Northern Myth

Northern Myth is a route I plotted last year, whilst sat at my desk on a Friday with a fully-loaded bike waiting for me in the carpark.

My aim was to ride North to Mytholmroyd then East to Todmorden and home on the Pennine Bridleway, amongst other things.  I wanted to do as much offroad as possible but ran out of time to plot my route beforehand and so I let Garmin make my choices after work based on the heat-map function. This left me with mostly a road route (although some great, tiny roads).

On the Friday I went to the pub for dinner, slept in a wood then continued through a big day on Saturday, battling the map all the way to make it more interesting, beautiful and less roadie.  I slept near a reservoir just outside Tintwistle before dragging myself back over the Transpennine trail to home on Sunday early afternoon.

I used lockdown as an excuse to re-route it from home back to home and to fix the roadie sections to make it more mountain bike fun.  The original was 200km on the nose with the ride to work a part of it (8km).  The new route was 187km.  I left home, after spending Saturday morning packing, at about 12pm and stopped for lunch at my favourite local spot, overlooking the Rivelin reservoir.  Due to the Covid, I was mostly carrying all the food I needed for 36 hours plus three litres of water but my bike was lighter and I was packing less kit.  The weather report hinted that a stove would not be of any comfort but I did still pack my Oh-Shit coat, full waterproofs (to stop it raining) and all the clothes I love to sleep in.  To offset, I didn't bother with any other layers for riding in - adopting the all-or-nothing approach to any extra warmth required.

I freestyled the ride from home to the A57.  Rather than following the random route that Garmin plotted, I took the steep ride through the allotments and "the Rock Garden", getting some highland trail Hike-a-bike training in - confirm can now lift loaded bike - though it was somewhat ungainly.

I wobbled up and down the side of the valley and over to Stanage pole where I dropped down past the bird watchers looking out for the lammergeier.

I rode past all the motorists out for a spot of parking frustration by Ladybower and even stopped to let one nice Indian family know that if they stayed where they were they might get a ticket just like all the other inconsiderate people parked opposite double-white lines and half on the bike/footpath.

Finally onto my favourite bridleway where, as ever, I saw only two other people until such time as I needed a wee when, no matter how well I tried to hide and pretended to stop to eat an apple, a constant stream of people kept walking past so I gave up and carried on riding all the way to the A57 at Alport Farm.  A brief flip over the other side of the river to edge ever further up the A57, yielded beautiful sunny views of Alport Castles and a pretty shoddy game of football at the Alport junior FC.

Alport Football Cows

Alport "Castles"

Further along the A57 was "Mad Woman Stones".  Another of my favourite places due to its absolute solitude and it did not disappoint.  Within 100 metres of the main road between Manchester and Sheffield I had enough peace and quiet to creep between two ponds away from the path and enjoy the quiet of the scenery for a while.

The trail is maddeningly stony and totally un-rideable without full suspension or dislocating every ligament in your body.  Old cobbles that do not seem to have ever been worn down by anything.  It crosses the perfectly paved Pennine way at 90 degrees part way across and despite the motorway pedestrian traffic walking East West, no-one seems to venture North-South except a couple of hardy runners and - on this day - a rather exquisite and lovely French lady on a full-suss Juliana, recceing the route.

We had a chat after I had sauntered down the steep drop off into the valley and she was on her way up.

After the joy of sitting by a bridge over a babbling stream with nothing but boulders and beautiful French women for company, I had to endure Glossop but that was OK because it was nearly time for early dinner and Glossop has a petrol station. 

As I emptied my re-useable food wrappers of the spoils of the day - crisp wrapper, crumbs, apple core, banana skin, I felt a bit annoyed that I had to carry my sustainable choices all the way home.

My potato salad, onion bhaji and milk-based desert went down OK supplemented by coffee, though I crammed the last onion bhaji into a pot to take-away as everything was a bit too dry.  The sauce for the bhaji came along too for the ride and I was now thankful for my sustainable food packaging. 

My route through Glossop disappeared behind the shops for a while and I joined it for the pure intrigue.  I found myself on a railway trail I never knew existed and arriving at a pump track I never knew existed where the local kids had a good laugh at my kit and I joked out of getting involved, preferring to stay "on the bunny tracks".  Sadly, my path went to a big metal fence that kept people away from the *actual* railway and I had to literally stick to the bunny track to get back out again. 

Still, in doing so I dropped down through the old railway workings of the site, finding all kinds of buildings and service-tunnels along the way.  Probably not safe to camp out at night but all the same, weirdly attractive.

Rolling Stock Service shed in there somewhere

Cue several other diversions through Glossop - none of which I knew existed, all of which were pleasant - as I bounced around little suburbs of Glossop / Greater Manchester all the way up to Dovestone Reservoir where the sun was rather satisfactorily setting and I could look across the Cheshire plains and see both Alderly Edge and North Wales and quite possibly the Isle of Man.

Sunset over Gtr Manchester

 I inadvertently found myself misguided onto a cheeky footpath more than once - entirely through gawping at the view and paying no attention to the Garmin.  The lanes were perfectly rideable, the old lady motorist that passed was perfectly wavey and friendly and the descent off it into a little village was satisfyingly technical. 

The sun setting through the trees on this path was all that I really came for

The old mills and cottages and this wind turbine nacelle without it's blades made me smile with reminiscences for my time spent living on the West side of the Pennines.

To be honest, I wouldn't have left the footpath except it didn't go where I wanted to be so I dropped down.  The drop-off brought me out into this cute little lane on the edge of Oldham with it's own bin nooks built into the wall.  Shame we have so much waste nowadays they need two more bins to be sustainable but the principal is still charming.

I had to pinch myself at this point and remember that last time I rode this route in the opposite direction I found myself in a less-than welcoming area filled with bad-lads throwing something (I didn't stop to find out) at eachother, wearing hoodies and masks (before the days of the Covid).  I just thanked my stars that cyclists are invisible and rode on through, hoping they wouldn't give chase (because I was knackered and wouldn't have stood a chance in a sprint).

This time around, my excellent e-navigation skills seemed to have worked the trick at avoiding any potential confrontation with the dark side and I pedalled on proud of the great work I had done.  I didn't mind that the light was fading, I would carry on until I dropped, then find somewhere nice to stop... at which point, most places would be nice places to stop.

I skirted the edge of Saddleworth moor this time, my aim being to plot the route entirely on legal PRsOW and not across the Pennine Way footpath.  I wanted it to link, not hop about so I dropped into Denshaw then climbed up to the Ram Inn to join the Pennine Bridleway part way up.

Before leaving the minor roads, I checked the map.  Maybe Denshaw was where things got scary last time... maybe not.  I risked it and Denshaw turned out to be an OK little village.  The close passes on the A road were a bastard though and it was all I could do not to give up and ride on the pavement.  I was wearing bright orange, a bright blue lid and had two red flashing lights but it didn't work for me and I was relieved to get off the road, onto the PBW and go in search of the ghosts of children. 

Their spirits clearly blew through me as I heaved the bike through the gate and I realised my saddle clamp was incredibly loose.  I fumbled for the allen key in my bag and tightened the bolt up as my body, sweaty from the climb, cooled down in the breeze.  The sun had completely gone but the after-glow was still enough to ride by with the slight assistance of my dynamo light which was now dead due to the lengthy stop.

Around the corner, I relented, got a mat out to sit on and donned leg warmers and my waterproof coat over the top of my gilet to warm up a bit.  It was instant respite and the dynamo fired back to life as soon as I started the downhill to Piethorne reservoir.

Having just decided I was OK and could keep going and should make the most of the twilight whilst it was still there, I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to sleep.  A slight paranoia that something nasty would be waiting for me in East Manchester made me think that sleeping with the ghosts of children might be easier than dealing with whatever was "down there in the valley" - the spirits of living children. 

As soon as I'd left the noise of the Manchester road behind, I started to keep an eye out for any shelter that might be about.  I was still pretty high up and the temperatures were dropping, the elevation would put paid to any concept of a cozy night.  Still, I didn't really feel like descending - and definitely not into "civilisation".

Whilst the car noises had faded, ahead was the rushing of water.  Just as I'd decided I didn't need to get closer to that, a few walls appeared.  There were no other structures around - huts, cabins, shed or shelters but a path through the grass which led to a series of very gently sloped "terraces".  I could be hidden from the road and the main track, overlooking the reservoir and Manchester lights and away from noise sources.  It might've been exposed to the elements but the breeze here was marginal and coming from what would be my "back" if I camped facing the view.

I laid my bike in the grass, made it an integral part of my pitch and set up the Tarp and groundsheet.  I seemed to have my head at the downhill end but was beyond caring.

Had a wee, changed clothes and crawled into bed. 

As usual I lay awake for a while - drifting in and out of snooze and adapting to the noises around.  The tarp moved occasionally in the gentle breeze but there was no wildlife noise to wake me.  I could see the plough from my bed and if I turned my head I could see the high-rises in the city centre lit up in red lights.  It was all far enough away that nothing seemed to move.

I shivered a little but at 2am got up for another wee then went back to the warm cocoon and fell soundly asleep until the sun woke me up at 5am.  It was still below the hill behind me but was illuminating the clouds in the sky above the ridge where the plough had been last night. 

It was 5am and the skylarks were starting to sing. 

Piethorne Reservoir with Manchester behind

I sat in bed and ate 2 pieces of malt loaf and the ginger cookies I'd saved from yesterday to the sound of the water gushing over the fish pass that I could hear last night.

I dressed without getting up then finally, reluctantly let down my mat and enjoyed the luxury of the groundsheet leaving me a dry bivi bag to pack up and somewhere dry to kneel to do so.  The tarp was not so dry.  A heavy dew had saturated it and when I packed it into its stuff sac, water oozed out the seams of the bag.  Well this would be a good test of how dry stuff stays in my bar bag.

I finished dropping down the hill to Piethorne reservoir as the sun popped up from behind the hillside.  It was all just too overwhelmingly beautiful.  It was an obvious push up the other side since I'd got nowhere near warmed up and it was steep and rocky. 

My camp spot - half way up the slopes on the opposite side of the valley

I stopped for another wee and the second breakfast of the day on a wall overlooking the reservoir before heading for - what I assumed would be East Manchester. At 6:55 two other mountain bikers passed.  The second, an old chap on an e-bike stopped for a chat and to check I was OK.  "Just having a second breakfast".

"Oh! You were up early then?... "

It was 6:55 and we were in the middle of nowhere.  I think we were all up early.

A fox, up early and hunting for birds on the wall.

When I told him I was going to Todmorden he checked I was taking the canal and nodded approvingly when I confirmed, then he walked on down the hill, "now he'd lost his momentum".

First stop was the pass under the M62 - threshold motorway crossing.  I realised I'd ignored my route yet again and stuck to the downward pointing farm track instead of labouring up a 30% grassy slope at the back of the farm that cut off a corner and led to the Pennine Bridleway.  The farmer was out exercising his dog by the river. 

I contemplated turning back but a) couldn't be arsed and b) decided it would be nice to see Hollingworth Lake in the daylight.  Last time I did the route I sat with some other BearBoners outside the pub and ate my dinner.  The campsite was full of tents and caravans but this time the water was flat and serene and there was no-one about but a few early morning joggers.  It was quite nice but next time it would be good to do the Pennine Bridleway a bit more and at any other time of day I'd take avoiding the crowds over anything else.

In Littleborough I admired the floral displays and little boats, all honouring the canal and the lake, then dropped onto the canal for the flatish trudge into Tod.  It's not that flat in that there are plenty of arch bridges and lock gate climbs to complete.  Again, it was still relatively quiet and passed quickly on what could have been a very busy day later on. 

If this is the Great Glen Way of the Northern Myth route then it knocks the socks off the Scottish version for scenery.

Before I knew it I was in Todmorden and feeling a little guilty about it being so easy along the canal but things were about to change. 

I photographed this massive wall because I found it amazing.  At the time I hadn't even noticed the beautiful clarity of the reflection.

When I plotted the route from the comfort of my sofa I threw an extra sting in the tail.  Rather than flipping on and off the road between Tod and Mytholmroyd, I added some extra off-roading to the North side of the Calder Valley.  Having remembered this, I started to doubt my ability to finish this ride within the day and suspected I'd be crawling out of my bivi on Monday morning to roll over the TPT into work.  That was OK though.

Street art, if you can ignore the union-jack flag-waving bullshit in the background.

Some of the route I had done before, and some of it was new to me.

The first climb out of Tod was definitely new.  Straight up the hillside on an old pony track.  It had me pushing from the bottom and even if I could have ridden it, physically, my tyres would have spun out on the slippery cobbles.  For every 2 steps up, I slid back half a step. 

It was worth it though.  I popped out of a woodland to a tiny fishing pond. A large tunnel tent was pitched there with one guy sitting outside, face to the sun.  We nodded in acknowledgement and I sat by the pond to indulge in third breakfast of the day.  A half cheese sandwich and the left-over onion Bhaji. Nom.  Tadpoles bounced off the shallows, desperate for their little legs to grow so they could get out of the water.

We carried on up to the top.  Somewhere along the way I remembered the route from before.  A climb up a hill that I ended up retracing last time and going around.  Either I'd forgotten to re-route it or the path's useage has genuinely changed over time.  Anyway, this time I persevered, ignoring an angry-looking mower-man who probably assumed I'd give up past his house and come whooshing back down.  He just made me more determined.

At the end of the lane I passed someone in a poncy SUV thing doing a 3 point turn and trundled past them calling, "thank you" as they waited for me to pass.

Sure enough there was a footpath sign at the bottom but I was committed.  I rode through hip high nettles and lifted the bike over a couple of narrow stiles and then joined the bridleway proper.  I must find out where it comes from.

On the moors, my Garmin started playing up.  It froze in the middle of a field so I really couldn't tell where the path was that I was supposed to be taking.  Eventually I gave up, saved my ride (thankfully it was on 99.2km, making for easy maths) and got the spare unit out of the bag.  This doesn't have OS Maps on but at least it's relatively reliable. 

The bad news was that after pushing through tussocky grass, I wasn't on the path and the path was on the other side of a wall with a barbed wire fence.  I found a low spot and lifted the bike over - getting good at this now.  The wall was too big so the bike was set down where it had to be - balanced precariously between the head tube and two spokes of the back wheel resting on a wooden post.  I followed and lifted my baby down.  We sheepishly acquired the track and the road.

Dropping into Hebden Bridge I knew it was time for 4th Breakfast.  Suddenly cyclists appeared from everywhere and one stuck to the back wheel of my bike as we descended the road.  He didn't see me looking left and right as we rode along the high street and clung to that wheel like it was his ticket to heaven.

Eventually I recognised a pub where I have seen hundreds of bikes lined up outside before.  There were people outside with drinks. I did a hasty hand signal to pull into the side of the road, only to hear a "Uh, oh, sorry" from behind.  Clearly someone was upset that his train was stopping and a little bit embarrassed about being such a wheel suck.  "It's ok", I said, "I was cafe-hunting".  He tootled off to do his own ride with a little wave.

As there were no other bikes about, I called out to the waiter if it was OK to park up and grab a seat.  "Sure, sit where you like".  I locked the bike to a barred window and took a large table next to it.  A face wash and a full camelbak from the bathrooms felt amazing.  Mashed avocado with spinach and tomatoes on toast was amazing.  Coffee and orange juice...you get the picture.

I considered a second round but it was a bit expensive and I had work to do.  I decided to replenish my supplies in the Co-op instead and leave the group of 8 who had just arrived to take over a second big table.

At the co-op, a young lad had been posted at the door to advise everyone they don't open until 11am.  It was 10:50.  It wasn't a race and it was a glorious day but I couldn't be arsed to stand about for 10 minutes so I started riding, figuring I'd get something in Mytholmroyd at 11:10.  I didn't stop.

Up on the moors above Mytholmroyd I enjoyed the views over Stoodley Pike - the way I'd come last time.  It's always busy up there on a nice day so I was glad I'd avoided it this time.

The next town was Ripponden where I was blasted at by boy racers who weren't going to let a bloody cyclist pass them on the downhills - despite the need to wait for their mates in other cars.  They then all blasted past me on the way up the other side of the hill - not that I was going fast up the 20% climb.  It was a short but horrible duration of road riding but soon over as I turned onto a tiny road that inched its way straight up the hillside before turning into a dirt trail.  Perfect.

Some bouncing about the edges of Huddersfield then over the Meltham where I had really started to think about the ride home and how many hills I had left to do. 

Last time I'd slept in a wood in Holme then climbed over to Meltham for breakfast but I couldn't for the life of me remember the climb between bed and breakfast, or what was after Holme.  I thought I'd passed a sign for Holmfirth... did that mean I'd passed Holme, I couldn't remember. 

I carried on the push out of Ripponden, rejoined the mother of all road climbs - which I remembered from the ride last time.  I'd been dreading it all day as it was a never-ending descent last time.  This time it went up and it would take me forever to climb and it would be hard.  Thankfully though, I'd re-routed around it and near half-way I turned off onto a nice flat byway which doubled-up as a farm track to a number of properties. 

Half way along, I realised I wasn't where I thought I was.  I was, in fact, only back at the M62.  I needed a rest. 

I sat on a wall, overlooking the valley and the reservoir dam at the head of the valley - over which the M62 makes its way.  It was far enough away that I didn't notice the traffic noise.  Instead, I dangled my feet over the edge and, after eating a sandwich and my remaining banana, gorged myself on sweeties that I'd packed for emergency measures late at night and actually, not yet touched.  There was a bit of a breeze and I was feeling fragile so I stuck my coat on and basked in the sunlight hitting the black fabric.

I got climbed on by an errant labrador and had a nice chat with its owner, a local structural engineer who laughingly told me about his dog's invasion of a neighbour's barbeque and how it regularly escapes.  I tried not to roll my eyes and was secretly jealous that he lives here.

The end of the bridleway met a B-road which crossed the M62 in a slightly less romantic format than my last visit but then on my last visit I spent a good 45 minutes trying to make this crossing work for me including some hike a bike through the undergrowth below the reservoir.  I was glad I stuck with the easier option although it would have been nicer to ride some of the lesser bridleways rather than the big byway I chose.

I now had the climb up the other side to do.  I could see the transmitter mast of Holme Firth to my right and decided it was definitely behind me.

Honley tower and Emley Moor

In my efforts to improve the off-roading on the route I zig zagged across the moors, constantly changing direction and perspective and confused myself.  Lovely river-crossings and reservoirs abounded between wide open byways, dodging transit vans towing trailers with diggers and families out for a walk.

I convinced myself I was on the last climb before the drop down to Dunsford Bridge and the TPT home and my spirits lifted a little - I was going to do this thing.

I reached an A-Road.  To my right was the summit - pretty much.  To my left was Meltham.  I could have ridden to the summit easily from here on an A-road then taken another A-road to get quickly home... but I hadn't come here to ride A-Roads. 

To the left, I could go to Meltham, turn off, follow the route along the bridleway and not only get home the nice way, but have a new route with less climbing AND drop into Dunsford Bridge.  Tempting as the easy life was, I selected my choice of following the route.  I just didn't realise how far down Meltham was.

I dropped into it like a stone, constantly expecting the bridleway to appear part way down the hill but it didn't.  I just kept going... a l l   t h e   w a y   d o w n.

Finally I turned off and rode the beautiful bridleway back up again as far as I could before getting off and starting to walk. 

Half way up the climb though, my body was flagging again.  I had to stop at a gate to hoof the thing open.  I shoved my bike through and it wobbled, I wobbled and we staggered across the grass.  I really needed a sit down.  I really needed a sleep.  So soon since the last sit down.

It was warm and sunny but a little breezy so I put my coat on again and lay down with the hood pulled over my eyes.  I think I actually drifted off for a bit before I heard footsteps on the path coming towards me.  I decided to wiggle my feet and fidget a bit so they would know I was still alive and not passed out.  They had a little laugh with me - they had been slightly alarmed. 

The coat was too hot so I took it off and lay back down as the grass shielded me adequately from whatever breeze was blowing.  I listened to the bees and ate more sweeties.  It was OK though, I was nearly home.

Finally, I felt well enough to move again and the rest had done me good.  I stomped to the top, got back on and rode to the summit.  There wasn't a great view from the top though, the message was: you've still got to get over Holme Moss.  This is not done yet.

I crossed the road, instantly knowing I was on the cart tracks down to Holme where I'd slept last time. It led down to Marsden where I flipped across the road before even considering food and set off back up the other side of the valley.  I just wanted to get home now.   I followed the reservoir road and again, the route took me up a Footpath and there were lots of walkers around.  Bollocks, hairy bollocks, how have I done this *again*?

It was too hot so I found myself a bench in the shade to have a think.  I dug out the original Garmin with the OS Maps on to find myself an alternative bridleway route out that didn't involve riding home on A-roads.  a bit of zooming revealed that in some point in the last 13 years, the route I had plotted had been a fully-fledged Byway.

I re-traced my tracks to the ominous looking fully welded bar gate with extra welded struts across it and gave it a shove.  It opened freely.  The route was clearly a pony-track - cobbled and wide enough to tow a cart up.  We set about the trudge.  Eventually it widened up into the Ramsden Road - which I would have reached had I just stayed on the reservoir road but there you go - that's what a sugar-free brain can do.  I rode bits, I pushed bits.  It was such a short part of my journey but it felt so epic.  It was already getting on for 6pm and so most of the people I had just seen were all heading home.  I had this place to myself again.

One thing was reassuring, in a few miles, I had to reach Dunsford Bridge.  I slogged on and took no prisoners on the descent.  I was starting to struggle to pedal and then, there it was - I've never been so happy to see a car park.  A couple of rides have ended at Dunsford bridge but this time I knew I had made it.  Dinner would be waiting at the other end of the TPT.

I almost skipped past a bloke with a touring bike, calling out, "I've made it!" as I bunny-hopped the metalled drain and stormed off down the 3% descent like the trains of yore.

The whole way home as per my previous post my backside and ankles ached and it was, I promise, a bit of a slog.  After a fair bit of walking the climbs on a big wide open smooth trail, I did my fastest descent out of Wharncliffe woods over the rocks and tree-roots because I wasn't using the brakes for anyone. 

The ride through the trees between Oughtibridge and Hillsborough was a joy in the lowering sun and even Hillsborough was obliging as no-one pissed me off which is good because I had neither the power or co-ordination to punch anyone in the face.  One close-pass on the A57 on the way to my house had me screaming "Thiiiiiirrrrrrrteeeeee" at the speeding driver as he roared by and then just to top it off a Transit van felt the need to pass me on the wrong side of the bollards just as I was turning off anyway.  Apparently he wasn't braking for anyone either.

Only 20ft up the steep road I waved for the oncoming motorist to proceed towards me because I was getting off to push.  I literally sauntered up the whole hill, stopping to rest from time to time.

Cy from Cotic was walking his dog down my street.  We had a very brief chat - I don't remember much except for the words "too long", "too hot" and "too hard".  I do remember telling him where I'd camped and he didn't sound impressed.  I'm not sure he knows where I'd been.  I'm sure he rushed home to look it up on the map.

Sure enough, when I got home the first word I heard was "Stew" and the first word I said was "yes".

I had the challenge of unpacking wet gear before showering - odd given the conditions but that's what you get when you camp on a moor after two weeks of rain.

As a 1.5 day trip it was simply wonderful and could only have been improved by some more icecream stops and a little more co-ordination on the footpath avoidance.

100% will do again.

Northern Myth - the Morning after

I have to be a little careful with my training plan about being complacent for long distance. 

In theory I should be consistent - steadily building up to big rides.  Nothing to put me off the plan, moderate weekends lead to successful weeks.  That's how I've been working...but this weekend I couldn't resist.

A brief window of good weather, an opening for my July bivi and a need to ride somewhere for a whole day.

Last weekend, a plan was hatched for a route I've been working on since last year.  I originally did it from work, finishing at home and stayed out for 2 nights.  This time I decided it was doable from home and back in with 1 night out and the same-ish distance.  In credit to me, where last time I left at 5pm, this time I left at 12 pm (lunchtime), so basically I have shaved 19 hours off the time it took to do.

Self-congratulations aside, that is not what this post is about.

Big rides on the mountain bike are big rides on the body.  They need accustoming to and that's not something I've been doing in my training plan to date.  Whilst I'm not going to go out there and ride a full 550mile week in training, 60-70 km isn't good enough either.  The last few weeks have shown that. 

My bivi rides have been short, my day rides have been short.  Punchy, but short.  So yesterday all my contact points with the bike were in trouble by 6:30 pm.  It didn't help that the last 25km are all on a railway line - so a long, slightly bumpy, sitting down slog. 

My ass hurt on the saddle, my ass hurt to get up off the saddle and my ass hurt to sit back down again.  This was slightly caused by it being at slightly at the wrong angle but also it's so very harsh and my bum has got so very soft.  Changing the angle on the saddle isn't easy with my bag in place so when the saddle clamp came loose at the top of Saddleworth moor in the dark, I merely tightened it and rode on what I'd got instead of twiddling about to get things right.  Perhaps that's what I should have done but it was soon bedtime and there wasn't really a problem until 19 hours later when things started to ache like hell.

My poor feet were suffering similar levels of hurt but for them there was no let up except for sitting on my sore arse and doing nothing with my feet.  My feet hurt when I stood, when I sat, when they were clipped in, when they were on the flat side of my pedal (in fact I found, surprisingly, they hurt more on the flats than they did in the clips). 

By the time I got into Wharncliffe Woods, I did most of the downhills sitting side-saddle on my bike with as little pressure on my feet as possible, which leads to the remaining contact point - hands / wrists.

Now I've got serious bling in the handlebar department so hands aren't ever really an issue for me so far and my wrists weren't screaming last night like everything else but this morning they ache and they're weak.  I also admit that yesterday evening my arms and upper body were getting ready for a big long rest.  On the railway trail I felt like ducking onto the aero position (except the ass wouldn't let me) and the closest respite I could manage was riding with the heels of my hand on the tips of the handlebars and my arms rotated outwards to get some respite from the normal pedalling position.  This worked but after only 189km, getting up today and doing it again?... not so sure. 

The only relief I can take is that, over the shorter distance, this ride is HARD.  It's not quite Peak 200 hard or BB200-2019 hard but it's still fucking hilly.  It doesn't quite have the bogs of the HT but it outstrips the elevation by 6m/km and due to Covid, there were probably as many rest stops as the average HT - one shop, one breakfast - the rest was carried.

So the point of this post is to remind me not to be complacent about the big ride. 

To update my plan for training this out because without the big ride I'm not going to finish. 

This thing isn't possible on some short, fast, hard, well thought out training rides - although they will hep, it needs big fat monsters in there to spoing my joints, batter my soft skin and harden my ligaments into something representing a distance machine. 

When I train my body changes shape.  Through lockdown my shoulders and  back have weakened through less mountain bike miles.  This morning I found dimples in my knees where muscles have tightened and maybe fat has gone from where it used to sit.  I don't know and I don't care how aesthetic it is, I only care if it makes me go further - and possibly a little faster. 

So there we are, reminder set down.  Reconfiguring the training plan is a tomorrow job for when the brain works.  Today, I have to sit at a desk and sound clever.

Pah!

Week 7 - Wood, trees, what?

8 weeks ago I realised I was in trouble.

The event I'd been training for, and everything else around it, was cancelled due to Covid.  Following a short recovery period of doing nothing, I was falling into bad habits, eating at my desk, not training and generally gaining weight and losing fitness fast.

I needed a plan.  The old plan (which went up to 25th May) went in the bin and I drafted a schedule to get me through to a rescheduled race (still on as far as we know), the 3 Peaks (now cancelled), the rest of the cyclocross season (tentatively cancelled), a race I couldn't ride before (but might be able to now) and a race I should have entered yesterday (but whose entries have now been delayed till later to see how it goes).  Finally, my plan came out of the other side of the 'cross season, into February, March, April and next year's May event. 

Pretty heavy stuff.

But damn it worked.  I've not stopped training.  It took me a while to get going and consequently I missed a few sessions.  That shows how much I had lost.  I was looking at this plan which seemed tame at the time and thinking, "How the hell did I use to manage this?"

After week 4 I had started to catch up on the sessions I'd missed which was really satisfying.  My approach of using short runs (strictly short) to keep running through my bike training meant that I could manage a 3.5km run and then a bike ride to catch up on something I'd missed.  When I finally did catch up, the feeling was amazing.  The sessions were just starting to get hard again and so keeping on top of them became essential - and I'm managing it. 

It makes me stop working at the right time.  It makes me get up early.  The benefits to my mental health contribute further to those associated with the exercise itself - which are already massive.

I occasionally am overwhelmed by the urge to tweet furiously about the benefits but fear it would just be boring to most - so it's retreated here, to my lair.  To what was - originally - purely intended as a training diary for me.

So be it daily, or weekly, I'll try and be here from time to time.

And this weeks thoughts - how is it Thursday already?

I was supposed to train on Monday but a bikepacking trip at the weekend took more out of me than expected - because I took all the things.  So I rested Monday instead and have been riding / running ever since.  That's all well and good but I still have an intervals session and a 6km run to do and my Parents are coming on Sunday for dad's Birthday so, I have to do Sunday's session on Saturday on a straight-through basis.

At least it's raining this morning so I can sit in a chair until it's stopped and I can climb on a bike this afternoon.  Again, an excellent excuse to stop working.

June Bivi

For some reason I missed all the good weather in June then made Mr Landslide go out on the worst weather night of the weekend to get our June BAM ticked.  What an evil woman I am.

A potter from home with my elected "other household" ride buddy, leaving about 6 and dawdling through rainbows and showers over to a local reservoir selected for sleeping and paddling potential.  I was worried about the proximity to town and beach capacity - given that I'd passed this spot on my road bike earlier in the week and its piles of rubbish (all neatly piled by the bins so, well done Sheffield).

At the reservoir we did a lap, sussing potential spots.  We bumped into some fell-runner mates of mine who knew *exactly* what was afoot .

Up at the carpark end, we met aforementioned teens.  Never have the words "its a bit manky" and "brrr it's effing freezing" been such music to my ears.

Landslide and I retraced our tyre tracks to the end of the res. and found a flat spot amongst the trees and irisis where the river levels had probably been higher in February.  We saw no further sightings of teens.  Brewed up dinner through showers under respective tarps then after we were convinced we'd have no more visitors, got the sleep kit out.

Every time it rained I worried we'd be washed away but eventually my brain got over itself and nodded off.  Up with the birds and porridge and coffee consumed before a pleasant ride over to Lodge Moor to drop off Landslide for childcare duties.  I visited the pole and the Mayfield valley on the way home.

Thoughts on finishing the Peak 200.

I woke up this morning, absolutely exhausted and thought, “How the fuk do I finish the highland trail when this is how I will feel at the end of day 1?"

This is almost a rhetorical question because most of my exhaustion from yesterday can be put down to the heat – and given current performance, there is little chance of heat exhaustion occurring when I turn up to actually race an event. 

Joking about the weather aside, I did at least realise that the main source of my exhaustion at that time was lying in bed with nothing to eat.

So despite my sore ankles, heavy calf muscles and aching wrists, I got out of bed and went to the loo where I realised that I should be congratulating myself on getting to the end of day 2 on the Highland trail as “yesterday” I rode over 235km and it was a 29.5hour day.

Still, I continued to contemplate all the people I know who have completed the Highland Trail.  How awesome you are (Alan – of course, Lee, Jennie, Ian, Karl, Sean, Javi, Dave, Rich and Tom, Martin, Clem… I could go on). 

I have a colleague at work who is a coach for a regional archery squad and close to the national team and he likes to try his skills out on me from time to time.  He likes to remind me that I’m pretty special too (but I’m too humble for that).  After I entertained him once with tales of my old Triathlon racing internationally and insisted that I still wasn’t that good he told me (in a nice way) to take a look at myself and what I just said. 

You too can be aero on a cyclo-cross bike
that just did 500 miles over the Rockies

In a way he was right and I fully appreciate what he was trying to do but I still maintain (with Triathlon in particular) that if I can do it anyone can – all you need to do with Triathlon is get reasonably fit, train with a modicum of effort in a semi-random way and then, most importantly, bother to fill in the form and have enough money and enthusiasm to travel to whatever championships you qualify for and spend exorbitant additional money on the kit and the race fee.  Tick – but there’s only so many times you get to milk this* cash cow.

I had a think about what I did yesterday.  There were so many times towards the end that I just packed up and went home.  It would have been an easy ride.  From 1:30 to 5pm, I did three small “loops” of my local playground before I finally turned for home.  I thought about all the time I could have saved here and there and it would be good if I paced it better and just, it’d be easier to come back and do it another time and then I realised that doing it another time might not be an option – so better to get it over and done with, having put the effort in so-far. 

Those last “loops” were so so painful.  I think every race has a hateful part – and in most cases it will be the end of the ride, regardless of your preferences for terrain and scenery.  For me, the end of this ride was atrocious – those same trails I know and love day in, day out – even finding some new ones didn’t help a bit.

So back to the Highland Trail.  I made my toast and a cup of tea and thought of the inconvenience of not having those recovery tools to hand in Scotland – just a packet of crisps and a bit of chocolate saved over from yesterday and some water from out of the stream. 

I thought of my mousing experience from Tuesday and was glad that in Scotland I will be carrying my superlight tent – that’s all that came from that. (also, I know from experience that the tent isn't completely mouse-proof).

My ankles have already stopped aching enough to walk mostly normally and my feet could see the inside of a pair of cycling shoes again, without flinching too badly.  As Lee said in joining the dots – I can’t walk today, but of course I can.

I remembered that not only did I ride day 2 of the “Highland Trail” yesterday, I also rode the last day – through the night to get back to the finish - give or take the 1.5 hour stop which mainly consisted of warming up again and eating a packet of Rolos… and it was easy! 

The pitch was easy, the sleep came easy, I woke up with the daylight – not the alarm - and I got easily back on my bike.

I contemplated a discussion I had last year about whether big rides were even an essential part of the Highland Trail training package and I think they still might be – for me at least. 

I’m still learning new things with every adventure I have – sometimes major, sometimes so minor as, it probably was worth popping home to get that extra light because riding in the dark would’ve been so much easier with it than without it… or maybe get myself a better headtorch as dedicated spare. 

I learned all these new things about the day after recovery and I think that I need to do the longer rides to get my joints and tendons ready for the strains of day-in-day-out riding again.  When I finished Ireland (after a brief rest) I was ready for more, not less.

So the plan for next year will get a little tweak - a good tweak - to stick me back in my comfort zone of being out, not in.  So when the "how the hell?" kicks in again, I will at least have an answer - just like you did last time.  And for that reason, I'm extremely glad I persevered with the Peak 200.

*me

The Peak 200 - finally dunnit

I signed up for the virtual highland trail but (unless they’re counting pathetic little runs), I hadn’t actually started it yet.  I’ve been thinking of riding the Peak200 as part of this week’s holiday but actually, putting off doing so until after the bank holiday weekend – just because I have an aversion to crowds, especially in the hills.

The two thoughts collided as I lay in bed on Saturday evening after a particularly lazy day.  

The Peak 200 would at least get me on the board in the virtual Highland Trail and the Sunday’s forecast was not set to be great but not dreadful either.  Overcast, some rain, some wind – perfect Highlands conditions.

I made my mind up but didn’t get out of bed to do anything about it so consequently it was a late start as I put all my devices on charge, took the van out for a run up and down the motorway to make sure its engine and battery were up to scratch after 8 weeks sitting still, just in case I decided I needed to be rescued… and then I loaded my bike with some emergency bivi stuff.

I spent a good half hour packing up all the sandwiches, crisps, chocolate, cereal bars and fruit I might need for 24+ hours in the outdoors, with refuelling stops likely to be shut or have long queues  outside.  For all that I meant to do this ride at race-weight (no excess clothes, no fuel or stove), I was a pretty hefty lump.  Homemade sandwiches don’t come in a convenient cardboard box to protect them until they’re eaten and you can dispose of later.  Homemade sandwiches will get the inside of your new rucsac completely disgusting given half a chance so I packed everything into a plastic box… then another as I made breakfast sandwiches and another as I packed a bunch of perishables like cheese and tomatoes.

When I’d ridden a good 6 of the 8km to my starting point, I suddenly realised I’d left my spare light on charge at home.  It’s non-essential but supplements my dynamo light when I’m not moving fast enough to get the dynamo light to work.  The headtorch I carry is extremely light and only really suitable for use in camp as it’s on a piece of paracord and is either unstable or uncomfortable.  Still, I decided an extra12k, the climb up the hill to home and the even later start was not worth the effort.

On the 8km out from home, I tightened pedal tension, straightened out my saddle after a bike-topple last week and texted TSK about the light situation. It was a faffy ride in but as I flew around the corner of Onkesley lane, I put the pedals down – literally it goes straight up hill - but then remembered to ease off as I had a long day or more ahead of me.

I generally tend to ride at around 10km/hr average and so technically the ride would take me 20 hours if I were fresh all the way around.  Plus stops – of which I was planning a limited amount means in theory I could be done within 24 hours plus slowing down time.  The BB200 took me 35 hours including a 6 hour sleep and a lot of dicking around with brews, camp food and café stops.

Past the barky dog who was out for the first time since lockdown and some other people walking dogs.  As they started fighting amongst themselves, I rode away – dog fights, one of the few things that always reminds me why I don’t have a dog anymore.  On the top road, the dog walkers caught me up again as I changed my clothing choices.  The dog was fine.  The forecast rain was a little late and it was pretty chilly up on the top road of Rod Moor.  It was the kind of wet air that you can hardly notice but tends to accumulate and won’t dry out too quickly.  I decided I didn’t need it on the descent to the Ladybower.  I put my waterproof coat on and cursed myself for not packing baggy shorts to just add a layer of warmth to thighs and knees.

Going over Ladybower was enjoyable.  I got off and walked when the going got tough instead of trying to power up stuff for training.  I was in the long game and I like the long game.  I rode across the new trails smoothly, picking the best lines for once instead of upping my boulder-hopping game.  I descended past the cutest daschund, complimenting its owners on their dashing hound before dropping into the stone bivi hut for my first lunch.  The more of this backpack I can eat, the better.

As a pleasant surprise, the next mountain biker around the corner was Colin Papworth, a friendly podiatrist who has, in the past, been a big part of my Triathlon life as he fixed up my feet so I can actually run a marathon.  He was riding a new Sonder and we had a good chat about challenges ahead.  I told him I’d probably forget him in this post so I’m quite proud I still remembered.

Colin went on his way and I finished eating as much weight as I could manage then packed my waterproof away again before heading over to the other side of the hill to Ladybower reservoir.  The crowds were massive here but everyone was friendly and in a good mood.  I dreaded the dam crossing but everyone stepped to the side to distance and all went well.  

I nearly wore the bell out on the traverse of the Southern edge but people thinned out as I climbed up the hillside through the trees towards Win Hill.  Finally I felt there was enough separation for me to leave my bike in a ditch and hide behind a tree for a pee.  Cue appearance of a dad and his 3 sons who had to stop and have a faff metres from me before heading off down their downhill lines all of which overlooked my pee spot.  I just about maintained some decorum whilst sitting in the pine needles with my bum exposed but didn’t half find it difficult to “go” after that!  Guys, if ever you find a bike lying in a ditch on its own, move on please, move on.

The pine needles I picked up were to become ingrained in my skin over the next 20 hours. 

So, on to the final push up to the top and over to the Hope valley side before the long, laboured Hike-a-Bike up to near the top of Win Hill (most PRoW up there are footpaths so there is some sketchy transfer of bikes between Bridleways to get elevation and transfer from one path to the other).  My bike was heavy, I had to put it down several times then haul it around me and put it back down in the heather, just to get elevation when I couldn’t carry it any more.  That’s the weight training wearing off through Lockdown.  

Finally I hit the second bridleway and dropped down into Aston then Thornhill and then on to the climb up towards Shatton.  Steady grind – remember the end game – but I couldn’t be bothered to get off and walk so twiddled a tiny gear to the top.  A couple on e-bikes dinged their bell and I took the less steep outside line on the bend to allow them to undertake me and got a “Brilliant effort” from the bloke on his way past.  Nice.

I love the drop down to Bradwell and I love it even more on my new bike.  Last time I was here was just after the floods and half of the descent was closed so I had to walk EmVee down a footpath. This time we had a clear run at it.  I had to finesse the last steep bit as a family sat and watched.  (secretly, I metaphorically pooped myself a bit).

After my lunch it had started to niggle with me a bit that I might not have enough calories on board to last me through the day. I’d saved a sandwich for Monday lunch if I needed it and it suddenly started to dawn on me that there wasn’t an “if” in there.  I was still going to be out for Monday lunch – or at least a second breakfast.  Besides, I didn’t fancy more beef sandwiches straight away and so I popped into the infamous Bradwell Co-op to get something different for my second-lunch and some additional supplies for the rest of the ride. 

If you’ve missed the news, Bradwell residents have been particularly shouty about scum from Sheffield coming to ride two-wheeled contraptions through their village during lockdown.  There were no angry villagers around – in fact there was no-one else in there and I realised that it was 3pm and the sandwich shelves had been stripped almost bare already.  

I had a sausage roll (win win) and staggered to the till with an arm full of sweets, a sweet sugary drink, a bottle of chocolate milk and some more chocolate for good measure… oh and some Soreen.

Having shoved it all in my rucsac (now even more bulging), I felt like I’d overdone it so set about drinking both the fizzy sugary drink AND the chocolate milk as well as eating the sausage roll and the Soreen.  I hoped the chocolate wouldn’t melt and looked forward to the sweets overnight.

The Old Mam Tor Road from above.

From Bradwell it’s back towards Edale via an ascent of Mam Tor old road where more folk were enjoying the sunshine responsibly.  I passed over the top of the Mam Nick road then flung off to the downhill to the road where last time there had been an Indian wedding at one of the houses, the marqee throwing out sounds from Bollywood and glorious colours of silk flowed through the garden.  

This time it was just the flow of tyres on gritstone with the occasional squelch from my forks where I got it wrong and trying not to vomit chocolate milk mixed with sweet, fizzy drink.

Last time, I turned for Edale to fuel-up at the café.  Last time some other bikers warned me of the rain to come but I continued regardless then bailed when I remembered I didn’t have any waterproofs with me.

This time I didn’t bother with Edale, I just set off up the road to the next turn-off – a lovely little path that makes its way up the side of the valley at the perfect rideable steepness, just avoiding all of the houses and farms.  It is the perfect off-road alternative which then turns into the crossroads that leads to the rest of the route.  Two lads passed me on full sussers as I bounced my way over the rocks / fell off then waited for me at the top to see which way I was going so they could get the gate.  It was nice but I was going the “other way”.  No-one is ever going the “other” way at 5pm – the way that leads to more – the way that leads to the potatoes.

Potato Alley is a descent of around 150m which leads to the bottom of the Ladybower valley and the A57.  The only place to go is Manchester or the Derwent valley with the associated consequences of then having to get back out and go somewhere else on top.  That’s why not many people are heading down potato alley at gone 5pm.  I always know I’m on an adventure when descending Potato Alley late.  Last time EmVee through me off a steep bank on Potato Alley.  I know you shouldn’t have favourites but Sunshine delivered me safely to the bottom in one piece with a PB and a smile on my face.

I picked up a couple of sheep as sweepers at the bottom.  Without causing a massive stampede or worrying pregnant animals, I generally don’t tend to change my riding style around sheep.  They will do what they do regardless of how much time you take, how careful you are, which way you shoo – or not.  So I carried on riding.  I tried stopping – that didn’t work. The little lamb was clever.  The little lamb wanted to run off the road but every time it left its mother’s side she would barge it back into the road or bleat so that it followed her back into the road.  

As we approached the busy A57, I backed off completely but there was nothing to be done.  She’d either stand in the road and stare or run along the road ahead of me.  Even when I stopped, they started walking towards the road until eventually they were stuck between the road and me.  I didn’t move.  They stopped, looked, listened, looked again and then crossed safely.  Fuckers.  Crazy, clever fucking fuckers.  I crossed the road too and together we climbed all the way up the hill.  

It seemed they were local.  The sheep in the field above the A57 bleated back in recognition until we all reached the farm, complete with the rest of the herd on the other side of the fence.  The Ewe and her lamb wandered nonchalantly into the yard at the house and demanded attention in order to dob us in.  I climbed on up the hill assuming my role as a shepherd was done here.

The sheep above were more sophisticated.

I was rewarded with a solo ascent to the top of Hagg Hill and a clean descent down the other side to an empty Derwent reservoir for the second time that day.  Finally I had the place to myself.  

As I rode down the road I placed a hand under my rucksac and jiggled about.  There was still plenty of water sloshing around in there so I didn’t need to divert to Fairholmes to fill up.  I didn’t want to if I didn’t need to – I had a long climb ahead of me and the less weight the better.  

I thought about my lighting situation – I didn’t want to be on Cut Gate in the dark, picking across the bog with a mediocre dynamo light so it was good that I was there before 8pm – but I did start to get a move on.  The ride along the valley side was pleasant with the occasional walker still out.  Up at the top a couple tented at the conflagration of two rivers asked me if I was out for a bivi, “Yes, somewhere, maybe” was my answer.  We could have continued a conversation for longer but by now I had an eye on the clock and eye on the light.  If anyone is reading this and recognises themselves, sorry I didn’t stop to chat.

I climbed up as the sun went down.  Had I been out for fun, I might have bivied up there and watched the sunset and climbed over the top for the sunrise but I wasn’t nearly tired enough.  The usual swimming-pool sized puddles were absent, replaced with dry, dusty pits.  Quite literally perfect conditions.  Places where people have scrambled up the peat walls to avoid a drowning have become unused because passage across the ocean-beds is now possible.  

Sunset hues on Cut Gate

 

Emley Moor and Wind Turbines in the twilight

I took the descent on the other side a little cautiously as the light faded and I knew I’d be completely alone if anything happened.  Before I knew it though I was at the last, rocky descent which I cleared for the first time ever thanks to the new bike and dropper post, again.  Also, a complete lack of other people to point and laugh does wonders for confidence.

Through the trees and out to the Woodhead road crossing then over to the Trans-pennine Trail.  On my way an owl furled around in the sky above the fields and I heard its young calling from a nearby tree.  I added my fleece layer and leg warmers as I’d started to shiver on the descent and the Trans-pennine Trail isn’t steep enough to stimulate much increased energy levels but climbs ever higher in elevation up towards colder air.

I took great pleasure in flying past the bus stop where so many long rides have ended in a reluctance to leave that bus stop and go back out there.  Beyond this point I had merged the most technically challenging section of the ride to the longest out-and-back section of the ride and I felt like there wasn’t any stopping me now.  

Over to the Woodhead Road again – on the other side of the hill.  The Trans-Pennine crosses it a few times on its way down to Glossop.  Earlier in the day, I’d driven past the motorway signs that indicated the Woodhead road would be subject to Night Closures over the coming weeks.  It always makes me think of the BeeGees “Night Fever” and I sing “Night Closures, Night Closures” at the signs in a silly, high-pitched voice.  At the time, I hadn’t realised the consequences but now, every time I came to a road crossing I could see for miles that nothing was coming and happily sailed across every one without having to stop.  Pure bliss.

Sheep scattered, bunnies hopped, lapwings whirled and Peewitted, curlings mewed into the darkness.  The dynamo blazed bright as I dropped downhill.  I stopped above Crowden Reservoir to sit on a bench, eat some more food and put my gloves and an extra layer back on.  I took off my shoes to rest my feet.  As I stayed longer, clothing turned into adding a fleece along with my waterproofs.  Putting shoes back on, the inside of my left shoe felt like it was engrained with sand – or cat’s’claws – and I couldn’t face sinking my feet into it.  I checked with my hands and yes, the fabric was very prickly.  Why I haven’t noticed this before, I do not know.  I took the wrapper of a chocolate bar I’d eaten and used it as a barrier against the prickle.  Totally worked and I was especially proud of myself, even if I did rattle from time to time for the next 10 hours.

The continuing descent took its toll on my body temperature but I was OK.  I shivered my way into Glossop and thanked fuck I didn’t try this last year when I was soaked to the skin.

The route merely skims the edge of Glossop and there weren’t any refuelling opportunities in Hatfield. It was 11pm by the time I got there and everywhere was shut. I was thankful I’d taken the opportunity in Bradwell.  In Charlesworth I had my first walk up a road climb. I needed the waterproofs for warmth on downhills and exposed moorland but they were too sweaty to make an effort in.  Eventually I gave up on gloves, my hands were so hot, and stuffed them into a food pouch for later.

I don’t really know where I am when it comes to a lot of the bridleways around there, I simply recognise gates or particular features or road signs.  I remembered Littern Pike for a couple sunbathing inappropriately on a hot sunny day and the non-parking space sign at the bottom of the hill, “Please don’t park close to the edge, the last car that was parked here is still missing”.  I ignored the request for cyclists to dismount for the steep hill and then worried when my brakes made a complaining little squeaking noise after I’d let them off.  Nothing came of it, thankfully.

Above Charlesworth, I took my turn onto (what I thought was) the bridleway only to find myself faced by a Range Rover parked right across the gateway.  Thinking a farmer had just dumped his vehicle inconveniently, I continued to walk by until the engine fired and the vehicle started to move slowly yet ominously straight at me!   I hopped off sharpish onto the steep banking alongside, pulling Sunshine up behind me as the vehicle rolled passed, driven by a young guy in a teeshirt.  The odour of weed poured out the cracked window.  Whatevvs… but don’t drive me over chick!

Through the gate, after a while, the Garmin chimed to tell me I’d gone the wrong way so I had to retrace to find the bridleway proper, heart in mouth that wasn’t where my friend had gone to finish off his joint or worse.

I know there are bits that TSK and I did before on this route and I only recognise them by the wheel ruts and pedal strikes.  They all came and went in the darkness to the same amount of swearing as before – but more so in low light conditions.

I tried wearing my head torch on my helmet but it just didn’t work comfortably.  I tried wearing it around my neck (as it’s designed to do, and works pretty well in camp) but the shadows just moved as I moved on the bike, distracting me from my view of the line and giving me a sea-sick sense of balance for where me and the bike were going.  The downhills were fine – once the Dynamo was up to brightness - but the uphills were going oh-so-slow.  I could just about ride stuff but only with the headtorch on full beam and I didn’t want to completely kill the only light I had available for emergencies / a bivi pitch later.

For mile after mile I just endured the route – not really having much to look at except the moorland passing in front of my tyres and startled sheep.  Manchester put on a show from a distance in one of those, “Bloody hell, I can see my parent’s house from here” moments of “I am actually closer to them than I have been since Mothers’ day when I accidentally* bumped into them the weekend before lockdown started”.


*no, really.

I kind of made a plan to stop somewhere on my own territory. Somewhere that I at least knew where I was.  There’s no logic to that except for knowing that there’s not a better spot just around the corner.  If I’d got sleepy sooner, I would have stopped sooner but as it is, given all the rest days I’ve had recently, I didn’t get the overwhelming fatiguing urge to stop that comes from a long ride that immediately follows a hard week at work or a long journey to get to the start of an event.

When the bright lights of the quarries around the industrial side of Stanton in the Peak started to hum in the darkness, the lights of their 24-hour operations reflecting off the limestone they mill, I knew I was back on home ground.  The random bridleway signs became Pennine Bridle Way specific and I passed the pub that I’ve inevitably stopped at for dinner more than once on a long ride based loosely on this route.  It was all closed for the Covid, its campsite empty of partying stag-nights and children running feral, up past their bedtimes on family weekends away.

I’d thought about bivvying at Parsley Haigh as Landslide had mentioned it on Thursday when we went out.   I couldn’t remember how far it was from this pub to Parsley Haigh. Unfortunately a map check revealed it to be too far away to be in contention.  What was nearby was a big oak tree near Rushup edge that I’ve had my eye on ever since my first recce of this route in 2017 before the Torino Nice Rally.  Anything better en route would be an acceptable alternative.  

I carried on my merry way, chucking Sunshine down anything that the Peak threw at us – mostly with a successful level of gusto yet occasionally I would forget I have a dropper post and become lodged over the edge of a big drop whilst I sorted out my balance and got off and walked.

Finally, a descent I recognised (in the dark) and we bounced down the steps like Tigger on speed to the gate at the bottom which separates two land-owners and two field systems.  Through the gate, I remembered the stream – ridden through and walked through when too high for me to have the confidence in my old wheels.  I skittered through it on the bike.  It was no more than 3cm deep and 24 inch across, although a little slippery on the bottom.  

There’s a second gate but the place spoke to me – another of my “on the list” bivi spots and here I was at the right time and in the right frame of mind.  It wasn’t so much that I was sleepy (though I was ready to sleep) but more that I was hungry and knew that in my wet and sweaty state, as soon as I stopped I’d start shivering with cold.  I’d been supping heavy amounts of water for hours to sate the sweat but had eaten no food to replace the electrolytes so was feeling washed out as well as a little hungry.  The fact I was still guzzling water after 15 hours riding is testament to the weight I carried out the door when I left the house.

A quick check for civilisation – what was I doing?  It was 3am! Still, coast clear.  The worst thing was, it was between two streams which were emitting an air of cold but to be honest, everywhere was starting to emit and air of cold so it would do.  Three sides of a dry stone wall meant it was totally sheltered from any breeze and I had running water should I mysteriously run out and need a top up.

The mat went up inside the bivi, quilt out and fluffed.  I got quickly (very quickly) changed into dry baselayers then sat in the bag and ate some more beef sandwich before I realised I was putting paid to my lunch for tomorrow – should I still be out at that point.

The chilly air got the better of me and I lay down to get the mat’s insulation on to my back.

For all that it had been cold, it turned out to be the perfect bivi spot.  I warmed up pretty quickly in my bag.  The Rolos I’d bought in Bradwell for dinner desert softened up nicely and I lay on my back looking at the outline of a large Oak, the Plough constellation underlined with dry stone walls and the rise and fall of the moorland… and popped one chocolate covered caramel after another until they were all gone.

I quickly fell asleep. No rustling, no mice, no beasties, no surprises.  Well, one.  1hour, 20 minutes later, I woke up to a grading of colour in the landscape and a meadowlark sitting on the wall for an alarm clock.  I hit the snooze button on my brain only to be woken up 10 minutes later by my actual alarm.  I felt reasonably refreshed and OK about leaving – best bivi “night” yet at only 90 minutes.

It was still quite chilly and had got cold in my bag – unless I lay a certain position – a position which had already got uncomfortable- so I packed up.  I can easily say that getting dressed inside a bivi bag is easily the best warm-up exercise I have done.  Without much time to dry out my damp, sweaty clothes, I took to rubbing them vigorously to get the fabric warm before putting them on.  To get my feet warm I put my damp socks underneath my sleeping socks as it was just a one-night trip.  I also put my damp shorts on over the top of the leggings and wool top I’d been wearing so no heat loss there.  I was packed up and ready to move within 30 minutes.  A bit of a record and as I climbed out of the stream bed, a nice uphill to warm up on.  

Sunrise.

About half a kilometre along the trail, the big oak tree came into view.  The sunrise, now developed a little further, was warming the spot with a pink-purple glow, absolutely beautiful.  Though to temper my regret at not continuing that bit further last night, a lamb decided that I was definitely its mummy and proceeded to run along with me bleating.  That attracted the attention of other ewes… and their lambs and soon I was being followed across the hillside by a small flock, all demanding… who knows what?  Given my Welsh Ride Thing experience from this time last year, I think I picked the best bivi spot in the end.

Now the sun was up I could enjoy the glorious technicolour of Rushup Edge before heading out to Peak Forest.  It was still oh-so-cold and little patches of valley fog weren’t helping.  Watching a foal chase three calves around a field helped much more. Watching two leverets playing in a field helped a lot.  Then I plunged into the darkness of the White peak Dales where I did a little lap up and down a hill trying to figure out if there really is a quick route onto the Monsal Trail or if I really do need to drop all the way to the bottom and ride back up again (there isn’t).  At the station, I was relieved to find the toilets open and I piled in to re-fill my Camelbak for the day ahead.  Although I’d not completely run out, there was about an ounce of water left.  The café looked like it has the facilities in place to re-open too but it was only 6am – so no luck on the coffee front.

I sat on a picnic bench and ate my peanut butter sandwiches and any other savoury food that was left, saving my remaining sweeties and biscuits for the rest of the morning.  I couldn’t remember exactly how I get from Millers Dale back to Sheffield and hadn’t done any time analysis but all I needed was enough to last my 24 hour timescale – so one more breakfast then.

Back on the bike and I did the math.  Hm, 4 hours to do 55km.  Arse.  There wasn’t a chance I was going to speed up, no matter how many long railway trails I had left to ride – I started to let the 24 hour dream go.

The tunnels hurt my cold.  I set off riding with my synthetic down coat on and out of the sun I was cold.  I positively shivered through the tunnels and didn’t warm up enough to remove my down layer until I got into a flow.  I kept the fleece on till I reached Gratton Dale – where the long stretches of railway trail finally turn into something with a bit more oomph. 

The baby’s head boulders didn’t really bother the bike – unless someone has been tidying up down there?  The line I usually miss into the valley bottom was actually spotted this time before I overshot it and even the nasty bumpy bit at the end was a complete pleasure as the usual peanut butter mud was now nicely crusty – although still pocked with horse hoof-prints.  

A couple hiking in teeshirts, sunhats and shorts reminded me I really should lose the extra layers and knee-warmers but I didn’t want to stop really until my hopes of 24 hours were truly dead and I was ready to add some sunscreen.

After my bail-out point last year where I ended up sleeping in a bus stop in Baslow completely fatigued from trying to find a perfectly obvious path in a field, I was a bit dubious about the section between Youlegreave and the “finish” for me.  I never have ridden the path in the field and at the end of the route, I just kind of assumed I went up Stanage and then home, but how to get from Baslow to Stanage???

On this day, the path in the field was just fine and obvious in the day light, as it had been on Google Maps after my last ride when I looked with incredulity at my squiggles in a field. 

Further route-finding chaos laid ahead though as I selected the wrong path out of a thicket and only realised when I rejoined the path I should've been on.  The little angel on my shoulder whispered that I should follow the route at all times.

The devil on the other shoulder said, "play dumb, the route-checker won't notice".

The Angel said, "we might not fucking be coming back to do this again, do it right soldier".

The devil sulked then said, "Anyway the time limit is 24 hours and you're going to miss that so we might as well just go home"

and the angel said, "no it's not"

and the devil said "yes it is"

so we sat on the grass and got the phone out and used some data to google Peak 200 ITT and that shut up the devil so I went back down the hill and rode up the right path before carrying on.


Through the next gate and all was forgotten.  The route through the woods above Chatsworth is my absolute favourite woodland path.  I think there is magic in those woods.  Sadly, it was not worth visiting the excellent café in Edensor as it would have been either closed or packed.

 

I was beeped at for riding out in the road after Chatsworth.  As a notoriously bad road, I adopt a position in the road which makes drivers think twice about passing me – and if they do decide to squeeze past, I have somewhere to go to save myself.  Whilst this guy did feel it unsafe to pass me on a blind corner, obviously that was my fault for being too far out in the road.  He had the decency to beep at me from behind so I had the wonderful opportunity to firmly show him two fingers.  When he finally did pass I hissed, “I’m looking after my safety, what are you doing?” through his open side window.

The brake lights came on, though presumably he thought better of it given the number of other people waiting patiently behind me or the very camera-esque light fitting on the front of my bike.  The next driver waited patiently, then on an open stretch of road drew up alongside with the window down while his passenger asked if I was OK.  There are lots of good people in this world.

Baslow was decidedly busy so I opted not to get any food – only Stanage and home to go right?

I climbed up the hill to Curbar – Not Stanage - stopping half way up to consume most of my remaining sweeties and half of yesterday’s beef sandwich.  Still, not far to go.  Curbar was also busy.  

Presumably, if I’d been on cue for my 24 hours, I would have been here at, like 9am, in the quiet, but at least there was still enough room to ride and distance from the hordes going to stare off the edge. 

On my way up I was passed by a skinny middle aged bloke on a full susser.  Cheap looking bike and the fella looked more like a fell runner than a rider.  The rather round woman walking down the hill assumed we were together and joked “I was just saying to my daughter, I’d be the one like you”.  Instead of sarcastically saying, “COOOL, you rode 135km yesterday too!” I kept my gob shut and smiled.  I hope you’re proud of me internet.

At the top of the climb the bloke was stood on the grass with his poor bike upside down.  I checked to see if he had everything he needed and he responded with, "I've got a flat".  It sounds terribly selfish but the clock was ticking so I took that to mean he had everything he needed (and more) and continued on my way, leaving him to tip his bike up the right way and start hitting the quick release to get it to undo.

At the end of the cliffs, there was an ice cream van selling hundreds and hundreds of ice creams  (mainly to cyclists) but I didn’t bother – only Stanage to go and then home.

I turned left and then right onto a trail I only discovered last week (I’d been riding on the footpath instead and only realised last week that I had it wrong – woops).  It’s a lovely trail and the *actual* bridleway takes in a small woodland with a reliable stream running through it.  Where, last week, I stepped carefully from stone to stone, this time I stomped through the puddles and ground my cleats into the mud, hoping desperately that the cool moisture would seep through to my sore, hot feet.  

I found a nice tree to lean my bike against and opened my frame bag to pack away my fleece and wool top and pull out my thin, air holed, Norton Wheelers jersey.  The dry bag is, unbeknownst to me, a pretty good heat reflector and the jersey was wonderfully cold, still soaked with yesterday evening’s sweat and nicely chilled to a very cool temperature.  I stank to high heaven but was completely happy.  I slathered some sunscreen over my exposed forearms and removed my knee-warmers now that I was taking the time out to do suncream and could protect my leg skin (I might have got sunburn 2 weeks ago that’s still healing).  With the 24 hour limit gone, I could afford a bit of skin safety.

When I got up to leave, the Garmin had that annoying flashy “?” on the screen that says, “GPS doesn’t really have a fucking clue where you are but will this do?”

Given that this track would be my proof that I did the ride, I needed to know it was good.  I hiked out of the trees to get reception, to no avail.  I checked the battery – 53%.  I started the alternate Garmin to load the route and started my watch GPS so I could start riding whilst the new Garmin recalculated.  The watch still had a bloody big think about finding satellites.


By the time I got to the Fox Hill road, the new Garmin couldn’t decide which way the route was going but the old one finally had us on-screen.  Deciding it was a battery issue, but I was close enough to home to capture both routes, I left two Garmins to record but put my main one onto battery charge, just showing the route on screen so I could navigate by it.

I turned left.  The Garmin said Right.  Fuck? What?

Cue: lots of zooming, scrolling, screen swiping.  Oh yeah!  The loops.  Bollocks.

Now: had I thought about this, I should have bought ice cream.  But no.  

I bombed off down the road to a turning onto a track I’d not ridden before.  I should have been relishing the opportunity to learn something new in my own back yard.  I don’t really get over Ian’s side of town so their trails are a bit of a mystery to me.  Instead I was annoyed I had to start doing laps of my garden at the end of a particularly difficult marathon.  


The sun was shining but in my head it was raining.  The loops are a part of the ride and to be honest, they’re quite a nice part but when I did my reccie last year, I gave up on them and went home when instead I should have been out there, finding out what they do and where they go.  I put it on a to-do list somewhere and never did it.

The Garmin sent my little Virtual Partner blokey off down the trail ahead and showed that I was right on its tail.  So I turned.  The sign on the path said, “Footpath” but there are a lot of permissive bridleways around these parts so I thought it might be one I don’t know about.  It wasn’t that kind of terrain though and I soon started to drown in heather.  The Garmin had changed its mind and now I had to back-track.  The Garmin went in the bag.  Stupid fucking Garmin.

Back onto the road and took the next turning which, although more accessible and bridlepath-like was still pathetically un-rideable for my weak legs.  Cue a period of wandering around the moors with my bike and a bunch of teenagers.  Where usually speakers playing music in the outdoors does my head in like you wouldn’t believe, I found a bit of Dance was exactly what I was in the mood for (yes my Eastern Moors Teens were playing 90’s retro).

Up towards Houndkirk, a poor dad who had been mithered to take out his son’s bike was refusing to push the bike up the hill – making the son do it himself.  It turned into a race game which, I confess, I let the boy win – but only just because I am a nice person.  Having reached the finish line, I just about managed to get back on my bike and ride off to do my loop of Lady Canning’s Plantation, relieved that the route only made me go down the kiddies’ run in front of 16 young men, 4 dads and 12 children… whilst rocking full bikepacking bags and crazy-old-lady-hair.

And that was when the water ran out… but never mind, I only have to get away from Houndkirk and then it’s just Stanage right? NO???

Down there??????

As I got to the bottom of the Dale, passing a couple I announced, “I’m verrrry tired, this might be funny”.  Still: I nailed it (it's all the bike), rode out, back up the climb. Please oh god oh god oh god, just Stanage right?

There was no ice cream van at Stanage to scavenge a drink from, never mind an ice cream.  Still, I’d saved emergency measures – about 125ml of home water (none of that skanky tasteless limestone stuff from Millers’ Dale station).  I sat under the only tree casting a shadow at the plantation below the Causeway and downed the entire thing then ate the remainder of the chocolate bar I’d taken from home.  I had officially drunk all water and consumed every calorie I had brought or bought on the trip.  It just about worked.

I rode about 2/3 of the way up the Causeway then the enthusiasm just waned and I walked the rest.  At the top, walkers swayed off their socially distanced line to accommodate my wobbling progress over the stones and then finally, that was the top of the last climb.  A Monday Pole to mark the almost completion (bar the descent)…I took a picture of myself but the grin is screen-splitting so not sharing.

I opened it up on the downhills.  Sprinting for the line – you can’t beat it.  Most people that were still out were somewhere else enjoying the sun, not walking in the woods so I had a relatively clear line to the finish, the tiny incline to the A57 was suddenly no bar to my enthusiasm and I set off at full tilt down the A57 to Onkersley Lane.  

I flipped up the hill to cross my own start-line and considered getting off for a finishers selfie but was too interested in eating some more and getting a drink of water and not causing offence to the residents by flaking out on their driveways in a sweaty mess so I just did a U-turn and continued my down hill trajectory to home, toast, tea and a nice, long bath to soak the pine needles away.


Distance: 237.8 (including from/to)
Elevation: 5554m
Time: Around 29.5 hours (Subject to confirmation).