my four-season sleeping bag and played tents under along tunnel pitch and the cat came and inspected and rushed up and down on her side trying to catch the virtual monsters inside.

Bikepacking joy from the comfort of my own home.

Decembivi - cozy but failed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I decided to make dinner and think about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, I had a fucking big hill to climb.  

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

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

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

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