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

BBC
UK Weather
Met Office

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

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!

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.

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.

I wouldn’t be as far up the field as I am at the races, in the middle of the night and I wouldn’t be hurtling round the trails in the rain without the support of LOADS of people. People who seem happy with me using the fruits of their labour for reasons that, despite any claims of nobility, don’t amount to much more than “because I like riding bikes a lot”.

Take a look at this mid-race pic (no, it’s not just an excuse to display another pic of me on the way to winning something )

That bike’s practically designed to fit around me and the peeps at Ragley are happy for me to rag the tits off it. They keep coming up with products ‘That Just Work’ and send them over, giving me more opportunity to do well at races (and Daft Rides) than I would otherwise have a chance to do.
The bike’s working flawlessly, mainly because the drivechain’s in top notch condition, despite hours of flith being thrown at it, because the top blokes at Squirt give me stuff that keeps it that way.
I’m there, racing, (and not flashing my nipples…) because the aceness of the guys at JMC IT have taken the worry out of budgeting for races and coated me in kit.
I’m not curled up in a ball, under the Berlingo, shivering and unable to form coherant sentences because the hard working guys at 2Pure have kindly provided enough Clif energy food and drink to keep me fuelled right the way up to the point where someone organising the race steps out and tells me to stop as it’s all over.
Those same guys at 2Pure also take care of my ability to sit down while riding for long periods (I know I’m stood up in the pic, but I did sit down once I’d got round that corner and it didn’t hurt) by providing lashings of Chamois Butt’r. Which has been a bit of a revelation, far surpassing even the cleverest of potions I could come up with for long distance botty-happiness (and I’ve spent lots of time coming up with different arse-lard formulations…)

See; there’s only me in the pic, but I’m only there because shedloads of people have got behind me and Jase, supplied us to the hilt with stuff that (probably shouldn’t say this in case they’re reading) we’d just end up buying anyway…
I think that’s ace.
Properly ace.
Awesome even.

Of course, if you ever want to try out any of the stuff we’re cruising round on, looking smug, that’s half the reason its there – give us a shout…we might not apply the chammy cream for you, but if it means you’ll get to try something new that you might end up liking as much as we do, then that’s ace with us

You can keep up to date with what we’re up to – what races we’re doing, where we’re doing silly long rides and often just what cakes we’re eating, on Twitter: We’ve both got our own Twitter accounts and we both put stuff on the ‘team’ Twitter feed, @Team_JMC_Ragley

After meeting up with Wayne and Jenny (first time endurance racer & pit crew), doing the sign on thing and instructing the ever helpful Angela in the fine art of mixing half a bottle of fruit juice with half a bottle of water I waited for my turn in the changing room pop-up tent I’d bought the day before – while Wayne discovered the delightful sensation of applying chammy cream before a long ride – before wandering over to the ‘le-mans on acid’ style start.

We ran down a ditch, up a slope, along some wooded paths, down a bigger ditch, back up a bigger ditch and (now thoroughly lost) back out onto the start/finish straight to grab the bikes and head out onto the course for the race-proper.

I set about finding a pace that was somewhere just below XC race, but well above 24hr, speed and got to grips with the slippery-in-the-rain course.
It was great fun; slipperly singletrack, followed by fast fireroad, followed by cyclocross style grovelling about up unrideable slopes, followed by purpose-built bermed-up trails, followed by more clambering, more fast bits, a looooong cobbled climb, some fast gravel tracks through a park and more groveling on foot meant there was something for everyone (to hate*) and kept the laps varied enough to remain interesting for the whole race.

The pit-crew-ettes of Angela and Jenny kept the supply of gels and chocolate buttons I needed to keep riding at a decent pace coming and even found time in their busy schedules…

…to keep me updated on how I was doing, race wise. After a few laps I found myself in the lead and, obeying the HRM, rather than various people telling me I could slow down as I was riding away from everyone, I kept the pace about the same for around 6 hours before beginning to ease back a bit and enjoy the trails.

The implosion I expected my legs would make didn’t happen and I finished the race (after a couple of minutes lurking with Wayne at the end) feeling pretty fresh, before having one of the best at-a-race showers ever, a top notch pint of ale from the beer tent and some tasty food from the caterers (who looked like they often sampled their own wares ).

After which it was podium time (because I won, y’see, in case you hadn’t figured that one out..), where I failed once again to look in the right direction while people took photos. Oh well. At last I was smiling and not covered in mud for once

Apparently that’s the last Hit the North.
UPDATE: OR MAYBE IT’S NOT!
Ever. Excuses like “Our families don’t know what we look like ‘cos we’re never there” and “We’ve gone grey/bald/got wrinkles trying to get this event going” were bandied about, but between you and me I think they just want to have a go at racing rather than organising but whatever the reason – good effort chaps, it’s been Awesome!

*Joking! I didn’t hear a bad word about the course – or anything else about the event (except maybe the weather) – from anyone.

• First up is Hit the North, this weekend. 8hrs on a fast course should be near-hilarious given how little I’ve done since the last big race 4 weeks ago, but it should give me a great starting point to train from in order to have a chance at the other ‘big’ races on the horizon.
• The weekend after has another Brownbacks XC race. Although they’re only a 1hr sprint, combine them with a big ride there & a big ride back and you’ve got some mighty decent training.
• The weekend after that has got a big “Transcambrian ride” pencilled into it. No getting lost this time. A whole day in the Welsh hills is nothing but fantastic training for endurance racing.
• We’re into August now, and that brings with it the annual trip to SITS. Last year I exploded in the heat, this year I won’t…and by this point should be back up to near race fitness, so anything could happen!
• Then, after a few more weeks hard training we hit The Big One: The Kielder 100. Slightly worried about this, in a good sort of a way. I know there’ll be no problem with just getting round the 100 mile (natch) course, but I don’t want to ‘just’ get round the course, so maximum fitness needs to be back by this point: enough endurance to go for the whole race and enough speed to get round FAST. That shouldn’t be a problem though, I’ve learned a lot this year about what works for me training and race-craft wise, so I’ll be using all that knowledge to hopefully get me somewhere decent in the results.
• Only a couple of weeks after the Kielder comes “that” race. The 3 Peaks Cyclocross. It’s mental…and addictive. Can I beat last year’s time of 3hrs 54min? Hopefully! More riding (and shouldering the bike up steep slopes) in the months leading up to it should stand me in good stead. In fact I’ve already started using the cross bike for training, which should help.
• Another Brownbacks XC race the week after, then it’s final preperation time for Relentless24, up in Scotlandshire. I loved this race last year, simply because I rode it “blind” and got on with just finishing it and still managed a decent result. This year I’ll be aiming to be more competitive for the top spot on what will no doubt be a great course.
• Then maybe I’ll have a quick sit down and a cup of tea

The grime coated rider might be being sarcastic, it’s hard to tell, not even the rider himself is entirely sure. He shifts about from foot to foot, still stood astride his bike, trying to find a comfortable position as he is offered an array of bitesize foods from the table, which he tentatively picks at.
The hooded figure shuffles around on the wet grass of the race course to the side of the bike. His reddened eyes dart across the frame and trace a loop around the dust-crusted drivechain, barely visible in the gloom
“Everything running alright?”
“Yeah, something’s creaking a bit, but it’s all fine”
“Oh.”
Despite being shrouded in the hood and surrounded by smoke-like breath, lingering in the cold air, the figure’s face is plainly disappointed. Across the track, in the solo tent, rows of shiny, neatly arranged tools sit unused, unloved.
“I’d best get off, the gap’s not very big between me and Jase” mutters the rider as he awkwardly stamps his foot into his pedal, takes a deep breath and stretches his neck.
“Aye. You sure the bike’s OK?”
“Yep. It’ll do. It’s me that’s broken. I should try and stop bouncing off all the trees, I imagine”. More neck stretching.
“Right then. Go on, fuck off!” The hooded figure points off down the track into the darkness.
“Lets have another fast lap” he adds, as the rider rolls off and shifts up into the big ring.
“Yeah. Easy. No problem!”

To be honest, I knew it wouldn’t be a problem as I started to grind my way round the track once again. I’d found a set of gears that got me round the course in a decent time after my fourth lap and had just stuck with them.
I knew that I’d suffer at night, I was expecting the slurred speech, the inability to eat or drink, but had it in mind to just keep everything the same and measure out as much power as I could without blowing up.
I also knew I couldn’t slow – Jason was only five or so minutes down on me – but felt pretty confident that I could churn out the same pace until morning and get a bit of a morale boost from the daylight.

Hours earlier I’d started off quite well, tempered my over-enthusiasm a bit and not blasted off round the course at the speed of light straight from the gun, but had stayed in touch with the leaders. I’d seen Ant White ahead of me on the course a couple of times as the dust was first thrown in to the air by hundreds of riders sketching their way through the woods and felt quite chuffed; I’d expected him to go off quite quickly and knew that if I cold keep the gap between us small, I’d stand a chance of a good finish…which I was going to do this time. Finish. For sure. No dropping out like at the national championships a couple of weeks previous.
Not that there was just Ant to worry about, this was Mountain Mayhem and as per usual, there were a lot of Big Names out on the course, so after a couple of laps to get through the worst of the early congestion as hundreds of over eager teams clogged the narrow parts of the course I decided to up my pace a little and start to work my way towards the head of the solo field. Typically, this hadn’t worked out as I’d hoped, on a steep and extremely dusty descent I got stuck behind someone intent on skidding their way all the way down, kicking up so much earth that everything disappeared in front of me – even the bars vanished in a thick orange cloud of dirt and within seconds I had hit a rut, lost the front wheel and ground myself to a halt using my knee (only just scab free after a similar crash at the last 24hr race I’d done) as a brake. Much swearing filled what little air remained in the dust-cloud as I patted myself off and set about trying to find a bike in the mid-Herefordshire sandstorm.

This had fired me up even more, too much in fact, and as the heat of the late afternoon sun burned down, while scorching round the course I let the bike slide further than I should into some rocks lining a somehow-still-damp descent (while doing my best impression of someone ‘pinning it’), only to be met with a loud ‘THWACKBANG’ and a loss of grip from the rear wheel. More swearing ensued as I realised I’d not just punctured, but had torn a massive hole in the rear tyre, writing it off completely. After a few seconds sat under the trees at the side of the course, watching everyone I’d overtaken cruise back past me I remembered that I still had a couple of empty energy gel wrappers in my jersey and, in a scene not unlike the Daft Ride Bodge done last summer, I managed to fit a new tube and prevent it from bursting out through the hole in the tyre by reinforcing the carcass with the wrappers. I was back riding, but had to nurse the bike with it’s weakened rear end back to the pits, losing yet more time.

This had dropped me back down the rankings, but over the next few hours I’d built my way back up past riders, and had gained places as the course and misfortune took it’s toll on more until, in the middle of the night at somewhere around 2am, I set off from the pits, in 2nd place, with Jase just a few minutes behind me, Ant White many, many minutes in front of me (‘but’, I kept telling myself, ‘you don’t know how he’s feeling, try and apply any pressure you can to keep yourself in contention’) and Wayne swearing goodnaturedly at me.
Hitting the start of the “Kenda Climb” and dropping down to the middle ring to begin working my way round the hanging heads of worn out team riders I still felt like I had some power in me. It was deeply uncomfortable to deliver it through the bike into the ground, but it was there. I rode through the switchbacks, cheered on by marshalls and spectators that for some reason hadn’t gone to bed coming to the conclusion that this race wasn’t going to get away from me. It was time to stop worrying about where I might have been if I hadn’t lost time with the knackered tyre, start again from here and ride like I was fresh.

As dawn began to relight the course, bringing many teams back out from their mid-race sneaky slumbers, I began to reduce the amount of time I was wasting at the side of the course each lap, refuelling and getting reassurance from the hooded figure that I was doing OK. I knew I was. I knew I was tattered, bloody, dusty, dead eyed and grossly contorted whenever not sat on the bike, but I knew I was going to keep going. My laps times began to drop again, bolstering my confidence more and as the heat returned to the air I spotted Ant White ahead of me, riding methodically and smoothly up one of the long, grassy climbs on the second half of the course. Methodically, smoothly…and slower than me.
I didn’t think I’d be able to beat him – he had gained a whole lap on me, riding brilliantly from the gun and right through the night, but I felt equal to him now, so I was going to race him now.
I caught him and, like lorries overtaking each other on the motorway, after an age got a bit of a gap on him. A few people back in the arena who weren’t aware that he’d effectively lapped me and that I was unlapping myself started getting worked up, telling me I was leading. I pretended I was.
Stopping only to replenish spent gel wrappers with new ones and check everything was OK with Jase behind me, I rode on through the morning, pretending I was trading places with Ant, rather than unlapping myself only to get relapped as he soldiered on at a truly stunning pace until, during a pit stop, Wayne told me that Jase had “done a me” and ripped a tyre on one of the trickier-on-the-Sunday-than-on-the-Saturday-somehow descents and had lost a big chunk of time.

Thankfully, we had both ridden far enough away from 4th place for the delay not to drop him down a place and with only a couple of hours left it was time to stop playing, slow and guide the bikes up onto the podium. Time to chat to other riders as I passed, or they passed me. Start thanking the marshals and plan what sort of junk food I was going to treat myself to on the way home.

Riding into the arena for the final time I could hear the commentator giving the crowded barriers all the information about how the solo race had finished. “We’ve had Anthony White in, in first place, and Jason Miles, confirmed in 3rd has finished but we haven’t seen David Powell in 2nd yet…wait hold on, yes we have here he is now!” The spectators were ordered to welcome me home and the noise of cheers and claps soothed the aches and pains as I glided over the finish line right up to the point where Wayne, now hoodless in the afternoon sun, gave me a hug; I nearly fell over as everything suddenly started to hurt again.

Jason, beer already in hand and half empty, slapped me on the, somewhat tender, back, grinning widely. At this point We Are Awesome. We might look rough as fuck right now, but we are awesome. A Pot Noodle that I’ve been carting around with me from race to race for a while but have never got round to eating was thrust at me, which seemed to get everyone watching laughing and with that the race was truly over.

Face wipes and energy drink got me up onto the podium for the photos and the handing out of some filthy lucre, their effect lasted just long enough for me to get back to the tent before I grab some sleep and generously leave the repacking of the car to Wayne, who seemed less than delighted with what is a truly crap job after being up for well over a day.
He’d been as much a hero as me or Jason, having worked tirelessly to have everything I could need ready for every lap, timed me, timed everyone else, made comparisons and given advice based on what he worked out, fixed the bikes when they needed it, cooked, cleaned, not got angry when I kept nicking his brews during the night, or narky when I got grumpy. He didn’t look much better than I did as a result, but he was still going and on the way home still managed to do a bit of ipod/car stereo DJing to keep us going. Ace. Everyone’s a winner, even if we didn’t actually win

That hurt, the chili, it was properly hot. Everyone I saw eating it had tears in their eyes and a look of shock on their faces after a few forkfuls, no-one was dwelling on how they’d just ridden their bikes, flat out, for 12 hours, after getting up at some ungodly time of the morning to get to Gisburn Forest for the 7.30am start.

After quaffing several large gulps of local ale to ease the burning sensation I felt able to have another stab at the mountain of con carne pain piled on the plate in front of me, in much the same way I’d been able to get back out onto the course after each of Jase’s laps to hammer round the lower sections of the Forest’s Red Route. Just enough respite to forget how painful everything had been shortly before, y’see.
The slice of garlic bread (“the future”…much like 29ers) gave some respite from the heat in the same way the race course’s cheeky, new-build singletrack sections provided some enjoyable respite from the hammer-hammer-hammer-faster-faster-faster dusty fireroads, but each return melted another layer of skin from the inside of my mouth just as each lap ripped more fibres in my leg muscles until…

…I gave up. On the chili. It defeated me. The race didn’t, both Jase and I nailed that – not even a mid-race double puncture, dropping us down from 1st to 3rd with half the race already gone, could prevent us taking top spot, but by god that food took no prisoners!

Results available here – we wus orsums