Loaded training. Superb outcome

 Oh to capture the complications of the past week for posterity without it sounding like a chain of excuses.  I don't think I can manage it.

It started with THE JAB.  Everyone can make up their own mind on this right? I was determined to want, get and love THE JAB.  As it was, it left me exhausted, poorly and paranoid.  I had blood clots (generalisation) 6 years ago and since the "headlines" spent a few days of last week convinced I was dying (faster than normal).  Fatigue, prickling in my lungs and then a lump on my neck.

I walked to the walk-in centre and snoozed in their reception until a nice nurse told me I was probably having a viral response to the vaccine.  I walked home again much lighter and dropped some cash on the bits for my bike I had been putting off on account of being, y'know dying.

On Friday night, with a ride planned at the weekend, I told my buddy I was optimistic about feeling much better and promptly pottered off to sleep for 9 hours which, yes, made me feel much better on Saturday morning.  I spent the day loading up my bike for a big training practice with my heaviest sleeping bag, stove, full fuel bottle (I drained the last lockdown stash into one pot) and even a change of shorts in case the weather improved.

The shakedown ride was mostly climbing which is a relief since the bags were a bit shaky, carrying all that weight.  Me and my sons watched the moon come out from behind a canopy whilst sipping whisky and catching up on our mental health (talking shit) until it started to rain.

On Sunday substantial fuelling of porridge and coffee was required to stoke me and L over to Longshaw for a second breakfast and first review of the new café facility.  We walked straight past the bike rack, instead selecting a location under the yew trees sheltered from the rain and the wind coming in across the moor.  All this, having not noticed a perfectly acceptable outside covered area to the rear of the cafe... although no view of the moors from there and there weren't any chairs and tables so we were happier with our dry spot in the dirt under the yew trees.

The coffee was better than the one at first breakfast and the hot sausage rolls were even better still.   

We traversed to Calver gap where I lured L past the cafe in the carpark and on to the next section of bridleway, promising a lunch stop "in a bit".  

At Eaglestone we discussed plans for the rest of the day and L and my body ganged up on my brain so we turned towards the Eastern Moors and a rapid traverse to the city instead of heading further afield to Chatsworth.  Since I'd never ridden this trail before (in recent memory) and have been planning to for some time, I enjoyed the new views/new lines.

My guide led me to a pleasant pond / quarry combo for lunch as we soft-pedalled along the track behind three runners on their way out to a dip in the pond.  We had a chat with the runners and they reassured us we weren't intruding on their swim as we brewed up hot drinks and shared out the feed I had brought with me to see me through a much longer day.  

On the shorter ride I enjoyed following L, punching my legs harder against gravity and the hefty load on my bike to try and keep up (not walk) and I managed bog crossings without getting wet feet.  He guided me across the Eastern Moors without me getting stuck on impossibly steep shit and then finally we parted ways at the big oak, me heading to Houndkirk (Sheephill Road) through Blacka and him descending the other side to home.

I was distracted by tea at the Norfolk arms - it would have been a beer but tea is all that was on offer - and destroyed the flapjack I picked up in the morning whilst watching the lama farm from above.

Due to the "early" (it was now 3pm) finish, I had the strength left to descend Wyming Brook them pick myself back up the side of the valley to Fox Hagg (pushed the easy line) before dropping to the bottom of the valley again, climbing the Byway and riding the final stretch to home off road, picking up some ballsy descent QoM throwing the loaded bike around a corner in the dirt, foot-out.

It was nice to get not-exhausted-just-tired for once although an hour's sleep after my bath reminded me that I still have plenty of recovering to do.

It was a 10/10 for company, café and quality this weekend.

Bridges. and gates.

In this week I vowed to myself I would ride every day to begin some training consistency instead of boom or bust.

By Wednesday my rides were a short, windy, rainy drag and finally on Thursday I'd had enough. I didn't get out in the morning and a work thing that came up in the evening had me stuck at my desk without caring.

However, on Friday I was raring to make up for it. I took the gravel bike out first thing, got completely caked in crap for 2 hrs then went work with wet, muddy hair by 8.45 ready for my meeting.

I didn't get out again. On Saturday I eventually forced myself out. It was a flat ride - mentally, not physically - and I hate those. A bike ride should make me feel better - or feel something. The only thing I got from it was a real need to get out for a proper one on Sunday.

Dutifully I packed bags for an all day ride on Sunshine as I wanted to see how 100km on her felt compared to Midnight.  Two weeks earlier, I'd walked back into the house, spent, cold & unable to sit on my saddle for the rest of the week.

This week, I was to make my final decision on which bike to take to Scotland. The decision is mostly made. After last week I decided 8 weeks away from the gym has ruled out Midnight. I haven't been doing the lifting I'd like and need the extra speed from the lighter bike. I threw on an old saddle bag so as not to wear out the good one and strapped on the shiny new bag that arrived in the post on Friday - a full frame bag that is disappointingly small compared to the Cotic's bag, even if it does fit as snug as a glove.

What started out as essentials packing filled the frame bag with pump, tools, tubes, lunch + snacks and warm gloves.  Up front 2 stem cells carried snacks and a sugary drink bottle (new experiment) and the seat pack contained spare clothes: fleece, 2 pairs of socks, more gloves, waterproof trousers and warm weather shorts to replace my fleecy leggings if I was really lucky.

I ditched my rucsac in a fit of warm weather optimism and just brought a waist pack camelbak with my coat in it.

My intention was to ride the Peak 200 big loop but I set off for the TPT the "easy" long way rather than drag myself over Derwent Edges and Cut Gate in the bad peat conditions.

When I reached my local park a family were staring at the stepping stones in the river. I wasn't going to ride the ford anyway but even the stepping stones were up to 4 inches deep in fast flowing water. I instantly fell off the first one putting my right foot in full flow but at least to even it up the left foot was submerged by the second stone rolling deep under. At least I tested my new gaiters and rode away to wait to see just *how* wet my feet had got (quite,but not sodden).

By the time I got to Hillsborough I realised I'd left my Spot in my rucsac and when the rain started I discovered none of the gloves I had with me were waterproof as one pair didn't even make it into the packing. I went for the thickest pair to keep the showers off and hoped for the best.

Wharncliffe woods was busy with DHs. Enduro bros and sisters everywhere. I joined the more sedate TPT, chatting to a mum/ daughter team out for their first post-lockdown ride and getting tired heading back to Oxsprings into a headwind and uphill with the little one refusing to sit in a slip stream.

I remembered my long day plans rushed on. A brief text sent from Dunford bridge bus stop - site of at least 2 ride retirements, "At Dunford bridge. Weather as usual. Persevering. Textin6 be9ng crap". As the rain became more intense it was a mistake to take the phone out of its waterproof case to take a photo earlier and the screen was not playing ball. I gave the phone a wipe before everything got soaked and packed it away  in airplane mode. 

I managed to combine the first summit pass of the day with the heaviest rain. Cross-winds lashed at me over the road into Salter's Brook. A number of ankle-deep puddles significantly increased the dampness in my boots but I still rode through them all, resigned now to some significant Highlands Training. As soon as I disappeared out of view of the Woodhead and the wind, I retreated to a sheep snug for a pee, convinced no-one would be walking here in such conditions. I didn't want to put it off until I had descended and cooled down. A good wild pee with my coat slung over my shoulders like a cape, rain drumming overhead like the reassuring noise in a tent.

I scanned the view and the sky for a peek of sun. lt shone, silvery behind a thick grey sky and I urged it, out loud, to get a move on and do its thing.

• • •

I'd just finished dressing again when the Park Warden walked past and gave me a cheery wave. I mumbled something about the sun getting on with it and looked skyward again but where the sun had been was just grey sky. It had abandoned me in shame.

I passed the lapwings in reminiscence for the sunset 2 weeks ago and congratulating myself in getting out of the house 3 hours earlier this time. I enjoyed the descent to the valley floor even more while dreading the onset of shivers that would come with the smooth, unchallenging trail and even gradient below me . The rain continued and by the time I'd reached the third bench I could feel the it starting to rundown my leggings into my gaiters or socks and on into my boots. I decided to stop & put my waterproofs on now - rather than keep hoping the rain would stop and everything would get better. I had not noticed the incremental shift from spring showers to full on wet day. I've been out of Manchester too long.

Without shelter for miles I found some trees (still without rain cover but at least out of the wind) and changed into dry socks,waterproof socks, put my gaiters back and added the waterproof trousers on top. I was still soaked but instantly warmer. The gloves were wet through now but after balling my right hand into a fist for 5 minutes, I finally managed to pump in enough therms to stay warm if I rode fast enough. This was going to be a tough day as I set about making the easy part of my ride hard too.

When I spilled into Hatfield I made no hesitation about going into the corner shop to request some Marigolds to use as emergency backup to my remaining dry (wool) gloves. I really hoped this would work out as these new gloves are super toasty.

"I stood in the doorway dripping on the mat and the shopkeeper swaggered into the back, returning with a yellow packet. "Have you got 2 pairs..." I was going to ask for XL size too but he cut me off with "this is the last pair" so I reluctantly yet hopefully handed over £1.20 and headed off down the road with some extra useless weight. It might just save my life if I had to wear them UNDER my wool gloves, they were a size Small .

• • •

On the outskirts of Glossop was a larger mini market but I couldn't be arsed and persevered with what I had. The forecast was for the rain to ease off.

I wiggled over to Charleshead and talked myself up the hill climb. New born lambs with sodden wool turned into punk hairdo's, their pink skin exposed underneath looked at me questioningly.  I reassured them it gets better, reassured myself the rain would stop and kept pedalling. I crossed the Chunnel road nosing at the detached holiday cottage / granny flat / office hovel that looks oh so tempting every time I pass and back onto the moors, content to be free of the bustle of Cars and turn out my back light but I let the front light dynamo run on. I'd need it soon anyway. 

I considered where I was - especially since I accidentally found myself off course on an unfamiliar footpath and instead of tracking right to get back on track, I went left taking myself further off course. I cursed my mistake but found a farmers track that linked the two and had an easy trace back up to the route. I was enjoying not being on "an attempt" and needing to backtrack to undo my stupidity. The track was obvious when I got there and I made a plan then and there for getting home sooner rather than later. I had emergency food with me but would have no shelter for some time. I actually cursed not having the tent. Had I been on a longer course in these conditions I would have had an early stop, eaten, rested a few hours then gone back out again until I dropped into another sleep. Instead I dropped into Hayfield, made a straight up the other side, over Lantern Pikes now enjoying the familiar descent, instead of teetering down it like I did the first few times. 

When I passed this way on my attempt I'd stopped for a chat with a hiker in the mid summer sun. It was hard to place what time that was - maybe three hours earlier than now? I wondered what time I'd make it to my steep spot - maybe 9pm instead of midnight. Shortly after my sleep spot was *that tree* a big old oak which I'd sat under to eat second breakfast because I was back on home ground and felt like celebrating.

I passed three people on the Pennine Bridleway -3 separate female fell runners enjoying the conditions. Where were all the men?

'The next time I looked at my Garmin screen "Rushop Lane" flashed across the screen. I'm familiar with these trails now but seeing those words on the screen gave me reassurance I was back on home turf as I fought my way over open moor land in a cross wind still making mistakes but now with the bike handling.

"But what if you crash out here alone in the clag" screamed my head... but my heart was happy + did not give a shit if we died in the rain. I managed to dig out and take a massive gulp of sugary drink which helped a bit but a few sideways moments had me pushing my crappy spare wheels and tyres in the cross winds a little bit more than would have been strictly necessary.

The open moor finally reformed into tenable rocky tracks there were only the gates to battle with. They resisted the rain and their muddy puddles and the latches got more and more annoying as I became more reluctant to touch anything or move my fingers in my gloves for fear of a fresh flow of cold water coming in and the tepid warm(ish) water from my hands being squeezed out.

I happily realised it was no longer raining then seconds later it felt like the night suddenly arrived as the sky in all directions darkened and it started to rain... again. Surely I was nearly back?

A familiar-ish descent led to a stream crossing that was now a raging torrent. The sheep looked at me and raised their eyebrows. A concrete pipe length lay across the stream acting like a weir more than a bridge. I stood on the tussocks at the edge and wheeled my bike into a foot deep puddle then balanced on the pipe - hoping it wasn't slippery - whilst trying to disengage my pedal from the mouth of the pipe where it had become lodged. More Highlands training. Over the lump ahead and into the next stream bed where there was a proper bridge though I lost part of my bottle contents tipping my bike on its tail.

• • •

Once across I realised I had made it to my sleep stop from last year. What a lovely place - though if I'm being picky - not really flat enough for a comfy stop.

Unfortunately it made me check my watch and while it definitely wasn't sleepy time it was nearly dinner time. By the time I'd got on the next climb my stomach was rumbling - it was already too late.

I looked for easy to reach snacks but for some reason nothing would do. For some reason the pasta meal in my bag was what I wanted. I decided to make it up in my bottle so it could sit on the bike and "cook" while I pedalled. I decided it would be a good "experiment."

I didn't want to waste fresh water so I took from a stream, mixed in the foods screwed the lid on and put it away.

A little further along I realised I'd not really added enough water but never mind... and carried on riding, fuelled by the last of the sugarey potion I had downed in order to free up the drinks bottle.

Finally I was at Rushop edge. I negotiated the last frustrating batch of sheep gates then stopped the course and turned for home.

Apart from the soaking wet thing, in Normal Times I'd have cautiously locked my bike to a picnic table at the back of a pub car park and had myself a dinner out but I'd lost all appetite for cold pasta from a bottle in the Castleton bus shed and the pubs were shut so I whipped down Winnats pass getting an all-time PB for a clear run and hoped there wouldn't be any sheep on the road.  I then got a tail wind ride into the village where I stopped behind a car to check in "Castles ton. Cominbg home!'

The tail wind sped me through Hope to Bamford and all I could ponder was how to get home. I'm SO BORED of New Road and Stanedge. Surprise view was too much "climbing" after the"climbing". The A 57 involves the risk of dick motorists and the potentially undignified need to get off and push but it's all down hill after the top... which might be cold. At Bamford I stopped at the garage for the convenience of eating *something* under floodlights and out of the wind. Unfortunately out of the wind was not out of the rain and the concrete forecourt was too wet to sit on. 

The pasta had formed into an inedible dodgy mass in the bottle. On inspection I just tucked it away to deal with later. I didn't even think to ditch the weight. I crammed a few bits of beef jerky in my mouth along with some chewits and M&Ms and ate the lot at once. In normal times I might have even thought to go into the Londis and buy something, yet I take heart from now thinking Bamford is so close to home that I'm not that bothered about filling an empty stomach.

The A57 was fine, as tail-wind-assisted as a climb up a gorge can be.

• • •

I didn't need to walk. The last bits are exposed and were easy and the weather was so mild that the accelerated descent didn't cool me down too much at all. I even found the energy for the climb into Crookes so I didn't have to climb the steep hill to home at the end.

The house was filled with the aroma of pizzas there was no time for a shower - just a dressing gown and a heap of sodden mucky clothes discarded on the back door mat to worry about tomorrow. It might seem soft by Highland Trail standards but it's a start. I just have to get rid of the dressing gown and the cosy house... Oh, and work on getting up and doing it all again tomorrow.

Daily Shrine

TSK walked through the door, back from work.  "Do you want a cup of tea?" 

"No", I grumped past him, "some stupid bastard pledged I'd ride every day this week".

Actually, sometimes twice.  Which I managed on Monday - two mountain bike rides.  Long ones too - and satisfying ones where you see the sun rise and the sun set and your legs hurt from carrying up hills and your arms hurt from slashing through the undergrowth.

Monday day was a blur at work.  I made HT plans at the weekend and couldn't wait to carry them out so I spent the day on Monday sizing up a new frame bag for Sunshine.

On Tuesday morning I needed to catch up with work stuff so started at 5:30am and finished my working day at 5:30pm. 

I slithered out for a road ride afterwards.

Last night I dreamed that the bathroom floor was caving way underneath the toilet and the whole bathroom was falling into the kitchen so I went out to go to an interview.  I stayed in a hotel and had breakfast with a load of people from the Highland Trail but when I placed my order I came back and they had all gone and I was faced with eating breakfast opposite a suit.

It was a metaphor.  I left the breakfast table and went to watch a play with my theatrical family then realised I didn't know what time my interview was so I had to leave early and I never did find out what time the interview was.  I woke up, swung my feet out of bed and went to the bathroom.  There was 2cm of water in the porcelain bowl we keep on top of the toilet as a rain gauge - a bowl on top of a bowl.  The hole is in the ceiling of the bathroom, not the floor and it's very real.  I was moderately pleased I live in a house that allows me to spend some of my spare cash on bike and soon I'll be somewhat be free from mortgage shackles.  It's my urban cabin in the woods.  I'll be free from a mortgage and living in a shitty crumbling house.  Sometimes I don't know if it makes me happy or sad.

I got up - just early enough to go for a ride but that didn't happen.  It was viciously windy and raining outside and not at all tempting.  I went upstairs and scrawled through social media.  Couldn't face starting work at 8:15.  Couldn't face going outside either but gradually I wanted to be out more than in so I dressed in cycling clothes, selected new shoes to try out (no cleats yet) and added a waterproof hat and coat.

I padded into the back garden and pottered about my bike.  I felt epic as the screws (where the cleats in my shoes will go) clattered on the tarmac and the rain pattered on to my Carradice.  I expected JP Robertson to appear in next doors garden to capture the stony grey sky and my gritty determination as I put my house keys in my bike bag, swung into the ginnel and tickked down the hill.

A short, bleak ride along with the motorists to Hagg Hill where they suddenly disappear left to skirt Southwards around Sheffield and I keep going straight on.  I'm so used to them overtaking then swerving left, it doesn't piss me off anymore.

Instead I rumble along happy (I'm still dry and warming up).  I'm aiming for that place where I just want to be on the bike - nowhere else - and at the moment I can dig that.  There really is nowhere else I'd rather be.  The simple stroke of pedals, sway of bars, sloosh of water.  I could keep going all day.  I'm not quite on the pedals I'd hoped to be on and these touring pedals aren't brilliant as flats.  My feet fly off them once or twice when I forget they're not attached.

The rain soaks through my shoes into my waterproof socks and I can feel it's chill but my feet stay dry.  The new socks are, thankfully, impenetrable.  I've been trying them out with different under-socks - most of my cycling socks are a bit shit in them.  Bamboo is OK.  This merino linen blend is bloody good at keeping my feet warm.

At fairy glen I can't resist a trip onto the middle road, past the pub, twisty round the lanes and momentarily think about ascending the 1/6 incline offroad but without cleats on my shoes yet, decide it's not a good idea.  

I could carry on up to Rivelin from the top of the road, do Wyming brook and Lodge Moor but I'm already late for work so I take to the A57, now quieter with the reduced commuter volume safely ensconced at their desks.  I wind around a few urban Crescents to miss the school and dodge through Crookes traffic to home, on the downhill water sloughs off my front tyre and straight into my face as it's almost impossible to get a mudguard to fit Lauff forks.

For the first time this morning I'm glad I'm not on a long ride and can sit at my desk for a few hours with a cup of coffee and shoot the shits with my grads.  

I might even make it out again later.

Improving February

I wanted to do 100km this weekend for one reason - to make February better than January. On the whole February's been shitty - training, trail conditions, state of mind, work. I looked at previous years - is February always shit? No: sometimes its January that's shit. 

Generically since October I have been 200k down on last year's training - the obvious impact of less cycling commutes and distance-wise, more walking before work. The only redress that seemed feasible with the time available was to make February less shit than January & do 120km in the final week. I did one 20k commute, 2 walks & a 10k run. I got up Saturday & was so tired. I shopped for bike bits then walked into town for lunch.

On Sunday I wrote up last week's ride then finally found the motivation to get out, at which point it was 2:30pm.

• • •

I did the Math. 100km offroad -10 hours riding. Back by midnight. Not comfortable but doable. I wanted to ride on the TPT because I haven't been that way in ages. I had 2 things in mind. A big loop to Glossop & follow the Peak 200 route home or TPT, a ride over cut gate & extend it in the Hope and Derwent valleys if I felt like it. I went outside for lunch. From my slightly chilly stone fronted house to full-on summer in the garden. I'm glad I hadn't dressed in full fleece leggings yet.

I dressed less modestly in shorts, leg warmers, tee shirts & arm warmers, one layer of socks and sandals. I realised it would get cold later so threw in my synthetic coat, fleece, waterproof socks, a waterproof coat "just in case" and grabbed my warm gloves, a packet of crisps & extra cereal bar. That'd have to do, I'd just had lunch. At the last second I crammed in an emergency meal also "just in case".

• • •

I took the off road trail to Malin bridge, crossing the stepping stones cautiously so as not to get my socks wet then rode high on the Hill above Hillsborough to avoid traffic. Wharncliffe was full of down hillers having a great time in the sun - I splashed past the stables through the mud alongside happy pony riders who stuck to the best line.

People were everywhere but except for 1 mountain biker who half-wheeled me before dinging his bell in my ear, I was the fastest person on the trail.

Somewhere around Penistone, up on my 10km / hr schedule I decided 100km was feasible if I just rode to Glossop then turned around & came home again the same way. Potentially I could be home well before midnight & still have enough food without having to break into cold emergency pasta.

At Dunford Bridge I had a sit down on the benches. It had gone a little dusky, I was at elevation & after the short sharp road climb was open moorland and then descent. I ate my crisps & the fleece went on. The climb was easier than it's ever been before - odd.

 

I reached open moorland as the sun was doing its big-red-disk-in-the-sky thing and I smiled hard as a flock of lapwings wheeled in the sky whooping at me. Fluffy cows standing on the trail forced me onto the path then my FSA dropper post - freed by from the weight of a seat pack - actually worked and I descended to Salter's brook style. On the long rail trail in to Glossop there was only one thing on the radar -the setting sun. At its most vibrant just as I passed the reservoir where there was a bloody Pylon in the way. Still, it added a sense of scale. 

 

Hanging around with 2 walkers, we pretended we were on holiday somewhere exotic. 

It's otherwise a long, sometimes tedious route, being hemmed in by trees or railway cuttings. I watched the numbers click up praying for 50 km when I could turn tail and head home. At 47.9, I dropped out into the carpark in Hadfield & set about following the Peak 200 route as a means to an end. I momentarily considered popping into the shop to get coffee but passed by a woman walking on the pavement who cheerily said, "You wanna watch you don't get yerself killed on that bike".

Nice. I stopped to prop my bike up to put my rear light on which didn't work so I set it to charge & lit the spare which just lives in the mesh pocket of my rucsac. These two things combined (plus the prospect of riding further either up or downhill) helped me overcome my need to hit exactly 100km so I turned tail & headed right back the way I'd come - past the echoey bridge, dark dog walkers, the long distance running couple.

My feet started to get cold so I stopped &added my leggings and waterproof socks. I was a little doubtful it would work though as the outer layer just crushed the life out of the wool layer - and my toes. I persevered for a while but things were just getting worse so I stopped at the next bench to switch into the thickest wool socks I had. That worked for a while as I felt the blood rush into the space which had been completely dead.

I went for a pee to gather my thoughts in the undergrowth. Meanwhile a tawny owl wheeled in the cold air over my bike.

There was still an issue with my feet on the exposed bits of trail where just enough breeze was forcing all the warm air out of the fabric - constantly.

• • •

I had to get into something windproof - and fast. I had two solutions - risk the waterproof socks alone or add my spare waterproof gloves as it was only my toes that were exposed. My heels and midfoot were fine.

When I opened my rucsac on the next bench, the gloves were the first things out of the bag, closely followed by my thermartex windproof blanket. It was reassuring to know I had that. With my penknife I could, potentially, fashion some windproof socks by wrapping bits around my feet then tucking it in the cuffs of my socks. I also toyed with the idea of phoning for a lift - I was that worried. I didn't want to miss the HT because I gave myself frostbite playing stupid games with sandals in the hills in February.  Lesson learned.

• • •

The gloves fit loosely over my toes & the cuff sufficiently snugly around my mid-foot so they wouldn't come off. They were also secured with the toe strap on the sandals. I tried tucking the fingers under my toes but that just impaired the blood flow so I let them flop about. Thankfully there wasn't much walking to do, though a few of the vehicle -proof gates really pissed me off. Good news though - steadily but surely the blood was returning to my feet and the realisation that not clipping into the pedals but riding on my flats improved the situation even further.

Apart from the damage to my toes, I felt like a bit of a fraud. Last weeks 100km was so much harder earned. I decided this little 8 hour out and back jaunt was hollow by comparison. In the coming miles though I was set to put in some serious effort, pushing fast to keep my feet from falling off & get home before I bonked. The adventure was only just beginning.

I broke the return trip down - 4km to the hard climb which would surely guarantee me warm feet. That climb was 2km then 10km to Dunford Bridge where my warmed feet would be exposed again and will definitely cool right down on the descent. Then 30km of constantly falling railway track and a few tunnels.

• • •

The railway was tough to call. Not so steep I'd have to freewheel but could I spin enough on it to stay warm? I had a perception - rightly or wrongly - that it would be warmer. I'm not sure if that is because I reasoned it might be out of the wind or just because "it's not Manchester" which is always cold and dreary.

The steep hill climb delivered. I managed not to fall over my floppy foot-fingers and despite waiting to cross the Woodhead road, my toes could be described as toasty by the time I passed the lapwings again.

I crossed and dropped into the catchwater again, enjoying the hillside scenery even though trucks rumbled by overhead on the Woodhead. With warm toes I was ready to leave the world behind again and descend back to the solitude of the trail. More pushing out of the brook to the final Woodhead crossing gave me enough warmth to mount my charged bike light on the frame, put my headlight on my lid & crack open a bag of beef jerky for "dinner." At 7:30 I knew I wasn't going to do the last 2 hours without some calories. Only when I stopped to look both ways at the crossing did I notice the epic blood moon rising to my right like a second Sun. I descended to the TPT carpark, vaguely disturbed that I had failed to put on my biggest gloves but overjoyed that my windproof jacket and foot gloves both did the trick to keep the rest of me warm.

• • •

I perfected a glove change from my frame bag while riding along and once my fingers were warm again, set about snacking my way home, the blood moon fading to a white disk as the sun finally sank away to the West behind me. My feet seemed to warm even further when I fed them and I used that to get me through Penistone where I worried about being ambushed in the dark so clipped my feet in.

The only remaining threat to my feet was riding through muddy puddles so I skirted through the concrete roads around the stables rather than tackle the bridleway churned up by a million hooves then had a little push towards the top of the final steep climb.

• • •

My backside had finally fallen out with my saddle again after 85km so I finished off the trail with a mixture of freewheeling and standing climbs.

I clipped back in the pedals for the Oughtibridge-to-Hillsborough ride but there wasn't a soul out in the woods. I cruised the pavements through the shared cycleway, changing red lights, one way systems and tram tracks to the main Rivelin Valley road. Everyone who passed me in a car left tonnes of space. I must have had my lights on bright or possibly I was riding like an exhausted person with their toes hanging off.

I turned onto my road with gusto then, after a few pedal strokes, headed for the nearest drop kerb and jumped off to push.

• • •

I did not get back on. I had to stop halfway up the hill to rest. There was no way I was making up the missing 5km. I stopped my Garmin at the back door.

Recovery time 4 days." This is more than your usual effort." You're telling me !

Mission complete.

An experiment. Being ahead of my years.

February 20th and plans were hatched for my first long weekend of riding (from home) for a while - well, since October really. How many times have I restarted my HT Training now? I fully loaded my heavy (comfy) bike and set off into the hills at 1:30pm after some mechanical tinkering on my drive chain and installing cleats on a new pair of sandals. I headed out full of good intentions to ride at adventure pace. The sandals were teamed up with a pair of wool socks or a pair of waterproof socks. Bear with me I'm nearly 50. I'm allowed. Although the forecast was clear and positively tropical, I'd stepped out the door earlier just with Sandals on my feet (clothed,obvs) and run hastily back inside to the sock drawer.

• • •

To be clear, the sandals are NOT a fashion statement (when were they ever?) but the experiment is:

• Warmer feet as they dry when wet
• Warmer feet as the shoes dry when wet
• Less impact damage to toes, arches heels etc.
• Warmer feet because I toughen TFU.
• Easily slip on and offable at camp / rest stops.
• Dry feet in the morning as shoes dry overnight.
• Less issue with wet socks because of dry shoes
  

I have acknowledged the downsides:

• Mud and shit between my toes
• Lack of foot protection-more risk of crushing /breaking something
• Aesthetics.

The socks are intended to prevent the first and do absolutely nothing to enhance the last issue except hide my ugly toes.

• • •

I rode up the easy side of the valley. I even engaged a little road riding to avoid the steepest climbs. At my usual stop and faff point I took time to adjust something before settling in to climb onto the Rod Side Road. Nobody mentioned my sandals. I rode through some puddles and my feet stayed warm as the water ran away. Hurrah. I descended to Doctors gate, had a bit of a hike then picked my way across the boggy moorland interchanging between riding and pushing so as not to chew up the Peat Bogs or widen the trail any further. The descent at Cut Gate was the first real test of exposed feet but I found the extra care I took improved my ride so I was pleased.

• • •

 

I sat in the hut overlooking the Ladybower for a decent snack break before dropping to the rapidly emptying trails. Plenty of city folk were still out walking the lap of the main path. Everyone was in high spirits (some more than others) and no-one mentioned the sandals, though a gang of twenteens at Slippery Stones put paid to any desire to stop and enjoy the tranquillity.

At the bottom of the Lockerbrook descent I stopped to consider my options. I quite fancied the steep hike up through the forest but didn't want to be late for a play date. I consoled myself with the ride up the fire road & Summer Pastures to finish off my first loop of the Peak.

• • •

The fire road was still wonderfully peaceful except for the undertone of the coming of spring birdsong as the sun set on the day, I sat at the top of a culvert to eat some snacks before continuing past confused joint-smokers onto Summer Pastures. I stuck on the dynamo light for the old landrover tracks and had to supplement it with the Exposure head light as the terrain got boggier.

The breeze got up substantially and as I battled it, then eventually gave up on an incline and started pushing, I took a look around me. It was a grey and ugly evening. The sun doesn't set. The light just slips from your conscience. Mam Tor, Lose and Win hill, the Giants were all still there and were still beautiful grey hump-backs layered in the evening sky.

I looked around to where the sun should have been to be treated to a glorious orange rectangle of light, hemmed in by one cloud bank and the next and a block to the East with Mam Tor to the West. And then it was gone.

Finally the waterproof socks were put to the test as I had to dab into a bog to stop myself peeling off and the muddy water came pouring in. It's hardly surprising they're no longer waterproof socks, I've been wearing them since BB200 2019.

• • •

I thought it advantageous that I've done this section a thousand times & had some recollection of the route as I navigated across open farmland & obscure gateways in the darkness. I crossed the remaining bogs in a laissez-faire fashion - after all, my feet were already wet. My only effort was focused on ensuring the bike did not get more bogged down than necessary.

On skirting around the hillside, I was hit side-on with the full force of a 40 mph gust and my rear tyre completely let go.

(admittedly on the edge of width suitability for an over- wide Spanx Rim). Both me and the bike landed unceremoniously sideways in the wet grass and sodden earth, a C-shaped tyre mark etched into the grass for the rest of the week. I've never leapt up so fast as moisture seeped into my leg warmers and the elbow of my coat.

At least I was still pumping out substantial therms from the effort and with all the vents opened on my coat, it dried in no time.

I practically sprinted over to New road and then after the first, steep pitch got out my phone, switched off flight mode a set about texting my play date to say I'd be late. Before I could get started, my spot had done its job and the message came in "it looks like you're a long way from the park, do you want to meet elsewhere?" A new plan was hatched but first I had to climb over the hill. Stanage Causeway or the road?

• • •

Selfishly I chose the Causeway. A light moved around near the top but wasn't getting any closer. Someone else was still out on millstone edges and lights flickered towards Shatton Moor.

Above the Plantation the wind battered at me again but it was increasingly obvious that a rocky nook on Stanage was a party venue so I kept riding as long as I could, my lights picking up a Union Jack Tesco bag filled with cheap pish beer. I called out a cheery "Hello" as I passed and a gruff Glaswegian voice chirped back "Y 'artreet pawl?" followed by a very girlie "Hiya" from the token female.

Once out of chatting range I fell off the bike to push the last pitch of open flat terrain to avoid being blown off sideways into the heather.

• • •

As soon as I turned 90 degrees I hopped back on and promptly got blown to the pole and down the other side. The wind also forced me effectively through the drug dealers at the carpark - so rapidly I had to pull the brakes on through the ciccanes to avoid being blown off the road into the dry stone walls. At the bottom of the steep climb to the moors again I checked on my play date's location and cursed to see he had already reached Houndkirk. I'd been hoping I could meet him in the bottom of the valley but no, I'd have to ride up *that* hill. I don't think I rode it all. As soon as I turned into the wind the battle was too much and I was already hungry.

• • •

At the top some lights flew towards me as I battled my way across in the headwind. It wasn't my mate which is a shame as I was ready for some company. I dropped into the woods at the top of the Mayfield Valley then heard my name being called through the trees. Ha Ha! Frend.

We rode on together to Houndkirk past the drug takers and the moorland petrol heads and disappeared into the undergrowth to brew up dinner.

I made some attempt at pitching a shelter but it was windy and my attempt was both half arsed, lacking intelligence and thwarted by a substantial breeze which, despite being sheltered by the trees, still penetrated through.

With a mix of hoops, goretex, foam pads, my fat arse, helmet, a pile of sandals, a titanium windshield and a lot of matches, we made enough fire and water between us for two hot meals, two hot porridges and two coffees.

As the shoes piled up around the stove, my waterproof socks dangled from a tree inside-out to dry. Meanwhile my feet were tucked under a windproof layer and were toasty warm. When I went for a pee between courses, I slipped on my damp-dry sandals and my socks continued drying uninter­rupted. This was going well.

After a rest we headed back to the Norfolk Arms. Thankfully it wasn't open to distract us with chips and beer so we made do with refilling my water bottle from the outside tap.

We headed back onto Hound Kirk. I was now a bit shivery from all the sitting around and had decided to keep the "waterproof" socks dangling from my bag while wearing the socks I normally sleep in with my wool socks over the top. When we reached the end of Houndkirk and my buddy turned for the city I was tempted to join in, head home, change into my bed then head out later in some real shoes but, I decided no experiment should be left without a conclusion so I opted to see it through.

When I reached Longshaw I already needed more food so I found a log and chomped through most of a sizeable meal.

 

The feet continued to feel cold through 2 thin layers all the way across Curbar but the care I was taking of my feet also worked to conserve my energy stores as I backed off hammering more of the technical problems and chose easy lines or had a little walk. I've really come to love walking with my bike more than ever nowadays.

 

Whilst the descent to Baslow chilled the feet again, the little spin along the lane out to Haddon helped warm them up again and I started to settle down. I was going to make my target for the day - to ride to Monsal. I haven't been to Monsal for over 12 months and its really not too far away - or so I thought. It is the joy of riding long distances that all of a sudden places you'd drive to in the past suddenly, sub-consciously become much closer by bike.

When I reached Haddon Hall my brain stalled at the choice between A and B roads (the Broad included a visible steep hill).

• • •

Of course I opted for the B road but I had to open my sweetie bags get the sugar in whilst pushing up the hill and I had several conversations with myself -and other people - on the way.

There was a bit of a party atmosphere at Monsal Head. Horse riders, mountain bikers, local walkers, some roadies testing themselves. There were one or two cars in the car park but people snapped a pic then left. I was quietly disappointed there were no takeaway coffees on offer, but completely understand having seen the catastrophic litter effects in the parks in town. I did a lap to Ashford in the Water and Thornbridge but there were "no entry" signs, before dropping down the hill climb and climbing back up to the trail the official way, past all the empty holiday homes, conspicuous by their abandonment.

 

The trail itself was much quieter than it otherwise would have been on the first weekend of spring & that was nice.

There was still a spattering of families, dog walkers, runners and E- bikes but no abseillers, scout groups or huge multi-family crowds.

• • •

The dog walkers were in control and there were no retracting leads in sight.

The tunnels were cold and all too soon it was time to leave Millers Dale station (still no coffee) and switch to the more challenging PBW/ LW combo. The PBW always feels like it should tie in neatly to the Monsal Trail but - unless I'm missing a trick - it does not. More hiking up impossibly steep terrain before it flattened to slithery limestone or mud trails between dry stone walls. My feet were toasty warm now. Layers came off a leg warmers were only retained for the purpose of staying warm on the downhills or not being arsed to take them off.

 

• • •

 

I diverged from my usual route around Tideswell and Peak Forest and it turned out to be very pleasant and rideable. When I arrived at the plunge into Bradwell I was absolutely ready to go home. On the push out to the main Hope Valley Road it took me all my effort to overtake - at a social distance - a family of 2 kids and 2 parents as I span past in my un-roadworthy top gear. It was a relief to get back onto the Thornhill trail. So much so that I stopped for a refuel before tackling New Road and Stanage Causeway for a second time in one ride.

"You been out camping?" asked a dog walker. "No, training for an event in May. Lugging this lot around in hope". He wished me luck. I ate the rest of my lunch - at 1. 30pm. I checked my Garmin. I'd ridden 100km. It felt like a giddy milestone.

 

Up at the Ladybower and again, normal people went about their normal exercise. No rests on New Road this time. It did start to rain though.

As I swerved around the puddles at the bottom of the Causeway I pondered putting my waterproof socks back on. They were still saturated from their bog hopping but I thought they'd at least add wind resistance to the mix. In the end though, I couldn't be bothered. I rode all the way up to the pole this time. The wind had dropped, the partygoers had gone. Thank­fully they took their beer cans too. The drug dealers at Redmires were replaced by city dwellers getting in their last walk of the weekend.

• • •

The hard part was just re-starting for my feet. Although I'd conceived a quick jolly down the trails to wrap up the day and warm up the body, the call of hot toast and tea was too much so I high tailed it straight down the road, with only a few punchy climbs to warm me up, followed by the long, fast whoosh into the house, the sandals' last trial! Yes it was cold. Yes my toes ached with cold when I walked in the door. Yes my socks were soaked and went straight in the washing machine but no I did not have any knee pain at all during this weeks ride at that is a good thing. And so, fortified by tea and toast I went to bed.

 

• • •

As rides go I was over the moon to get two big loops in after a layover. The sandal experiment was a success I intend to repeat with profound apologies to the fashion police and any friends I might consequently lose. Finally - a ride with a friend (a real one who doesn't judge you for your footwear) - even if it is just over Houndkirk - is always worthwhile. And so, whilst I wait for my vaccine appointment, the Highland Trail is still on, at least at some point this year.

January bivi 2021 - When you gotta go you gotta go

Home to Houndkirk on the mtb but ridden on the road to meet Chris. A bit of mucking about at the Norfolk arms trying to find my frend.

Another day when I wanted to ride but also, I didn't want anything to go wrong - and that's what was stopping me getting out. Eventually, I rushed late out the door.

I rode up the roads but by the time I left lodge moor with snow squeaking under my tyres I was in heaven. I rode over Houndkirk surrounded by snow-coated heather that looked like white sparkling broccoli in the beam of my bike light.

When I reached camp my buddy was sitting on a wall waiting for me. Through the trees to a clearing where his tent was pitched and there was a long, thin that spot for me set aside.

Despite my loft pitch-check of the bivi bag, l only managed to locate the sleeve for the pole with some serious hunting and swearing. Otherwise it went up fine. I pegged out the feet end but needn't have bothered as I think I pulled them out in the night and have to return to fetch the pegs I lost another time. I did peg out the guys on the hoop as an experiment.

We got ready for the morning. L brewed water while I got into my warm coat and snacked for as long as I could stand the cold then we admitted defeat and went to our separate beds. A "dune buggy" for want of any better terminology passed by, exhaust blowing and continued to bez about on the moors for half an hour. We chatted over the noise - mostly about the view I had from my bag - snow, trees, the moon, stars some lights twinkling far below in the valley, just visible over the wall. For once, having taken the 4 season bag, I was cosy & warm. After watching the outside for a while I got a little cold so pulled up the gore-tex door to keep the breeze out, leaving myself a small window of ventilation and a view of our camp.

The vehicle left and I drifted off. Another passed at 2am but thankfully, passed through the gate and pressed on. I was disturbed occasionally by the wind clattering the trees above us and that made me somewhat paranoid we were about to be invaded by a herd of deer but a quick peek out through the mesh revealed all to be still outside. Other than an owl hooting in the night and the occasional shiver that was offset by some vigorous wriggling I slept through till 7:30 waking up toasty warm with light busting through. On inspection, the sun was rising over the wall. 

 

I papped it from my bed, arm stretched over the wall then called out to L. At first he didn't stir and as he'd injured his back yesterday, I wondered about letting him sleep. He'd been here before, must have seen it like this already right?

As I watched things just got more impressive so I tried again and a drowsy L exited from his tent-clutching his camera. " Fucking hell!" was the awesome response. I'm glad I persevered.

I'd given myself a stiff back by only sleeping in one position so brewing up from my bivi wasn't an option. Instead, I decided to get up. One of the guy ropes had undone already. I took the other out to ease movement and sat on the porch of my bivi on my thermarest to make breakfast. Due to the fact no moisture was falling, it was a very satisfactory arrangement but I do still want to carry a porch when it's raining.

 

Coffee, porridge, honey, smiles.

L went home to rest, I changed the dead battery on my spot then turned the other way to ride over to Burbage. I had a chat with Caroline and her dog, another local bike packer I just met. We talked about shoes - or more specifically - winter mountain bike boots.

 

Over to Stanage, Nether Padley, Hathersage, Thornhill, avoiding the worst mud. I stopped at Ladybower for 2nd breakfast + got doggy cuddles from a female spaniel. 

 

Over the burms - direct line Hike a bike. Enjoying the snowy trees and ice formations. There wasn't much but it was enough.

 Riding past Lockerbrook farm was exciting and involved walking over the steepest ice before dropping down the fire road in preference to icy gnar. I ate my lunch on a bench, trying to share Karg with an inquisitive Robin until the female spaniel reappeared and scoffed it all. One they had gone, the Robin wasn't going to settle for that, got bold and picked up all of the crumbs I dropped at my feet.

 

At the bottom I debated heading straight home but I felt good, the weather was beautiful and I probably had enough rear light to get me home.

I turned away from the crowds at the visitor centre and headed on up to slippery stones where I stopped out of the breeze and enjoyed having the water to myself. The ducks were bold enough to ask for food again.

The ride back down to the village was uneventful. I'd considered the climb up by the Ladybower inn as the quick and easy way home but it wasn't tempting & as the ground started to harden up I decided cut gate path and Doctors gate was more doable. Either way the steep bit was a hike. At the hut I enjoyed a cereal bar with a mag­nificent view and the company of John Brierly and son on their evening run. After the worst of the icy puddles across the edges I nailed the final climb out and even managed not to fall in the heather on the descent. At the doctors bridge I nailed the descent with a PB, grace to the dry, amazingly grippy conditions.

It was still light climbing up to Moscar but drivers passed too close. I was definitely going to do the offroad home. I passed the Lodge and farm then rode across Rod Side where large ice puddles crossed the whole road and I had to ride on the grass to get any purchase. On the third one I crashed my gears and had to push then as I crossed the last one my chain clipped and then snapped and lay at my feet. There were 10km to go but at least they were mostly downhill. as the gritting lorry passed, I packed the chain away and set off down the hill, plotting the most efficient way home and all the time wondering if my hands would let me get away with stopping to fix the chain.

I gave up on my offroad route, descending Onkersley Lane all the way to the A57 which would allow me the most freewheeling and long flat stretches as a worst case. On the flat I soon realised that I could use the slightly higher curb to scoot my bike with my left foot and then I remembered I had my dropper post. Sinking that down 3 inches my feet touched the floor and I scooted the bike all the way along the flats and rested on the downhills then staggered, cold and exhausted up the final hill to home.

LTH Zone record

 For the diary, tentatively bumping LTH up to 165 after Tuesday's session