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11:49:38 am on September 7, 2010 |
I’m pretty sure I got my bad luck out of the way the night before the race while cowering in my tent as billions of midges lurked at the door; two bulbs in my nice little camping light went ‘pop’, as did the bulb in my headtorch, leaving me groping around in the darkness, trying to eat lots of carbohydrate rich foods & mix energy drinks by the light of a mobile phone. Suffice to say I went to sleep wearing most of it.
Dawn dawned, as it often does, but by the time it bothered to do so I was already up, dressed for a day in the saddle and had shovelled down a big bowl of luke warm porridge (my gas stove ran out of gas as I grovelled around in the dark trying to cook, leaving me uttering sarcastic comments towards anyone and everyone listening (ie no-one)). Pre-race faffage was done under a slowly brightening sky and by the time Phil, Jase and myself had ‘dibbed in’ and taken up residence on the start straight it was as light as you could hope for silly-early-AM.
NOT that silly-early-AM was a problem; the series of Daft Rides Jase and I had undertaken over the course of this year and last meant that I was almost used to being in the middle of nowhere on a bike before the sun came up and, as an unexpected side effect, meant that riding for long periods of time was fairly normal too, which made for a nice relaxed start-line attitude. In fact it as easy to forget what we’d be doing all day, nattering away while waiting for the nutralised lead out to the start of the race proper.
Around us, the growing crowd chatted, gossiped, told tales of last years race and mapped out the day as they hoped it would unfold to each other. Kielder castle was dwarfed by the stationary peloton, the race had attracted a massive number of people, from the whippetiest of whippets, silently building themselves up to a day of flat out hammering at the front of the queue right through to the baggiest of short-ed, flat pedal using unknowns, trying to make light of the task ahead of them with good attitude and piles of pork pies waiting for them at each food station on the route.In the middle of it all I had high hopes for us. Jase, Phil and I were fit enough to get round the course (I believed) in a fast time, long days out were becoming our forte and this was to be a long day out with added pace. I resisted the temptation to shout “bring it on” loudly as the lead out car quietly pulled away through the still-sleeping village…just, and instead set about working my way through the field towards the front as we made our way into the wilderness.
As the lead out car pulled off and the pace suddenly shot up I found myself a bit further down the field that I would have liked, but over the first few miles I got into a group, working well to close the gap on the bunch ahead of us as we flew up the fire roads and swooped through the first sections of singletrack. I was able to work my way across to this slghtly faster group as we closed in on them and sit with them for the first 20 or so miles, feeling comfortable and hapy with how I was riding.
Unfortunately, I’d made the mistake (it turned out) of not carrying many gels or much drink with me, choosing to rely on the feed stations on the course and pick up more as I went. As a result I had to stop to grab some more from the bag I’d prepared the day before, after rummaging around trying to find it in the pile of remarkably similar looking bags, while watching the group disappear off into the distance.I wouldn’t make contact with them again.
The next few miles contained some of the best tight-through-the-trees singletrack I’ve ridden in ages, I pushed myself a bit on the climbs to see if I could get back to the group, knowing that working with others on the long, wide open sections would be much faster than sitting alone, but didn’t want to go flat out so early on so I forced myself to take occasional glances at the scenery and chill out a bit. It was worth it, around me clouds hung low in the valleys as I rode in the morning sun, hiding the hundreds of riders behind me and letting me imagine I was totally alone in the hills. Ace. Just me, the bike and a whole day of flying round the countryside. That’ll do. The only additions being a heart rate monitor and a desire to stay ahead of anyone behind me.
Miles became blurs of swoopy singletrack goodness, sometimes through the shaded trees, where still cool air and clouds of midges reminded me that it was still the morning and I was still in the Scottish borders and sometimes flowing across open moorland where hidden ruts kept things interesting and made me glad I wasn’t mid-field with hundreds of others, stuck wheel to wheel. Throughout it all climb after climb on featureless fireroads reminded me that this was an ‘epic’, pulling at legs muscles and giving me something to get my teeth into (metaphorically; I saved the face planting for a couple of tricky corners where marshalls could see and, once they’d checked I was OK, offer a bit of ribbing about my lame riding style).
Sadly, the featureless-ness of some of the fireroads meant that Jase, when he was sent the wrong way at a cross over point (where the course looped back over itself) didn’t realise at first and lost loads of time before getting back on track (that wasn’t the end of the misery for him, but he can tell you how crap everything turned out better than I can over on his site).
As the heat of the day burned off the last of the mist and cloud under which we’d begun the race I hit the boardwalk sections high up on the hills, a section I recognised from the reconnaissance ride Jase and I dd back in winter. well, I say recognised, last time it was covered in snow and surrounded by a blizzard, this time it was dry, grippy and fast.
I loved it. The trail through the trees that had been a long walk back in February was easy enough to spin over this time round, apparently a lot of people hated how it was rocky and loose, I was just glad I didn’t keep sinking up to my waist in snowdrifts as I rode past the scottish piper, ceremoniously piping me into Scotland.
I noticed that I’d not eaten anything (with the exception of a few gels) yet on the ride, despite already having passed the 50 mile point. I wasn’t overly worried, I still felt OK and wasn’t having any real trouble on the climbs so decided that to stay just suing gels rather than start trying to eat ‘properly’ and risk upsetting my feeble excuse for a stomach as I continued towards the next feed station at Newcastleton.Somewhere along the way to the 7 Stanes trails at Newcastleton, that were included in the race route I must have hit a rock a little too hard and punctured the rear tyre. It didn’t deflate quickly so rather than lose time fighting the tyre off the rim and changing the tube I decided to push on and figure out what to do with it while at the checkpoint, which also contained a ‘tech station’ (ie some incredibly hard working mechanics fixing bikes as they came in – top work guys!).
By the time I’d swigged a couple of cups of water (having noticed that I’d barely drunk anything in addition to not eating and realising that this could hit me very hard later in the race) and picked up a ham roll becuase I couldn’t resist it, my chain had been relubed and the now soft rear tyre had been pumped back up to somewhere near a million PSI.
As I thanked the mechanic, Ant White and Rich Rothwell (who I’d been secretly feeling pretty smug about being in front of
) came into the checkpoint, stopped for somewhere ner a nanosecond, said hello and promptly buggered off again at a fantastic pace.
I stood around for a minute or two, trying to cram ham roll down my neck as quickly as I could, gave up as my innards had decided that eating wasn’t on the cards today and rode off up the hill to the start of the red route hoping to catch a glimpse of them. I didn’t (in fact they rode right up into the top ten over the second half of the course) but kept my pace nice and fast along the cross border route, wishing I was in a group so we could share the workload but at the same time glad I had the countryside to myself. I kept an eye out for deer as I headed back to the England/Scotland border, remembering the last time I rode this section of trail with Jase, watching the wildlife and spilling energy food all over ourselves, and crossed the bridge back into Englandshire in high spirits about how the race was going (I was pretty sure I was still in the top twenty and wasn’t feeling too bad despite the calorific deficit I must have been at).Annoyingly, as I arrived at the final feed station and grabbed my last couple of gels the wheels came off my wagon – not the bike, that was fine…even the slowly deflating rear tyre had only needed a couple of brief stops to pump back up using CO2 canisters, losing me very little time, but me.
There as a climb straight from the checkpoint and as I rode up it I just got slower and slower. I knew there was around 20 miles left, so had no worries about getting to the end but I began to realise I wouldn’t be able to pick the pace up at all to get there. I began to grovel as the fireroads continued, buoyed by the marshals encouragement and reminders that the end was getting ever closer as I passed them, but falling back into a bit of a funk on the seemingly endless climbs through the trees. A couple of people rode past me and I didn’t bother to try and jump onto their wheel, realising that I’d do better staying at my own pace rather than blow up completely. I began cursing myself for not being smarter with nutrition – my legs felt fine but I didn’t have the power to use them properly and my attempt to squeeze down a couple of gels nearly ended in course-side retching. I passed the “10 Miles To Go” sign and realised that it was going to require a hefty dose of MTFU to get to the finish in any sort of shape. Head down and get on with it. Ignore the marshal telling me that there was only one climb left as I knew deep down there wouldn’t be and look up only when I find myself back on the singletrack trails surrounding Kielder castle itself.
This stategy worked quite well. I was passed by a couple more riders as I stared down at my front wheel while climbing and manage to offer a some slightly slurred encouragement to them before getting back to chuntering to myself about “bloody well eating something next time, you pillock” and making a right hash of what does actually turn out to be the final climb, slipping about on loose rocks and sand that make up the trail, causing me to dab my foot a couple of times.I recognise the final descent from the February trip and try to keep the bike upright as my brain looses the ability to stay focussed on what’s going on. I hear the slap of a chain hitting chainstays behind me and put everything I’ve got into speeding up a bit to stay ahead of at least one person, sketching my way round corners and off drops until the bloke behind me shouts “it’s alright mate, I’m a marshall” just as the trail evens out and I spot the finish line a couple of corners ahead.
I pretty much slump my way over the line and don’t stop, desperate to get back to my tent and get some food and drink in me before heading back to the race HQ to pick up my finishers goodies and find out my final time.
8hrs 52minutes isn’t an earth shatteringly fast time (the winning time being nearly an hour quicker!) and my inability to race over the last 20 or 30 miles meant I ended up in 16th (I’d hoped for something in the top ten) but the result wasn’t aawful and, in a strange way, I’d sort of enjoyed having to battle on at the end – it made what was meant to be an ‘adventure’ exactly that.
It also gave me something to kick the arse of next time
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09:44:01 am on September 1, 2010 |
Starting at the end, it’s the Kielder100 this weekend. Eek. Well kind of “eek” anyway, I mean, it’s ‘only’ 100 miles off road, that’s doable eaily enough. But it’s not a ‘Daft Ride’, or even a social ride, it’s supposed to be a race. Races are hard. This one’s too short to sit at 24hr pace and waaaay too long to do at normal-XC race pace…and no-one knows what the course is like yet, so it’s not like you can work out any real sort of strategy, so it’ll be hard to guage and no doubt hard to ride in places too. Eeek.
I’m sure it’ll be a great event though, so lets check the weather’ll be playing ball:Crikey, that looks lovely!
OK other stuff I’ve been up to since SITS. Erm, cheered myself up the week after by rebuilding the Bullit, throwing it in the back of the Berlingo along with Wayne and driving up to Glentress to do nothing but play out in the woods. It was ace. We flew round the place with no agenda other than “grin” and had loads of fun in the freeride park pretending to be 13 again on the jumps and drops.
I’ve found a nice steep (and big) hill to crawl up the side of, with the cross bike on my shoulder in preperation for the 3 Peaks race in a couple of weeks:
I’ve only done it a few times, so I won’t be in any real shape to go storming past the leaders, but it has reminded me how much it hurts, which is good, right?
I’ve done a couple of long rides to get my base fitness back – I can happily ride for 10+ hours without feeling it again now (which is why I reckon getting round the Kielder course will be OK). I’ve still not got any real ‘pace’, but hopefully I’ll get that back in time for Relentless24.
Wayne and I went and checked out the mini-trail-centre that is Healey Nab last week and discovered that it was ace. There’s not really enough there to make it a destination on it’s own (unless you’re in the mood for some baggy-shorted ‘sessioning’ of the black run…) but it’s right next to Rivington and has a nice pub near it, so job’s a good ‘un!
Last night Angela and I rode over to Blackpool to cruise down the prom looking at the illuminations, as the people behind the SkyRides had closed the main road to everyone but cyclists. We had the weather on our side for the ride over there through various little villages between Preston and Blackpool and, for the most part, the countryside to ourselves. Until we got there. there must have been thousands of cyclists, of all types, thundering/cruising/bimbling up and down the seafront. Kids, families, ardent-dyed-in-the-wool-types, first timers, all flying up and down under the lights until 10pm. Ace, if a little scary – that many not-normally-a-cyclist’s in an enclosed space made for some exciting riding, even at 10mph…it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the Manchester to Blackpool ride though
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10:05:52 am on August 9, 2010 |
Disparate collections of things that just don’t work together.
Saying hello to sections of course that have sat waiting since this time last year, unloved, untended, old, tired. Washboards have their uses, this doesn’t. This is just worn. Your smiles as you pass are as fragile as the combination of dryness and warmth holding it all together. One snap of mother nature’s fingers and you’ll be calling it out as a disgrace.
Why so much anger though? Is anger the right word? Isn’t everything just a balance – bit of planning, go with what you know success will surely follow?
Many knew this and chose alternatives. Maybe I should have. But if you organise a race you earn more respect than you can imagine and I want to be there. Every event should be it’s heyday and everything you do is as much as you put into it, but why does this feel like it’s been left behind? Staid.
I sit and cruise and get battered. I remember that root from 2006, the hole in front of it built by tyres in the wet. I sit and cruise and get battered. The course feels empty. The changeover area never bustles. I lead for a bit but never really notice, I’m barely there.
I drop out and it starts to make more sense. The course becomes no more than a discussion, sat in the JMC/Ragley grotto we shoot the breeze. Make plans, promises, the future’s bright. The future’s packed!
I watch the other soloists ride past over and over. I’ll race you next time. This isn’t for me anymore.
No more. That’ll do for now.
Almost diametrically opposed from my selfish funk and re-emergence staring off into the future, Amy rode away from everyone to win. No. Not to win, to pretty much transend into another race entirely. There was a gulf between her and veryone else.
Mike Hall came, saw, raced, refused anything other than first and was willing to go out in a fireball if it didn’t work out. It didn’t. But to stand up and say “f-k you. All or nothing” after well over 20hrs of racing? Chapeau!
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12:25:03 pm on August 3, 2010 |
Alarm is set for 3.55am. Not that it goes off, I’m already awake before that, having had one of those ‘got-to-get-to-sleep, got-to-get-up-soon-so-need-to-get-too-sleep’ nights, where you don’t get any sleep but stare at the clock counting down how little time tere is left before you have to get back up.
Crawl out of bed, stumble round getting dressed trying not to wake Angela. Fail. Go downstairs, try to eat some breakfast, give up after shovelling a few mouthfuls of museli down and throw some kit in the back of the car.Drive. Really far. Wonder why I’m whizzing through tiny little Welsh villages in the middle of the night (OK, early morning now, it’s getting light, but no-one’s up yet, so it could still be classed as night). Stupid sat-nav, what’s wrong with the big main road that goes all the way to the meeting point at Machynlleth?
Arrive at the end of the ride. Wait for Jase to turn up, throw stuff into the back of his car, drive to the start of the ride. Throw up several times en route. Oh dear, this doesn’t bode well. Nearly take the passenger door off while desperately tring not to puke all over the inside of the car, woops!Get to the start, kit up, apply massive amounts of chamois cream, feel grotty, ceremoniously stand on the platform of the train station then get going.
Roads, then tracks, walking up steep climbs then thundering over drovers roads right up on the tops. At least we know this bit from last time, so progress is swift. Arrive at the bridleway intersection we went wrong at a few months back, check where we are properly this time, go wrong less and stay pretty much on track. Ace. This bodes well.
Plummet down through the first village, splash through the first ford, then back up, down, up, down over and over. Navigation is simple as we’ve been here before. Hit Rhayader in 2hrs 49mins riding time. Excellent.Start ‘Day 2′ feeling ‘just warmed up’. Bike paths, then gravel tracks, then every inlet round the massive reservoir. Pause to swop maps around. It’s a lot windier than last time, this bit isn’t as much fun. Plough on regardless into the emptiness of the Welsh desert, heading straight for where It All Went Wrong last time at full pelt. Nearly hit a landrover on singletrack road. Giggle about it.
Fast riding through the Field That’s Alway’s Flooded. Hit puddle flat out, see bow wave arc up over front tyre, enclosing me in a wall of water briefly. Aah, this would be a big deep puddle then. Get soaked. Utterly drenched. Probably my fault for thinking “oh well, at least it’s not raining as much as last time” to myself. Hear Jase scream as he has no choice but to follow me into the plunge pool.
Right, lets get this bit spot on this time. Frequent navigation checks. Avoid Ystby Ystwyth. Pop out of the trees in the right place, hit the deserted road through Cwmystwyth on track and on time but ruunning low on water.
Plunder the water tap at a roadside campsite them get back to some serious climbing. Stop to chat to bloke about where we’re going. Ignore the “you’ve got a lot of hard going ahead of you” comment and plough on into another forest. Lots of yellow arrow waymarkers, then none make each turning a little more exciting. Frequent location checks are the order of the day. Probably be easier with some sort of bar mount. Bah! Cast out that thought until I’ve grown a beard. Maps stay in jersey pocket until needed. Hit the road. Rumble through some hamlets then back onto gate lined bridleways, with confusing margerine tubs strapped to them. Most odd. Are we on Day 3 yet?Oops. Day 3 started back there <. Oh well. 3hrs 45min riding time for Day 2 including this bit of Day 3. Good stuff. Onward. Start wondering how far away the end is as massive birds of prey swoop from tree to tree above us. Gain height. Dare to mention how less rainy the weather is. Look left. See hills and valleys rapidly disappearing into grey nothingness of heavy rain. D’oh. No shelter, wind still ripping across, now joined by un-summer like heavy rain. Break out the waterproofs. Miss a turning and do U-turn. Minutes wasted. Bugger it. I’m very wet. Jackets keeping top half dry, everything else thinks it’s in a cold, gritty bath. It kind of is.
Rolling, easy riding suddenly replaced with steep, slippery when wet (it is) slate-y descents. Bums over the back of saddles. Rain drencedh glasses now helping with line choices. Oh, I remember that maker post from the IMBA website. More steepness. Then more steepness going upwards. I wonder if this is the end yet.
Nope. Hills seem to have been brought in specially to entend the route. Up and over them. Navigation goes to pot. Three wrong turns in a row. Can’t see anything. Why is there a waymaker pointing in completely the wrong direction to a deserted house. Many, many minutes lost stumbling round the countryside. Stalked by some sort of bird of prey. Imagination runs away, maybe I’ll get swooped on and dragged off to a nest to become something’s dinner?
Getting dark now. Jase fits his lights. I refuse to accept that we won’t be done by sun down. Mood getting dark now too, should have finished by now. Final wrong turn. Probably quicker to just clamber down the side of a hill and rejoin route. More time lost. It’s dark now.
Final descent. Through tightly packed trees. Oh good. Pitch blackness. Chase Jase ‘cos he can see where he’s going. Use The Force to avoid crashing. Last bit of road.Dovey Junction Station. Woo. 3hrs 16mins for Day 3. Sub 10hrs riding time for the whole route. Ace. Scary amount of time lost not riding. Been 12hrs 10mins since we left Knighton station.
That’ll do. Faster than anyone else even with ‘limited’ map reading skills. Go us!Back to car. Get changed in car park as drunks walk past on their Saturday Night Out. Hello. Drive back to start. Sat nav dies. Good. Part ways at Knighton and get back home from Knighton in less time than it took to get Mach earlier using obvious route. Stupid Sat Nav.
Crawl back into bed. 3.32am. 24hrs to the minute since waking up. Big ride that. Proper big.
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11:07:07 am on July 27, 2010 |
Many, many moons ago. Long before the idea of “training” came into any sort of bike riding equation, a few of us used to race at a little, local race series organised by Leisure Lakes, near Southport.
Not having cars at the time, we’d ride the 10 or so miles down there whatever the weather (I remember riding there one wintery Sunday, fighting through snowdrifts covering the deserted roads, battling against icey winds only to find that the race had been cancelled – that was somewhat unpleasant…), race out hearts out for an hour or so then ride back again.
I had my first taste of success in the fun/novice category, winning the series title with some decent and consistant results. I think I only won two of the races outright, the rest of the 6 race series I managed to finish high enough to amass the points needed for the ‘overall’ and to this day that is still one of the best series of races I’ve ever been a part of.
It was always close, flying through the trees at what felt like warp speed (until the top category guys came roaring through), lungs hanging out and legs burning until the finish line. There were no ‘tactics’ to speak of, no fast lap – steady period – fast finish or anything like that, just ‘go’. No planning for what you hoped to do later in the race in the way you would during 24hr races, you got your head down at the start and tried not to look up until someone told you it was over.
If I could only keep one race ‘trophy’ it’d be that one. Not the Mountain Mayhem metal thing, or any of the Strathpuffer mugs, just that plate for winning the fun/novice series back in 2002.
Sunday, against all odds, felt like a return to that heady time. The ride over to the race might have been more than twice as far and the course, rather than being a few laps of some woods behind a shop on a caravan site, was a tough mixture of purpose built, swooping singletrack, steep climbs and rocky descents but the basic principle ended up the same.
As soon as the race started any tactics went out of the window; a slipped pedal meant that, for a second, I felt like I was going backwards and had to chase my way back up through the pack. Shortly after which my saddlebag ejected itself from the seatpost and bounced cheerily across the race course. normally I’d leave it, get on with racing and hunt for it once the event had finished, but I needed it for the (long) ride home. I couldn’t risk loosing it so had to stop mid-first-sprinting-lap, wait for the entire field to ride over it – both the category I was in and the ones ‘below’ it – grab it, wipe it off, refit it to the bike and get back on.
Obviously, in a 1.5hr race, faffing about at the side of the course like that for a few minutes meant I was someway off the back of the field and had little chance of getting back up to the leaders, but it also made the plan for the rest of the race very easy: catch the person in front, overtake them then drop them. Repeat. Go flat out until someone tells you it’s over.
So that’s what I did.
I chased everyone in front of me and worked my way back up through the field, getting cheered on by loads of enthusiastic marshals, until, just over an hour into the race people started tellling me that I was back up to 4th in my category and was closing in on 3rd.
I knew a fair few people had dropped out with punctures and other course related mechanicals, but that was surprising news. Spurred on with how well I was doing I kept on trying to eject my lungs and set fire to my legs until I caught the guy in 3rd and set about trying to open a gap.
Sadly, in a ‘daft moment’ while lapping one of the slower racers I rode straight into a Big Pointy Rock and punctured. The tyre took a while to deflate, so I rode as far as I could and, thinking I was on my last lap, jumped off and started running (which wasn’t easy over the rocks, in carbon soled shoes). 4th place re-passed, offering his condolences (which was nice of him) and I’m pretty sure 5th went past too before I reached the start/finish line, only to discover that I had another lap left to do.
I think my exact words were “bugger that for a laugh” when told I could either drop out just be classed as finishing a lap down, or carry on and run an entire lap. The puncture meant I couldn’t get a near-fairytale ending to the race, but I’d loved every minute of what I’d been able to ride and finishing on the same number of laps as the winner didn’t seem to matter, so I plonked myself down at the side of the course, chatted to a few other people who’s race had finished prematurely and set about the laborious task of changing the tube (thankful that’d I’d picked the seatpack up earlier, as it had all my tools in it).
Tyre sorted, I hung around for the presentations, was given a shoe bag as an award for running a lap to try and finish (not entirely sure that this wasn’t a bit of a piss take at my lame running, but still happy someone noticed I didn’t just have a tantrum at the side of the course!) and then rode home, buzzing after a great bit of racing, just like I used to.