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.

Ice Crystals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

• • •

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

 

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

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

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

• • •

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

Landslide beamed with happiness.

 

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

"Nope just practising."

Practising is a superior response to "training"

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

• • •

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of the worst kind of effort, and the best kind of effort.

Saturday 14th was a fixing day I bought stuff off the internet I really do want then loaded the bike, changed its saddle but all that reminded me I still need to change my brake hose to stop frame scuff and I got too comfy and didn't ride. I ran instead. I ran 40 minutes and achieved what 2 hours on the bike would do.

I didn't have an amazing time or any profound revelations. I followed my head torch beams, dodged tonnes of dog walkers and trudged through. I walked up some of the hills, particularly the steep slimy one. Eventually my body settled into a groove that did keep running and then I was back, damp in my coat and a bit sweaty.

The best part was the gratifying shower - physically. Mentally, I was encouraged by achieving 2 runs  of around 5km each in the week... as well as everything else.

I learned last night that if I am to reach 5k I have to follow the bridleway all the way up to the top road + drop back down to get the extra distance in. I wasn't peeved that I didn't last night, but now I know, it's another stepping stone to my 2x 5k. I'm so keen to start including the big Byway but I have to increment towards it, not just sacrifice the bike to running.

 

I ordered my hydro dry lights this week from Spain, no less, so lets see how those improve my wintry motivations.

On Sunday the weather was mercifully clear. I read an article about the benefits of dropping the big ambitions and focusing instead on the small, incremental daily habits that will stick, leading ironically to future endeavours going better. On that theme I went out for a better than nothing Sunday ride which turned out to be a pleasant zip over to the Bradfield side of the valley.

The sunset through just-enough-cloud to keep it atmospheric, though not enough to just make it grey. I left late so I sneaked home under dark. Nothing really hurt, I was just generically tired.

Tired enough to have Monday off? I did, but it felt like a bit of a mistake. My work day was stressful on my pm Q course and I struggled to sleep. Clearly I needed to tire myself out more often.

As the course went on through the week, I stuck to daily exercise but it dwindled from following my plan to surviving the course through stress relief... all of which worked but the entire process has left me feeling exhausted this weekend.  Today, I sat a mock exam and that was it.  Tomorrow I type like my life depends on it and hope for the best.

This morning I ran

 This feels like an understatement.

It took a lot to do this run.  I've been trying to get up in time to run for days.  It has been two since I've done any exercise.  I've been recovering hard, apparently.  I also lifted some weights on Tuesday evening in an effort to improve my strength but ironically pulled an interstitial  muscle in my back rendering me a little feeble, to say the least.

This morning, I still wasn't really up early enough but I needed to do something.  TSK has been waiting (inadvertently or otherwise) for me to get up before he comes to bed, either so he doesn't wake me or just because he falls asleep in the rocking chair downstairs before he even makes it up to bed.  That was exactly where I found him this morning.  I kissed him then sent him to bed.

I ate my breakfast then stared at the pile of clothes next to me.

I didn't feel like being cold.  I selected a pair of cotton leggings to wear underneath my hiking trousers and started dressing for a nice walk but once the leggings were on, an appropriate running bra came to hand and enough layers to keep me warm but not too warm.  I actually felt like it.

I walked down the hill to let satellites amass then started the watch and plodded along the river.  It had a similar feel to my first bike ride - a little clumsy, a little flat footed but entirely liberating.  I didn't even care that I couldn't keep up with a vegan runner.  I enthusiastically selected the rougher trail that ends in certain wet feet as the river was high and the stepping stones are low.  Sure enough, water leached into my left shoe as I plodded along, spent pack of Ibuprofen in hand to dispose of in the bin.  

I continued on up to almost the mill pond, deciding to save that for another day, I doubled back on myself now and set off up towards the top road, but not quite with a drop back down towards the Bottom A57 road before turning into the woods again to head back through trees towards the bridleway that is my bike route out.

I waited for a horse and rider which gave me chance to breathe and admire the deadly nightshade starting to berry in the bushes then passed the lamas and remembered to turn up the hill instead of trudging down the road the quick way home.  My slow pace left me feeling on form, what an amazing way to start the day.

When I got home I felt like I'd earned a second coffee but at the same time I didn't need it and I went some time before drinking some tea.  

I'd checked my calendar last night to scald myself for the training I wasn't doing only to realise it's a rest week so I'm technically not allowed to scald myself for anything.  After last week it was exactly what I needed so I relaxed, chuffed I'd managed the run, congratulated myself on excellent planning and self coaching and looked forward to kicking it next week.

Now I might just go and jump on the rollers because I feel like that too.

Sunday

 It was 1pm when I got out on Sunday.  My lunch was already packed so I sat at the top of the hill and stared out into the gloom while I ate some fruit, a packet of crisps and drank the coffee I'd just hauled up through the rock garden.  I didn't think through the fog when I promised myself I'd sit at the top of the hill and look at the view.  Still, I had a chat with a few passing dog walkers before following them down the hill and riding back up past the apple store, checking out some more bivi spots for later in the month and then riding up to Stanage Pole.  There were far fewer hordes today.  

Up the track, the air cleared for a moment, it was like being hit with a hair drier.  The air, no longer wet, was a good 5 degrees warmer.  

The Cotic cruised happily over the drain speed bumps and we did our first bunnyhops on easy terrain over the puddles.  I decided on my usual route over to the reservoirs, running up hill and down Padley to join the busy parking bays - even though the icecream van is long gone.  Still, it was a foggy Remembrance Sunday late afternoon and the majority of people were leaving.

I was finally hungry again and this time promised myself I'd climb up the hill away from the traffic at least, before stopping for my sandwich.  I aimed for the offroad climb that I discovered when I last rode here to see if I could beat my PB up it.  About half way up I remembered I was supposed to be hungry and nearly fell off but I kept going until my back wheel span out 5 metres from the top and I had to push but I still got a PB.

I recovered by carrying on across summer pastures to the Lockerbrook outdoor centre where all was quiet.  I had the lane to myself and the descent to myself.  Good job because I leathered it and I leathered my muscles.

Standing on the pedals steering across sloping slippery rocks which had a light coating of grit and pine needles. My knees and thighs screamed at me to stop but I was having too much fun. It was too late for anyone else but there was just enough light left to see what I was doing. I knew I'd got a PB - at least I'd better. I got to the bottom out of puff and growling at my sore muscles like I'd just climbed Pen y Ghent.

I burst through the gate others had failed to close. I had no energy to park my bike so I just laid it on the floor and staggered over to close the gate behind me, still gasping. A family cycled by and looked at me like I was the monster from the black lagoon, groaning and lollocking around.

When I got to the last climb out of the valley the light went on.  I love leaving the valley this way.  Probably because I always have the hill to myself when I'm on my way out, or if I do have company everyone is happy because it's such a beautiful place.  There was just enough light to make out the water below, navy blue in the fading glow of a sun long gone and the outline of the black hillside.  The occasional late-leaving car below and the blackbirds flitting in the woods were my only company.

I didn't mind having a few hikes, it wasn't about rushing it or crushing it any more, it was about getting home. I nearly nailed the climb in the dark though - in fact I pushed it a few times and once crashed into a boulder - saving myself a crushed leg but scratching my new frame (it'll get used to it) and then dropped everything, including myself into a bog dropping off an edge.  I am always drawn to the bog and have been known to walk around it but this time, from my vantage point lying in the heather I noticed the easy line - it was right there, in plain sight.  A classic case of following my fears.

Soon after I went sideways on a rock, failed to unclip and again found myself lying in the heather.  I realised I was pretty tired and slowed down some more and even hiked out to the A57 after I decided I wasn't quite up for riding the slabs right now.

The traffic was manic enough to help me decide to ride home via Rod side, splodging through the farm puddles, opening the gates held shut with lengths of climbing tatt and conversing with the rams brought home to pasture for the winter.

By the time I got to the lanes I was broken, hungry and ready to collapse in front of Strictly Come Dancing on the TV but I wasn't done with hills yet.  Rather than face the steep rolling traverse to home, I climbed the steady up to Crookes and took one last sweeping drop into home.

Today wasn't quite such an awakening revelation as Saturday's ride but it didn't 'alf do me in ready for a good nights sleep.  I didn't really remember lots of it, nothing particularly struck me but in retrospect it was a nice day out.

And that's what it's all about.

Lock down 2.0 Struggle.

It's been just 4 weeks since the BB200. Since then I can count the number of rides I have done outside on one finger. I stumbled in to work on the Monday whilst TSK Stumbled headlong into job hunting then a nightshift.

I have - inadvertently - followed. When he goes to work I have tended to keep working then grab a few hours sleep. The problem is, when he gets home, he goes to sleep.  I get up and go back to work.

That's only sustainable for so long Not only is it exhausting, it's counterproductive as I focus on the unimportant because it's easy work I can manage. The important tasks wake me up in the night, niggling and my teeth ache from clamping my jaw shut in anxiety and frustration. Tonight I was finally tired and I fell up the stairs easily, exhausted from the week's gym sessions and 2 days hard long work hours.

As I got ready for bed I found myself asking, "who could possibly be sanding doors at 10:45 on a Friday night?".

I tried not to let it stress me and lowered myself into bed with my earplugs in. The noise had ceased. At 11pm it re-started. Now there were headlights not far from my house and an engine was revving outside.

• • •

I staggered outside in my PJs with the rest of the street, joining '6 guys and 3 women to help push the car and its smoking clutch up the hill. I live on a 16% hill.  Mostly we were all there so we could get back to a peaceful nights sleep but secretly we were enjoying the team effort and camaraderie.

Unfortunately it didn't last long. It was an insight into another world. While I felt like 8 steps pushing a ton of metal was pretty good going and repeatable often enough to get the car out of its position as a road-block, no-one else agreed and someone in a long parking space eventually vacated a spot she could just roll the car into.

• • •

We had our peace back. I went to bed again at 1145, exhilarated and wide awake and stared at the dark walls.

An age later I was awake again and hungry and exhausted. I considered taking my bike and bivi gear out instead but the fatigue, prospect of cold and discomfort prevented me from doing so. I didn't feel any urge to push any limits I felt like I need a break from them so I turned the light on. It was only 12:28. I had slept less than 30 minutes.

The thing is, I really want a bike ride - an enjoyable one. Bivi or no bivi, I just don't want it to be an unmitigated disaster.

Eventually I realised I was hungry. My night shift has led to some dodgy eating patterns too so I got up again and ate cereal with my painful teeth and wrote this blog in an effort to stay sane and make sense of it all.

The street is quiet again. My brain is quiet again. My hot water bottle is bringing me comfort, not making me feel like its a lead chain confining me to my bed. The thought crossed my mind: I can't go out it will be a waste of hot water. The truth is, I want to plan to go out - do it in an organised fashion and let it breathe life into me, not dread.

I might not make it up for dawn but tomorrow is definitely a new dawn.

• • •

Follow up. The dawn came as late as I would allow it and through the ongoing fatigue, somehow I ended up spending hours window-shopping online.

I was the shopkeepers worst nightmare I filled a couple of baskets then left the store, my purchases forever hanging in the ether - a gateway  to somewhere They will haunt my social media cookies for the rest of the winter. There weren't any items I genuinely need and I suddenly questioned my reasons for even wanting them except for justifying the three hours I'd just spent looking choosing and sizing My credit card went away and I made the best of a bad selection of clothes I'd laid out on the sofa so I didn't disturb TSK's sleep.

The fleecy leggings weren't the Rapha ones I expected but some old Endura ones where the pile fabric had turned lumpy and the pad had seen better days. I found better socks in the bottom of my gym bag. No bra, but there was one on the radiator that had dried out last night. Then I wandered around the house assembling various baselayers until I was wearing enough to stay warm.

I set out looking like a roadie but determined to ride the Cotic who hasn't been out since September.

I floated up the hill. Literally floated. It's been a while without decent suspension. My legs are stronger and were gasping for a ride and my low low gears made the hill we tried to shove a car up last night feel like a breeze, even compared to riding it on my road bike last weekend.

• • •

With relief my legs still turn pedals and gone are the searing shocks of saddle pain that followed the BB200.  Infact the slightly harsher C17  Brooks saddle felt like nothing when switched onto the steel frame of the Cotic so there's another £ton not wasted. I burned along the road in the cool November misty sunshine on cloud 9.

As soon as I got off the lane I realised this first beautiful crisp November day of lockdown was going to be busy.

After giving way 4 times in 400m, I headed to the bottom of the valley and up the other side where it would be quieter.

• • •

The first steep climb that Mr Landslide named "Fairy Dell" warmed me up and I shed my layers like a lizard. Another mile along the lane I used my regular stop-and-faff trail to eat some M&Ms (Lunch 1.0) and adjust the floppy strap on the bag I'd just attached to the bike.

 

Something had been niggling me. The thought that the undergrowth was dying back. I've done a few rides this summer where I've noticed the undergrowth closing in on the path - but it didn't seem like many.  Now it was all dying back. What did I do all summer?  

The Adventure syndicate are doing Match the Miles this weekend. I thought back to "last years". How had I been so fit back then? I must have really slacked off this September!  It took me a few minutes to realise match the miles was in May!. This year! As in 2020! It was but yesterday and decades ago, all at the same time.

It was safe to get back on the bike once I'd got that one sorted out.

• • •

I don't really remember struggling on the green lane although I had expected to. At least it was empty. As I turned the corner which heads straight up the contours I thought, "this is nice, nothing special". A roar of a fast car with a big exhaust startled me and then he was gone. Silence prevailed once more except for the patter and trickle of the stream next to me and my wheezy breathing and I realised that this ride... was everything special. 

This was exactly the ride I needed and it gave me exactly the feelings I wanted.  That life was breathing back in.

It far outstripped the anticipation of new kit and being a few hundred quid worse off.

• • •

At the top of the climb more unwelcome traffic buzzed left and right. I breathed again when I turned onto Bingley Lane past the veg garden where the gardener in her best yellow hi-vis coat and Nordic knitted hat weeded between root veg. My next off-road turn passed a couple of lads. One on a cheap MTB, the other a moped. An illicit, un-distanced rendez-vous? I said hello, they both said "Reyt" in unison. 

I beamed.  The young people spoke to me.

The Good Dog wasn't out today. He avoids petting during Lockdown. Lockdown is the only time I have passed the farm and not seen The Good Dog

• • •

Down the hill to the A57 full of motorists going to, or returning from, the Peak, for their daily exercise

It's fine though, I'm soon away from it and rumble along the Wyming brook trail, my cowbell jingling. A little dog that looks like an arctic fox seems right at home in the November air.

The only decision to be made out here is this: short direct single-track with steep hike-a-bike or top road with nice sweeping descent along the cliff. Whichever I choose I can do the other later.

I pick the easy option for now as I'm getting hungry. A couple of 1990s road bikes are locked up at the top carpark - sensible. Along the road people are queueing in cars to park and exercise up to Stanage Edge. Cyclists and runners jog and wheel smugly by.

When I arrive at the single track along the cliff top, my favourite spot is taken up by pic-nic-ers and just as I'm about to compliment them on their choice of spot, I notice they're also making their way through a bottle of Bollinger.

The whoopy descent is very satisfying. Sunshine, the Carbon bike and lightweight summer tyres always slip on the off-camber rubble leaving me praying for the sideways slide to fizzle out before momentum takes me off the edge of the path. The steel bike and winter tyres I successfully fitted last weekend stay planted right where I need them to be.

In the woods at the bottom of the hill my ride gains purpose as I cram 2 cans, a plastic bottle, crisp packet and a spent firework into my camelbak.

Jet pack?

Further down I'm stopped in my tracks by a pop up "Apple stall" offering Rouge beauties 2 for £1 and tasty-looking flapjack.

Waiting for mother and son to pass, I considered splurging out.  It's the kind of thing I would have done on a desperate day out.  "Never look a gift horse in the mouth" is one of my bikepacking mantras.  I realise I have missed the Gift Horse. Maybe tomorrow.

Up the final climb towards home. Everyone stops to one side to let me pass and I ride the whole thing smoothly. This is all the bike, not me. I'm puffing like Ivor the engine when I reach the road and in retrospect I'm 1 minute 18 slower than my fastest time. I zigzag back across the A57 into the quarry which is a hike a bike on the way up and on a bad day too, if you ride down it.

I use the excuse of two student goths up-coming to get off and walk the steepest of drop offs but midnight doesn't flinch at the rest of the descent, despite me failing to clip in one foot and having a completely disengaged moment going over a significant rock (that was a PB!). Crossing Hagg Hill, I cheer on a couple of student roadies travelling at 90 degrees to me. Then they turn left at the top and we're all heading the same way. Them on the road above, me on my trail through the allotments.

I'm pleased to exit the gates at the other end as they ride past above me. Big bike, fat tyres, still got it

I dropped into my road and the soft comforting womb of my own home ready for a 3pm salad lunch but even more ready for a change into tracky bottoms. 

 All kinds of things have drifted through my head today, none of them work related. This goes a long way to explaining how exercise helps the brain to rest even when the body is becoming fatigued. When things are difficult in life, pure rest can allow the worries in, during the day as well as at 2am. Whereas physical activity gives the brain chance to breathe literally and metaphorically.

 I had every intention of going out again yesterday evening for my November bivi but it didn't happen.  The luxury of my daytime ride was I found all the things that have been a little bit off with my ride - the dropper post cable that I couldn't quite fix on my way to the BB WRT, charging my lights for the first time since Scotland. After bike maintenance, the comfort of home took over and instead I watched the Vuelta on the tele and fell into bed with TSK - our last nightshift weekend before he gets to become a human again next week.

Everyone is looking forward to that.